The journey to the base of the Schism Monolith was a slow, grueling march. It was less of a fight and more of a constant, oppressive struggle against the environment itself.
The very air seemed to fight them, thick with a chaotic energy that made their skin crawl and their heads ache. The ground beneath their feet would sometimes shift and ripple like liquid, forcing them to find solid footing. Strange, whispering sounds, like a thousand mad voices, resound from the twisted rocks around them.
The two Sanctuary Wardens were the key to their survival. They walked at the front of the small group, their hands held out, projecting a constant, moving bubble of pure, white light.
Inside this bubble, the air was clean, the ground was stable, and the mad whispers were silenced. It was a tiny, mobile island of sanity. But the effort was immense. The Wardens' faces were pale with strain, and sweat dripped from their brows. They were pushing back against the power of the entire valley.
