/ Late Night / 10:07 PM / Moonday, Thirdday 3, Year 522 AC / Waxing Cleft / Zhorath's Cave / Late Spring / Dark, firelit cave; deep mountain stillness /
I raised a curious eyebrow, "Don't you need rest? The only person I've ever met that doesn't need sleep is, well, myself." I believe my meditation technically counts as rest.
Zhorath's lips pulled back in what might have been a smile, revealing aged but sharp teeth. The firelight caught the planes of his ashen scales. "Rest?" he echoed, the word a dry scrape of stone. "I am old, Kaida, older than the path you walked today. My rest is not measured in hours but in seasons. I do not sleep as she does. I… settle. Like the mountain itself, "I watch.. I remember. The fire keeps the dark at bay, and that is enough."
He gestured with a clawed hand towards the sleeping woman. "Her rest is fragile." The spire's hunger lingers in her like a chill. It is better that I keep watch. Dawn is not far off."
He fell silent once more, his gaze drawn back to the flames. His stillness was profound; it was not the vigilant readiness of a guard, but the deep, enduring quiet of stone. The only movement was the occasional slow blink of his nictitating membranes.
The cave was hushed, with the howling wind of the cleft now a distant whisper. The fire popped softly, casting a warm, protective circle against the deep dark of the mountain night.
"Would you share some of your wisdom and tell me some stories then while we wait, or should I keep myself busy with training instead?" I enquired.
Zhorath considered my question, the firelight dancing in his unblinking blue eyes.
"Stories are a kind of training," he rasped after a long moment. "They strengthen the spirit, as exercise strengthens the body. Very well. I will tell you one. A story of my own clan, the Ashen Claw, and why we became guardians of places like this."
He shifted slightly, the furs rustling. His voice dropped to a low, rhythmic cadence, like stones grinding in a slow avalanche.
"Long ago, when the mountains were younger and the veins of crystal in these tunnels glowed bright enough to read by, my ancestors were not guardians. They were seekers, delving deep to chase the thunder stones – the raw, unformed heart of lightning that sleeps in the mountain's roots. They learnt to draw that power into themselves, shaping it. They grew strong, and then they built a spire of their own; not of stone, but of captured storm—a beacon that could be seen across the peaks."
He poked the fire, sending up a shower of sparks that mimicked his tale. "But power is a thirsty guest." The more they drew, the more the mountain weakened. The winds grew silent. The springs dried up. The balance broke. One season, the great storms did not come. The sky was empty. And the mountain, in its hunger, began to feed on them instead."
He gestured to the sleeping woman. "As it fed on her, they had awakened a hunger they could not control." "The spire of storm turned on them, drinking the lightning from their blood, leaving them ashen and hollow." He looked directly at me. "The survivors made a pact. They would not take from the mountain." They would stand watch instead. No other hungry power or careless seeker would upset the balance again. We became the Ashen Claw to remember the cost of ash. To guard the sleeping storms."
He fell silent, allowing the tale's impact to permeate the cave. The tale mirrored my own experience at the Shattered Spire, a monolith that feeds on elemental sparks.
"That is the first lesson: power always has a source. And every source has its guardian, or its price."
He nodded towards the open area of the cave floor. "If you wish to train, meditate on that. Your storm is within you, not in the stone. Can you call it without stealing from the world? "Can you be its master, and not its conduit?"
He was offering me a path: I could listen to more stories, ask questions about his tale, or begin a meditative training session here in the cave.
I gave a simple nod, taking the lesson to heart. I then retrieved a day's worth of rations from my pack – dense journey-bread, dried meat, and a handful of nuts – and ate quietly by the fire. The simple food was filling, a familiar comfort.
Then, I began.
For the next four hours, I trained; not with the roaring intensity of a giant's practice yard, but with focused, fluid precision. I moved through stances and forms within the cave's open space, the firelight casting my elongated shadow on the wall like a dancing spirit, its movements akin to a lively phantom. I practised strikes, kicks, and dodges; my movements remained silent, punctuated only by the whisper of cloth and the occasional scuff of boot on stone.
I pushed further, reaching inward. My focus is on the storm within, not to unleash it, but to feel its boundaries, its rhythm. I practised calling a crackle of lightning to my fingertips, not to discharge it, but to hold it there- a contained, humming potential. The cave air became charged; the woman's silver pendant glowed again, pulsing softly with my controlled breaths.
Zhorath watched, unmoved but attentive. Occasionally, he offered a single, cryptic word in Draconic: "Control." or "Flow."
The training was gruelling but centring. I pushed my body to its limits then meditated on the feeling of power held in check. I felt stronger, more attuned, not just to my own energy, but to the subtle currents in the cave around me.
As the first faint hint of grey light began to seep into the cave entrance from the high cleft, I finished. I felt weary yet clear-headed, my muscles humming with satisfaction. The woman on the furs remained asleep, but her breathing had grown deep and strong, and a healthy pink now coloured her cheeks. Dawn was perhaps an hour away.
I took out my simple ivory flute, its surface smooth and cool from the cave's air. Bringing it to my lips, I began to play.
The melody that emerged was neither purely elven nor giant; instead, it was uniquely mine, a blend of both heritages. It began with deep, resonant, slow tones, much like the mountain songs my giant kin would hum, a sound that appeared to vibrate within the very stone. Then, woven into that foundation, were the quicker, more intricate and flowing patterns of an elven air, light and curious, like a stream finding its way down a rocky slope.
The music filled the shallow cave, its sound bouncing off the walls and amplifying in the quiet. The fire's crackle joined in, a percussive accompaniment. The faint, ever-present sigh of the wind in the Howling Cleft outside seemed to harmonise.
Zhorath closed his eyes and listened. The rigid lines of his ancient face softened slightly.
The woman stirred on the furs. Her breathing grew more deliberate. Her eyelids fluttered, and the fingers of one hand twitched before slowly curling. The silver pendant at her throat remained dark; however, a high, clear note in the air prompted a single, faint pulse of soft blue light.
As the final note of my melody faded, echoing into silence, the first rays of dawn streamed through the cave entrance, painting a sharp, golden line across the stone floor. The fire had diminished to embers.
The woman's eyes opened.
They were a startling, clear grey, like a winter sky just before snow; alert, intelligent, and filled with immediate confusion and wariness. She observed the cave ceiling, the glowing embers, Zhorath's still form, and finally, me, flute in hand.
She tried to sit up, winced at a deep ache, and fell back against the furs with a soft gasp. Her hand flew to her chest, fingers closing around her pendant.
"Where… ?" she croaked in common, her voice dry and rough from disuse. "Who are you? What is this place?" Her gaze flicked between me and Zhorath, assessing, calculating.
I responded, "I am Kaida and this is Zhorath, we are in his cave." then promptly started acting as translator as well, which since I had to take part in the conversation as well as translate felt kind of weird.
Luckily my reply in the same tongue and willingness to act as translator seemed to ground her slightly. Her grey eyes locked onto me, the initial panic fading into a sharp, analytical focus. She took a slower, deeper breath, wincing once more at a deep ache in her chest.
"Kaida," she repeated, testing the name. Her voice was still rough. "Zhorath." She looked at the elderly Dragonborn, and recognition dawned, cutting through the confusion. "The Guardian of the Cleft. Althaea spoke of you. She said you were a myth."
Zhorath gave a single, slow nod, but said nothing.