The Roaring Stone Mountain earned its name from the deep, resonant sounds it produced as it moved.
Well, when it moved.
The grinding of stone against stone, the settling of ancient rock, the shifting of its massive bulk all created low rumbles that could be heard for great distances. On still nights, the tribe could hear it groaning as if alive, a sound like the breathing of something impossibly vast.
It shifted position imperceptibly over seasons, wandering across the Lands of Stone over generations. Its path was somewhat predictable, which was why the Purple Stone Tribe had remained near it for so long. They had learned its rhythms, its tendencies, the slow dance it performed across the landscape over lifetimes.
Their ancestors had followed this mountain.
Their descendants would follow it still.
Its surface held dark gray stone with veins of purple crystal running through exposed rock faces. These veins glowed faintly at night, pulsing with Mana in rhythms that seemed almost like a heartbeat. Vibrant trees covered everything that could support growth, their leaves holding an unnatural luster, their roots drinking deep from soil saturated with power.
The perpetual mist at the peak glowed purple at dawn and dusk, and some said it glowed brighter during storms or when powerful beasts stirred within. The tribe's elders claimed they could predict danger by watching that mist, reading its intensity like others might read the flight of birds or the patterns of clouds.
Damian walked past the stones and trees shining with an afterglow of Mana.
He took a deep breath of the Mana-rich air and felt it permeate through his lungs.
The sensation was remarkable.
At the base of the mountain where the tribe made their home, the Mana concentration was already high enough to dramatically accelerate plant growth and make the surrounding soil incredibly fertile. But here, on the lower slopes, it was even stronger. Damian could feel the energy pressing against his skin, seeping into his flesh with every breath and every step.
He knew from his mother's teachings that the concentration only increased as one climbed.
The mid-slopes held very high concentrations of Mana, where most Primal Plants grew and where weaker Primal Beasts made their homes. The upper slopes were extremely concentrated, dangerous for those without sufficient cultivation. The air itself shimmered with power there, thick enough to overwhelm the unprepared.
And the peak?
Unknown.
Few had climbed high enough to return with reliable accounts.
Those who had tried either turned back before reaching the summit or never returned at all. The tribe had lost ambitious Warriors over the generations, men and women who believed their cultivation was sufficient to reach the top.
The mountain kept their bones.
Damian continued walking, his eyes taking in everything around him.
This was new territory.
He had never climbed even this small distance into the mountain before. He had always been feeble, a young man without Mana in a place where Mana was everything. Uncle Adam had forbidden it, and rightfully so. A single beast encounter would have meant death for someone who could not reinforce their flesh or move with Mana-enhanced speed.
But now things were different.
Now he could feel the Mana in the air, could draw it into his body, could sense the flows and concentrations that had been invisible to him for years.
And so he observed.
A Stoneback Lizard basked on a sun-warmed rock nearby, its body the length of a man's arm. Its hide was rough and gray, almost indistinguishable from the stone it rested upon. Only the slow rise and fall of its breathing gave away its presence. It watched Damian and Uncle Adam pass with eyes that held no aggression, only mild curiosity.
Docile herbivores, he remembered. They fed on the Mana-rich mosses and lichens that grew in abundance here, their rocky hides a defense against predators rather than a weapon for attack.
Further up the slope, a flash of white caught his eye.
A Mist Hare.
It was larger than any hare he had seen in the lowlands, its fur holding a faint luminescence that made it seem partially translucent. It moved with incredible speed, darting from one patch of Primal Plants to another, feeding with quick, nervous motions.
These creatures stayed on the mountain where Mana concentration was higher. They had little interest in the Mana-poor lands below, finding nothing there worth the journey.
A soft clicking sound drew his attention to a fallen log.
Crystal Beetles crawled across the rotting wood, their shells shimmering with absorbed Mana. Each beetle was the size of his thumbnail, but their carapaces caught the light in ways that made them seem like living jewels. Blues and purples and greens shifted across their surfaces as they moved.
Harmless, individually.
But Damian knew that some tribes harvested these beetles for their shells, grinding them into powder that could be used in certain remedies. The concentrated Mana within was valuable, if one had the patience to collect enough of them.
These were the common beasts of the lower slopes.
Not naturally antagonistic to humans. Content to live their lives in the Mana-rich environment they preferred. They posed no threat to those who did not threaten them.
But Damian also knew what lurked higher up.
The mid-slopes held more dangerous creatures. Ridge Stalkers, predators that hunted other beasts on the mountain. Violet Serpents, snakes whose venom carried traces of Mana that could paralyze or kill even Warriors if they were not careful.
These creatures were territorial rather than aggressive. They would defend their domains if intruded upon but rarely descended to bother the tribe below.
And higher still, on the upper slopes and peak, dwelt the true Primal Beasts.
Creatures of significant power whose nature and capabilities were mostly the subject of stories and speculation. The tribe spoke of them in whispers, these beings that had drunk so deeply from the mountain's Mana that they had become something more than mere animals.
Occasionally, at night, some of these beasts descended from the mountain.
Some came out of curiosity, drawn by the lights and sounds of the tribe below. Others came for feasting, their hunger driving them to seek prey in the settlement. This was why the Purple Stone Tribe always maintained two or three Warriors on guard through the night.
The attacks were not constant. Perhaps once or twice per moon cycle. But when they occurred, they were deadly.
A single beast that had been drinking Mana on the mountain slopes could slaughter multiple Tribesmen before the Warriors brought it down. The tribe had lost members to these nighttime incursions over the years.
It was simply the cost of living near such abundance.
And yet the tribe remained.
Even with the threats the mountain presented, the Purple Stone Tribe had stayed near The Roaring Stone Mountain for generations. The reasons were simple, even if the execution was not.
The fertile land. The soil near the mountain produced crops at an impossible rate. A single day's growth equaled a season elsewhere. This abundance meant the tribe never starved, even in harsh times.
The Primal Plant access. The lower slopes held plants that could be harvested for Healing Salves and other remedies. Bloodmoss grew in the shadows of rocks stained by beast blood. Medicinal herbs flourished in the Mana-rich soil. These resources were invaluable.
The beast materials. When Primal Beasts did descend and were slain, their bodies provided materials impossible to find elsewhere. Beast cores that could accelerate cultivation. Hides toughened by Mana that could be made into superior armor. Bones that could be shaped into weapons sharper and more durable than ordinary stone.
And the Mana itself. Warriors who trained near the mountain advanced faster than those in Mana-poor regions. The ambient energy accelerated cultivation, making the tribe's defenders stronger than they might otherwise be.
Opportunity and risk went hand in hand.
This was the fundamental truth of life near a moving mountain. The same power that made the land fertile also bred the beasts that hunted in the night. The same Mana that strengthened Warriors also attracted dangers that would never threaten a tribe in barren lands.
The Purple Stone Tribe had made their choice.
They accepted the risk for the opportunity.
And most days, that gamble paid off.
---
Damian stopped in an area surrounded by green moss shining faintly with verdant light.
Trees rose all around them, their trunks thick with age and their branches heavy with leaves that seemed to glow from within. The air here was thick with Mana, almost soupy in its concentration. Every breath filled his lungs with power.
He turned to face Uncle Adam.
The old Warrior had kept pace despite his injuries. The Bloodmoss Paste was doing its work, stemming the bleeding and beginning the healing. The gashes across his back and arms had stopped weeping crimson, and color was slowly returning to his weathered face.
But it was his eyes that held Damian's attention.
That intense focus had not faded. That desperate hope that had appeared when he watched Damian rise from the dead still burned bright. The old soldier looked at his Young Lugal as if seeing him for the first time, or perhaps seeing him as he had always hoped to see him.
They stood in silence for a long moment.
The sounds of the mountain surrounded them. The rustle of wind through Mana-touched leaves. The distant call of some beast higher up the slopes. The faint, ever-present groan of the mountain itself, stone settling against stone in its endless slow journey.
And after all that silence, the first thing Uncle Adam asked was:
"Young Lugal Vakochev, did you finally awaken your Land and Sky Physique?!"
...!