Northern Gate

The gates here are open and inviting, however two powerful frost giants watch you closely as you approach. Both of the large humanoids stand tall and keep their weapons proudly at their sides, neither of them seem to speak to you unless you have something to report. To your north you can see a rather large, well built fort of some type. To your south, you will find another road.

Brennia had one long night since the battle of Schezerade after helping the healers with wounded students, guild members, city guards and civilians - she didn’t sleep. She wasted no time taking the flying coach over to Frostmaw when dawn broke and, sure, she could have slept in one of the double-berth compartments, but for some reason she felt the need to keep a sure grip on that damn jar. Her (now)short black hair waves lazily against the sides of her face with bits of debris clinging to it and scrapes alongside cuts decorate her caramel skin while some bruises have already formed. Once within the chill and snow of Frostmaw the flying horses land to trot on with great haste as a regular carriage. Brennia’s heavy lidded teal hues spot the snow outside and she watched the falling snow fly by it, but it doesn’t bring her joy as it once had, today. There was a thud atop the carriage roof, but she thought nothing of it as she is lead out of the door after they’ve halted. She emerges through the door following her secret service protection just as three avians belonging to the Flewminati jump down and ambush Brennia with only two of her guards, but she’s exhausted and doesn’t have much fight left in her. The attacker’s headbut meets her face, splitting open her lip before his hands were on the large jar as he was trying to pull the artifact free of her grasp, “no! This will be destroyed! It shall be done! Get.BACK!” Her own blood decorating her lip is splattered out on the form of the last word along with her booted foot kicking the man back, away from her and into one of the attackers. They both stumble and stagger before the one makes for Brennia once more with a sword drawn, but she tries to make a run for it to the gates of the Frostmaw fort and once she reaches the closed gate she tries to shout beyond it at anyone listening, “my name is Brennia Smyth, I wish to seek council with Queen of Frostmaw!” The attacker was nearly closing in on the bard…

Lionel opens his eyes to a blurry world of stark white snow. He cranes his neck too fast by half, sending a fresh jolt of pain surging up into his head which forces him wide awake. With a rough and tumble stumble he knocks his foot off of the timber plank on which it had been resting, nearly bowling his whole body over and into the wash basin ahead of him. The scene steadily comes into view as he regains composure. His scarlet silk button-up is torn at the seam from some earlier fall, but when he makes to touch the fabric with his fingertips, he realizes both his hands are already predisposed. He’s been clutching the emerald-shaded crystal skull like a newborn babe, and the thought of it gives him tremors of distaste. Blinking, he looks around, only to discover that several Frost Giants going about their morning routine are staring at him in mild wonder. “Carry on, good chaps,” Lionel mutters his way through a stately edict, doing his best to appear casual as he places the skull inside the burlap bag conveniently hanging from his left shoulder. Behind him is a soldierly barracks, where he must have opted to lean for a few moments and then -- unfortunately -- fall asleep for an indeterminate period of time. Ahead and to the east looms Frostmaw Fort, towering over its surroundings in all its tribal splendor. “Letters,” Lionel says. “I have letters to send. That’s what I was doing.” Which doesn’t explain why he was here beside the barracks, but Lionel is content to leave some strings loose in life in pursuit of single-minded realm-wide protection. It doesn’t take more than a few steps for Lionel’s usual pace, swift and frolicky, to return to him. All things considered, he’s waking up quite nicely, and in a rare streak of good fortune today may prove uneventful. This is precisely when a coach drawn by a myriad of flying horses appears not five hundred paces forward, obscuring Lionel’s view of the fort’s main entryway. Just as soon as he realizes the chief passenger is most surely Brennia, he makes a second realization: the inevitable Brennia is in fact being attacked, right here at the center of Frostmawian strength. “What the heck?” By the third word, Hellfire is drawn, the sword billowing flame upon the steel. Those few passersby who aren’t already stunned by the scene upon Brennia’s carriage snap into shock to see the man’s fiery blade withdrawn. Lionel bolts across the soft white earth, a faint trail of embers left behind to magically hasten his advance. He’s fast and lithe and brutal with the sword, but the attackers have another problem, even more immediate than the unhinged human torch charging toward them: Frostmaw is the City of War. The fort’s gate guards are already upon them, their spears seeking flesh with strong stabs as their legs kick up snow in the rush. What’s more, numerous Frostmawian denizens are eager to join the fray, recognizing a woman in plight and answering the call of duty. The Flewminati may soon find themselves surrounded unless they take to the skies. And if they do, they will still have two key problems: one of the Frost Giants is readying a grisly-looking crossbow and a certain Catalian’s sword is launching green-hot flames into the air with a harrowing knack for finding their targets.

Hildegarde was not in the Fort of Frostmaw this night, which made quite the change. Usually she was always found in there, working away on something or other but not this night. Tonight she isn’t nearby: she’s not in the fort, she’s not in the tavern, she’s not training in the courtyard. She just wasn’t there. Guards have joined the fray, even local citizens who have no connection to the guard or military within Frostmaw have joined the fray because this is just what they lived for: the fight! Frostmaw was all about the fight; all about war and honour, glory and vindication! As those green-hot flames spew into the air, they glimmer against something in the night sky… like armour in the sky, but surely that’s impossible? Not unless it’s perhaps an avian attacker? No, it was far too big. Enormous, in fact. The glinting armour was shrieking at this point, a horrendous yet all at once magnificent shriek of rage and defiance; wind kicking up and sending snow drifting around as its huge leathern wings beat in perfect sync. Hildegarde the Silver in all her saurian glory. The immense dragon roared furiously, sending a gust of frost so cold and so ferocious it almost felt sharp enough to cut a cheek or more. Beware angering a dragon.

Brennia’s back against the gate, she was cornered, but she saw her attacker’s face screw up with shock and fear… There was chaos in the blink of an eye causing him to abandon his focus and the carriage drawn by the group of flying horses rear back and dart away, out of danger. It seems these first few were just scouts and once a trailing group of evil-doer avians in the skies take in the sight of Hildegarde the Silver they try and ‘nope’ right out of there. Instantly Brennia felt guilty, she didn’t expect them to follow her here and cause such a scene, but when she looked up she was taken aback by the dragon. Seeing this raised goosebumps on her mared and bloodied caramel skin along with a subtle half smirk. The Flewminati flee the scene, but not without losing a few members or more - some of them dropping out of the sky like flies and swirling down in a flurry of feathers until they hit the ground. Brennia’s hands grip around the jar crafted out of marble and harboring a rather morbid secret, but she could only watch as the city guard easily deterred the attackers and wished it was only that easy the previous night in Schezerade. It obviously wasn’t and it shows on Brennia; she’s got dried up blood in her hair, cuts on her arms and a wound on her wing which seems to have gone through it causing the dark feathers to look slick and wet there. She puts a hand to her side and feels that she bled through the bandages wrapped around her waist which emits an exhausted sigh from the avian. She’s tired and it shows in her bloodshot eyes, but she must press on as she pushes herself off the gate in order to make herself to Lionel. “Sir Lionel,” she’s projecting her voice to him and it sounds more raspy than usual, but not overly so. She’s trying to flag him down and catch up to him, “is that…” her question trails off as she’s looking up at the dragon, she’s never seen this side of Hildegarde before and wanted to be certain of her assumption. Once he answered she would nod once before wiping the blood of her lip on the back of her hand with a slight wince, “many apologizes for this. I didn’t think I was being followed and surely didn’t think they would be as bold to engage in open conflict within Frostmaw.” Teal eyes avert down to the jar gripped in her tattooless hands, “I am in need of Frostmaw’s assistance.”

“Yep, that’s her,” Lionel replies, Hellfire’s flames extinguishing into some unseen ethereal void within the steel as if they were never truly there. He sheaths his sword and approaches Brennia, his legs only a little slower than his usual stride with a great and angry dragon so close beside him. Even some of the Frost Giants are a touch slower; they can’t help it, not even them! Combat is a way of life here, war a religion, but dragon queens are singular. Lionel doesn’t thank the guards or even the citizens for the assist; he’s learned he doesn’t have to, and that doing so has a way of breathing slight dissent over his humanity. This is what so many of the kingdom’s populace lives for, and even as Lithrydel stands on the brink against Kahran’s frighteningly quick portals and scattered forward camps, Frostmaw herself has stood well-guarded against the tide. “You need further patching-up,” the Catalian acknowledges to Brennia’s condition with a nod of his chin. “Pretty badly, I say. Let’s get you inside straight away.” He starts for the fort’s door, awkwardly aware that his Queen is immense and looming closeby. “Let’s… both of us get you inside,” he suggests, politely.

An angry dragon versus many little avians in the sky is a bit like a big winged cat seeing many little chickens in the sky. They’re tasty snacks and the dragon isn’t afraid to snap her maw in their direction to frighten them away; flapping her wings to knock them off course or even just using her frosty breath to hurl them back. Some of the guards and citizens yell with pride at their beastly queen; they can appreciate the primal way in which the creature fights. Some stand in awe as the dragon queen perches atop her fort, a low growl spilling from her scaly throat as her wings remain extended as if to say she’s ready to go at any moment. Some citizens and guards, however, aren’t bothered by the sight; they’ve seen it before! Nothing new here. The dragon waits for a while before fading away from sight entirely and leaving only a pinprick shape at the top of the fort. No doubt, Hildegarde would find her way inside to reconvene with Lionel and Brennia.

Brennia shakes her head at Lionel and her barely shoulder length black hair swaying slightly in the subtle motion, “there is no time.” She looks back to the man level with her height and her tounge tentatively felt the cut on her lip before her rebuttal, “this jar needs destroyed as soon as possible. My wounds will have to wait,” avians are resilient creatures that bounce back rather quick after a good rest, but Brennia hasn’t been afforded that. “I’ve been fighting all night and then tended to wounded citizens and students until daybreak.” Once within the fort and in Hildegarde’s presence she offers a stiff half bow, “merry meet, Hildegarde.” There is now determination in her gaze for once and it shows in her voice, “if we cannot get this jar somewhere we can destroy it then I know the Flewminati will be back and Vakmatharas deserves no more satisfaction from deaths due to this damn thing.” Her wings which usually shift and preene for the Queen seem rather plain today other than the wound in the one, it doesn’t take an expert to observe this is not the same woman on the inside, something has changed her. Maybe even Lionel can sense a light has gone out in the typically charming woman. Brennia tucked some hair behind an elongated pointed ear, “and I thank you two for coming to my aid just now. I will also apologize profusely for the intrusion… this is not Frostmaw’s fight.” A tense silence follows until she can finally raise her head to glance between the two, “do either of you know where this may be destroyed in it’s entirely. I wish no one to even find the ashes of it.”

Lionel grimaces but relents; he barely knows the woman, and he’s said what he can to urge her toward healing. What’s more, it would border on hypocrisy for him to press the issue, given his perennial inclination toward shoving himself forward against all odds and at any personal cost. He keeps swift pace, guiding the wounded avian toward Hildegarde’s most probable return locale: the dimly-lit and battle-dressed great hall centered within this elephantine fortress. Lionel opts for silence until the Queen’s presumed arrival, moving his lips in burgeoning thought thereafter. But he doesn’t speak; he listens keenly to Brennia’s description of her present circumstances, of the importance of this jar’s destruction, and of her apologies for bringing Frostmaw into the matter outright. He snorts just a little at that last part, shaking his head. As for the bard’s demeanor, he’s really only had the one conversation with her previously, but he does recognize the contrast between her helpful cheer on that particular evening and her dour, headstrong forthrightness now. It factors into his reply. “Frostmaw fights wherever dark forces threaten its path or the paths of its peers, and the Frostmawians fight gladly wherever opportunity arises. What’s more, I’ll go wherever evil abounds. I’m just glad you’re OK.” He crosses his arms over his scarlet silk shirt, mindful of the tear in its seam. “For starters, there’s my sword. Hellfire’s magic might be enough to crack the thing.” He almost uses the destruction of the original Vailkrin as an example of the sword’s power, but prefers never to cite that tragedy -- not even for this. “Given the jar’s, uh… disposition, though,” he says smoothly, “even Hellfire might need backup. In Cenril, there’s a certain locale nestled within a cavern full of searing lava. I know for a fact several artifacts of import have been destroyed there in the past.” He pauses, awkwardly. “It’s right beside the Shrine to Coreliant.” The gods and their jokes.

Hildegarde’s stride is swift and purposeful, she walks like a woman ready to do battle and commence planning for a fight. As Brennia and Lionel meet her in the main hall, the Silver offers both of them a curt nod of the head: she doesn’t have much time for pleasantries, she’s just had to deal with some avians on her territory! What is the meaning of this? As Lionel dismisses the apology, Hildegarde’s hand moves in a dismissive wave almost simultaneously. Frostmaw lives for battle, so it’s no skin off their nose. “Lionel has worded it well, that’s for sure. Frostmaw is here to fight against the rising tide of evil,” they would always stand as the last bastion if needs be,” but Hildegarde sincerely hoped there’d be long gaps between these battles or else Frostmaw would start to struggle. As Lionel suggests the source of lava in Cenril, the knight dips her head thoughtfully. “The lava may be imbued with some divinity due to its proximity to the shrine… or, with any luck, Coreliant will accept the destruction of it as some kind of offering. The gods are always trying to one up one another, I believe,” gods were competitive beings after all; their power came from belief and belief only came from winning that through acts of strength. “If we go there, we do not know what awaits us. We do not know what might try to bring us down en route, either. We cannot dawdle, we cannot delay. The longer we do so, the more time we give to those who would oppose us.”

Brennia knows nothing of the gods. so the company’s talk of them went right over her head and between her wings, it was hassle enough to learn of this Vakmatharas guy. She nods, looks to Lionel, “fine idea. Would you do me a favor and find a sword I may use. I’m going to go back out and find where the carriage went off to,” she looks around for an old knapsack or even potato sack to stuff the jar into, “we cannot use the carriage, I feel it is too high profile now. Each of us will just mount one of the flying horses, “a glance to Hildegarde, “unless we only need two for Sir Lionel and I?” Maybe Hildegarde would rather fly on her own? Brennia would rather fly, herself, but the condition her wing is in, it is not possible at the moment. “I’ll meet you two out by the stables, bring anything we may need.” She had found her way back outside in the cold and she hears one of her guards coaxing the group of horses towards the Frostmaw stables, but she takes over and makes sure the creatures have enough to eat and drink, humming a calming tune to them. Even though they are creatures of the skies - that was a bit of an ordeal! Brennia’s bardic magic had been significantly dwindled since she died once and even though the calming note wasn’t much, the creatures seem to respond to her. She awaits for the Queen and her Steward to meet up with her so they can make the journey to this lava cavern, but in her wait she uses her good wing to loft herself into the air and mount one of the tall, muscular, majestic beasts.

Lionel knows more about the gods than he would ever choose, and to him it’s almost entirely bad news, so he flinches a little at Hildegarde’s tutelage therein. But he cannot argue the value of the information, nor have his own unpleasant experiences suggested otherwise. As to the notion of Brennia’s flying horses, Lionel’s first inclination is to answer that he’d prefer his wyvern, but as soon as he gazes her way anew -- and is reminded of the struggle that’s brought her here and her probable need for some measure of normalcy in perilous times -- he refrains. “Can’t say I’ve ever been on a horse that flies,” he says, heedless of his comment’s potential inanity. “And as for a sword…” That’s when Lionel does something arguably distasteful, right in front of the Queen, hopeful only that she’ll cement her belief that time is of the essence by recognizing his need for quickness. He reaches his left arm over a nearby mantle, his skin coming close enough to the flames for other men to be be burned by them, and yanks a decorative sword from its plaque. “We have spares to spare,” he mumbles as he offers it to Brennia, maybe more to himself than the rest of them. The blade is light and sharp, straight as a line but cool to the touch. Its steel is a faint blue, like a cloudy summer’s day. “Best hop to it, then.” On his way to the stables, Lionel’s mind wanders back to the skull in his sack, at first out of an uncharacteristic longing which he dismisses as an odd effect of its magic. “Seven hecks,” he spits, once he’s safely out of sight of the others. He can’t just take the damned thing with them to a place like this. “Hey,” he calls to a nearby guard, who comes over and looks down upon him stoically. “Do me a favor and have this brought to my quarters. Be gentle, will ya? It’s a bit of an antique.” There. Now it’s settled and they can begin their journey. Lionel watches the guard’s back overly long before snapping out of his daze and approaching Brennia’s horses.

Hildegarde nodded when Brennia queried if only she and Lionel would require the winged horses. The knight had reservations about them carrying her weight and being able to maintain courage with a saurian creature so nearby. No, she would make her own arrangements. For a moment of two, Hildegarde stares off into the distance as if focused on something far away but not quite in sight. As Lionel hands Brennia a rather historical sword, the knight shrugs her shoulder. These weapons had seen their fair share of blood and were never purely ceremonial! “Be ready for anything,” she tells them with a little nod of her head; they probably already knew to be prepared. “Let’s go,” the knight said, exiting the fort to find the winged and massive serpent coiled and waiting in the courtyard. His scaly head was protected by a special horned helm, allowing him to skewer his enemies in the sky. ~Silver Queen,~ he chimes to Hildegarde who offers him a little smile. “Kenway, my boy,” her voice is full of warmth and love, the creature evidently had great meaning to her. “We must go on urgent business!”

Lava Flow

Searing heat greets you upon departing the landing spot within this deep-delving underground cavern. Rivulets of lava are visible at every turn, slithering amid countless islands of earth in a loose resemblance to a river delta. Ancient relics lie embedded in the cavern walls and floor, strange sigils carved into the stone almost at random. Charred remnants of previous misfortunate folks lie strewn about just below the runes and talismans, giving further evidence to some eerie ritualistic behavior having been performed deep in this pit, away from the view of mainstream Hollow life.

Brennia watched the exchange of Hildegarde with Kenway and it sent a pang in her heart as it reminded her of someone along with a promise she made to them before she left. Visibly unchanged she calls for her steed to trot on through to chill and take flight once the air is clear enough. Her own wings curl around herself as a cloak and even though she had packed clothes for the cold she seemed to have forgotten them in the carriage during the attack. As Lionel seems to know of this place he is being trailed by Brennia and her arm clutches tighter anytime they pass something nefarious looking or even just an oversized eagle in the skies. She wasn’t so easily paranoid, but after four months of always being attacked when she least expected it, it sent the avain to be on edge. Her eyes became heavy during the flight over Kelay or Sage and she slumped forward on the mare as she teetered dangerously close to slipping off the flying horse at such a dangerous height. It was when she felt the jar starting to slip from her grasp that woke her back up and set her back on their focus, but once they start to descend and the sun started to set Brennia felt that getting here was all too easy. As soon as the three dismount avians seem to shoot out of tunnels within the cliffside and make for an attack, but Brennia was ready with her borrowed sword defensively holding back one thug while watching a few others block up the entrance to the lava flow.

Lionel pivots on one foot and slides down the loamy soil. No sooner has he dismounted than his sword is drawn, its prismatic scabbard sparkling against the red-hot magma brightly enough and boldly enough that it may do well to temporarily blind Brennia’s assailants. Mid-slide, he twists his lithe form at an angle to keep ahead of Hildegarde. She’s bigger and stronger than him in person and a mountain to an ant if she’s a dragon, but nevertheless he’ll maintain view of her safety in his peripheral for fear that -- somehow, some way -- there is always a chance that something can go wrong. “Stay back,” he warns. His tone is peculiarly lilting for their circumstances; in times of great haste, Lionel’s native Catalian tongue has found habit to resurface. His mind races and his lips twist into a sneer. Of all the places these blokes could have chosen for an ambush. Lionel swings Hellfire in an arc one-handedly, expertly clinging to the grip of its hilt despite the bravado. With his right arm outstretched, he holds open his palm toward the lava even as several Flewminati begin their charge toward the party. Then, in a maddeningly quick forward slashing motion, Hellfire tugs a stream of that lava from behind the enemy’s ranks like an anchor. Ostensibly, the lava seeks to become as billowing flame upon Hellfire’s steel, but it may never reach its destination. Its course is blocked by the backs and wings of avian antagonists. It rushes in like an avalanche of ignition, searing whatever it assails. Should it meet their flesh, it may well burn straight through them. If they should take flight or evade, Lionel will already be upon them, slicing and dicing without mercy. And should the lava stream miss its mark, it will light his blade, charging its magic for deadlier purpose.

Hildegarde was a Silver Dragon, so she wasn’t really made for a hot environment or being near the lava in all truth. But she wouldn’t abandon those in need. The Silver rode on the back of Kenway, drifting higher than Brennia and Lionel as if to keep watch from above and be prepared to strike if necessary. Fortunately and, perhaps, suspiciously the flight to the cavern was relatively safe and quiet… had their enemies given up their quest to stop them? Or had they simply set a trap for them all? There was no way of knowing until they were there, really. Kenway cannot descend too low given his immense size, so he hovers momentarily and allows Hildegarde to drop from him: his serpentine body curling gracefully in the sky and toward one attacker with his head stooped low, ready to skewer the attack and drag their body upwards and away from the trio. “Destroy it, Brennia!” the Silver yells, her halberd held in a position of readiness should any advance towards her. To Lionel she offers a brief nod and a glance as if to say they would hold position and allow Brennia to do what she must.

Brennia sprints toward the lava flow, jar tucked under one arm and sword out in the other, but in the back of her mind she is marveled at these two champions and she shall find a way to thank them for their bravery once all of this has settled. An avian aims to stand in her way, but she’s not the chicken in this dare as she continues her stride right for him. She isn’t even sure what to do when muscle memory takes over and she leapt into the air and her good wing flipped her over the attacker so they were back to back for a split second. A simple pivot of her foot allowed for a spin and her sword cleaved the space between the avian’s helmet and armor. The path was clear now until her speedy booted footsteps halt before the lava and she slips the jar from the bag she had it in. ‘Destroy it, Brennia!’ echoes in her mind. She had stared at the jar for what felt like an eternity and all of the sudden the jar felt like it was glued to her hands, but she wants to rid herself of it and be done. Her head tilts and she seems to almost cringe as she heard something that was egging her on to keep it… Maybe all of them hear it, she doesn’t know for she’s not expert on the divine, is it the voice of Vakmatharas?

“You think this is over… You think you get it. YOU GET NOTHING!”
“My servant, Orra, I understand his plans and Vermillion’s plans for your precious floating city...”
“Watch out - BIRDIE.”

Brennia grunts before slamming the jar down into the lazy moving ripples of rolling orange lava and it accepts the marble artifact with momentum, sending steam from it into the air above. Oddly enough all of the thugs retreat as if on queue and once Brennia emerges from the cavern she fell to her knees, exhausted. Her raspy voice was barely a whisper, “it’s over…” She wipes the back of her hand on her cheeks before gathering enough strength to stand back up and meeting Hildegarde’s, then Lionel’s gaze, “I want to thank you both for helping me today.” She places her fist over her heart and bows to them while adding, “I owe you and Frostmaw a great debt, ” before making her way to one of the flying steeds. What a wild adventure in the span of 48 hours.

When the few avians in his spell’s path roll up in flame, Lionel does not turn away from their burning. Through the hard years, through the many losses he has suffered, he has developed a philosophy of face-forward killing. If and when he takes a life, he’ll do it with his eyes open to the deed. Lionel doesn’t know who these people were. He doesn’t know if they had families of their own. They aren’t brainwashed minions of Kahran, and he has no way of knowing if they’re brainwashed minions of someone else. They’re people, and he’s killed them, and he will not turn away. As the rest of the attackers flee in the wake of the jar’s destruction, he sheaths Hellfire and grimaces gloomily. “It’s over,” he repeats Brennia’s words. He takes a step forward to help her up, but she’s on her feet before he can offer a hand. “So long as good things have come of this, you owe me nothing.” Lionel’s frown fractures into a heartfelt smile punctured by too many grim thoughts, but at least his blue eyes shine sincere.

Although Hildegarde is a knight and thus has always followed a code of conduct, honour and chivalry, she is a most brutal fighter. It is in combat that the Queen of Frostmaw truly proves herself to be the Queen of War: her halberd swings high above her head and then swoops low to knock her foes off course and off their feet, only for her to swiftly grasp her halberd in two hands and spear them in the gut with the spear tipped point of the polearm. Perhaps most gruesomely is her approach to someone straight up running at her. It is a courageous move to be sure, but Hildegarde is unabashed. Instead, the Queen adjusts her footing; digging her back heel into the ground a little and evidently preparing for contact but it never quite happens. Only the wet squishing noise of a weapon piercing flesh and the flesh stretching; unable to contain the blood that bubbles to the surface as Hildegarde begins to lift the halberd - and the attached avian - up and slowly above head level until she finally opts to cast their corpse aside. The remaining few have chosen to fled, which is perhaps the wisest decision they’ve made this evening. As Brennia resurfaces and informs the party that all is well and Frostmaw is owed a great debt, the Silver offers a gentle dip of the head. “You did what was right. Frostmaw is honoured to share in the glory of that.”

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RP:It’s Done...

Northern Gate

Lava Flow