Mesimired by the beauty of the landscape, I found myself staring out from the snow-covered mountain edge. Seeing the truth of the bold mythic tales I heard as a child from my grandfather. The ivory bones of the last king of the frost giants Yrgor lay back against the unyielding stone of the mountain. Preserved by the constant cold and snow of the mountain. Impaled there by his own weapon, by the demi-god Omsar the Brave. The various tales surrounding the encounter varied on how Omsar managed to grab Yrgor’s sword Msoror. Easily recognizable from the description of it based on the tales, complete with random chips out of the steel blade. From this distance, I could see the strange angles Yrgor’s rib bones were broken outwards. Making me recall one of the more far-fetched tales, about Yrgor eating Omsar. Trying to use his the natural extreme low temperature of his body to freeze Omsar to death. Unwittingly given Omsar the upper hand as his cloak lined with the fiery orange feathers of a phoenix kept him alive. Assuming any extent of the tale was true Yrgor had a violent reaction to the strange warmth in his body. Dropping the mighty Msoror point first into the stone mountain to pry out the source of heat. Osmar was slicing his way with his own mighty blade, Cisoer. Leaping out Osmar’s chest covered in the bodily fluids of Yrgor, dropping Cisoer along the way. His divine nature awakening in the process. Endowing him with the godly strength of his father, rivaling the mighty power of Yrgor himself. Osmar managing to lift Msoror into the air long enough to impale the blade into Yrgor’s tremendous heart.
Shaking the inspiring images of the battle from my head, I carefully walked down the slippery mountain slope. Stopping at the makeshift bridge of Yrgor’s snow-covered femur. Taking a tentative step with one foot, to see if I could walk on it without falling into the crevice below. Managing to slip forward some without my other foot leaving the mountain. Choosing to leave my pack mule behind taking small, cautious steps forward. Keeping my gaze upward, ignoring the whispered voice in my head to look down. Taking slight pauses every few steps to plunge steel anchors into the bone. Cautiously sliding some rope through each anchor encase the wind would strengthen.
Taking a deep breath of relief as I managed to find solid footing on the other side. Grabbing the climbing pick from my belt, getting a tight grip before swinging it at the skeleton. Feeling the impact through both of my arms, forcing me to grunt. Ignoring the tremble of the impact, continuing to swing my pick. Creating small holes in the pelvic bone, on the sheer hope of finding the precious frosted sapphires inside the bone. While the secret of frost giant bones having the jewels deep in their bones was well known, few were crazy enough to attempt to dig them up.
Losing count of how many swings I did before finding a rich glowing blue vein in the interior of the bones. Reaching one hand into the hole, instantly feeling a substantial temperature drop. Quickly pulling my hand back, grabbing my pick again. Swinging with care to carve out the vein, trying to avoid damaging it. Surprised that the interior bone was softer than I would have expected. The tremble lessening compared to previous hits. Keeping myself warm with each swing, beginning to sense a presence within the small cavern I had created.
Hearing a whispered voice speak “The line of Osmar continues,” being carried by the wind. Refusing to stop my swing, ignoring the strange words of the wind. Unsure what they meant since my parents had told me about my ancestors. Being well known that Osmar had fathered no children, before his death. Managing to pull out the vein without much damage to its valuable contents. Grabbing an old fishing net from my bag, setting the thick vein inside it. Tying it with care before grabbing a long rope to drag it out. Securing it to the front part of the anchoring system I made on the femur. Walking back into the artificial cavern looking for another vein to carve out.
Tripping as I hit something hard that was covered in snow, forcing me to fall forward. Grunting as I collided hard with the body of the mountain. Reaching out at what I thought tripped me, I felt something that was oddly warm. Something that somehow resisted centuries of the worth of snow and cold. Brushing off some the snow with my glove, finding the object possessing a faint mystical ivory glow. The glow was brightening some upon my touch, calling to me. Taking my time to clear the snow from the blade, without cutting myself. Finding the blade’s handle was made of ebony metal, with slight inlays of gold on both sides. A clear jewel had carefully been placed on the crossguard, surrounded by runes I didn’t recognize. Wrapping my hands around the handle, I picked it up. Surprised by the unusual lightness of the blade. Being cautious as I slide the blade into my belt, before going back to my pick. Pulling a handful of smaller frosted sapphires out of the bone to keep. Hulling them back over the slippery bone bridge, with great care.
Using strong ropes and knots to attach the large vein to the side of my mule. Making sure it was secure before checking I had ample supplies for my trek down the mountain. Taking a few moments to eat some dried out beef jerky to gather my strength back. Feeling more than ready to leave this place to the cold. Hoping I would never have to return here unless I was desperate. Grabbing the rope of mule a few seconds before starting my descent. Eager to see something other than white snow and mountain with haste.