High atop an isolated granite ridge overlooking the western rim of the Grand Desolate Forest, the afternoon air turned bitterly thin and rancid with the scent of unformed static. The sky above was no longer the clear, vibrant azure of early autumn. A sickly, semi-clear haze of dull charcoal hung between the clouds, casting unnatural, sharp-angled shadows across the ancient pine canopies below.
The vanguard scout dropped through the torn cloud cover like a falling boulder wrapped in dead shadow. It struck the mountain crest with a heavy, hollow thud that generated no echoes.
The creature was roughly the size of a two-horse war chariot, supported by twelve multi-jointed, needle-tipped legs of rainbow-bright black glass hard shell. Its hunched back shell was crusted with shifting gray sharp-angled fractals that pulsed with a faint, sickening buzz. A sound that didn’t register through mortal ears, but scraped directly against the spiritual sea like jagged fingernails dragged across dry slate.
Where its twelve clawed feet touched the mountain, the vibrant moss died instantly, turning pale and crumbling into gray flour. Within seconds, a circular outer edge of total desolation swelled outward from its landing point. Ancient cedar trees, whose thick roots had gripped the granite cliffs for eight hundred years, lost their green luster. Their needles turned to ash, their trunks collapsed into gray powder. The solid bedrock beneath them dissolved into smooth, silent cavities of blank air.
