The air was thick with the biting scent of damp earth and cold stone, a shroud that veiled the world as Lyerin and his band reached the foot of the looming mountain.
The massive, dark peak stretched high into the clouds, jagged and unnatural.
In the failing light, it looked as if it had torn itself from the depths of the world just to make a challenge to the heavens, a dark silhouette gnashing against the pale sky.
Lyerin, a man cloaked in robes that absorbed light as if woven from shadow itself, came to a halt.
A smirk played across his lips as he lifted his head, his eyes narrowing at the towering form before them.
"Finally," he murmured, his voice low but edged with an odd satisfaction.
"We have reached the Mountain of Doom, the mountain that appeared out of nowhere."
He lingered over the words, savoring them as if he were tasting the magic in the air.