We crested the rocky black cliff face and took a moment to rest. Behind us, a heartless wind blew through the valley. The sky seethed with a darkling light, clouds boiling and churning. Our hands were black, scraped worn and bloody from the climb. We ate what little food remained and continued on. From time to time we heard unseen beasts, horses, wolves and calls of some animals that we'd never heard before. The air was cold and bitter, the embrace of a soured mistress. It tasted of coal and sorrow. Everything was grey, black, dark and unforgiving, even the trees; leafless limbs reaching from their graves, bleached grey with time and regret.
At last we came to her home. Crumbling columns stuck out like bones from the earth, impossibly clean in such a place. We clambered over massive fallen blocks of stone, following the single line of smoke that rose from the center of that forsaken labyrinth. She squatted in front of a tiny fire, dressed in dirty rags. Unkempt hair clung to her face and hung limply at the sides. She wore black henna on her face like a mask, and tiny bells hung from thin silver chains in her hair and across her neck. Light gray eyes followed us as we approached, we were being dissected. She raised her hand palm up as we got close, and I pulled out a small leather pouch from my jacket. I untied the drawstring and upended the pouch, letting three perfect opals tumble through that malignant air. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod and stood. She was much taller than she seemed. She began to walk, and we followed.
