Mountainfang

When first the Fae came to the Mortal Realm, they did so at the highest and lowest places of the world; peaks and valleys better suited their temperaments than wide and level plains. While the marshes and caves became home to the Clans Unseelie, each Seelie House selected a different mountain for their dwelling-place, and none were higher than the Bitter Peak, known then as Ithikk-Mont.

As the Fae explored the Mortal Realm, which was old even in those days, but quite new to them, it changed their nature, and its nature was changed by them. It is said that before their arrival, the rose had never thought to grow thorns, nor was there yet any poison in the serpent's bite. It is also said, though less commonly, that the rose was less beautiful then.

But, such speculation concerning the nature of the rose's beauty is best left to dustier tomes written by dustier folk. What can be said for certain is that the Bitter Peak did learn such a lesson from the Fair Folk; for, even in those times, there were creatures in the Realm which one might call "People," or even "Peoples," if you prefer to keep them in separate groups. And even in those times, People acted as People always have; which is to say, poorly, until they have learned better. In the time before the arrival of the Fifth Seelie House, whose name will not be recorded herein for reasons which are already known to those learned in Fae-Lore and better left unknown to those who are not, the mountain, known then as Ithikk-Mont, was filled to bursting with glittering materials of great value. It had plentiful veins of the stuff which the People then called Tempring and Ductin and Augon, and which we might now call Iron, and Copper, and Gold. This abundance was as fortunate for the People who dwelled upon the Peak as it was unfortunate for the mountain herself, whose veins were quickly drained of their workable contents, leaving Ithikk-Mont a hollow and smoke-filled place.

During this time, the Bitter Peak began to think of herself, not as Ithikk-Mont, which meant Mountain of Abundance, but as Dessic-Mont, the Mountain Exsanguinated, or as Immol-Mont, the Mountain Burned. Though none lived who could still speak nor even hear her tongue, that is what she called herself in her un-heard heart.

But her sorrow did not last long, as far as a Mountain's memory goes, for the Fifth Seelie House *did* arrive, and though there were none among the Fair Folk who could hear her either, they had no use for metal ores (and in fact had quite a distaste for them, and for Iron in particular). So, the Mountain was Exsanguinated no more, and the wild things which grew along her slopes became more wild than before, under the primal influence of the Fae. As she beheld this sudden transformation, the Bitter Peak knew a strange and painful yearning, of a kind very rarely felt by Mountains, who want for very little as a general rule. She wanted to learn the same lessons that the plants and animals had learned from the Fae; she wanted to bite, and to sting. She wanted this power, the power of destruction and violence, for the same reason any being wants such a power: because she had been bitten and stung herself.

So, unable to speak with her newest inhabitants directly, she watched and waited with the leaden patience possessed by all truly ancient things. She watched what the vines and weeds learned from the Fair Folk, and studied how the leaves moved when they were near. She watched as spiders learned to commit darker acts than weaving, and witnessed the many-pointed grins of wolf-packs. It took more years than any single person has ever quite managed to live, but in those years, a sure and steady knowledge built in the Mountain's silent mind; she learned it, eventually. The Rose's Lesson. A Lesson in Thorns.

Ages later, when People once again dwelt upon the Bitter Peak, they learned the harsh lesson that their predecessors never did; they learned not to take more from the ancient, newly-wild Mountain than they gave. Those few who knew the place better than the rest felt a powerful compulsion to protect her, and if they heeded that calling, they found the Thorns which she had hidden away: blades of stone, drawn from deep within the earth. The stone was harder than slate, and darker; it was as heavy and as dark as unworked Lead, and only those with Giant's blood could be fairly expected to hold one. They hung from the ceiling of a deep cave like stalactites, but none would mistake them for natural rock formations; each held an edge like a razor, and they hung in a perfect semi-circle from the roof of the cave, which the Bitter Peak had come to think of as her Maw. In the fullness of the Twilight Epoch, the Mountain merged into a line of peaks and became indistinguishable from them, as Mountains often do, and the bitterness of the place faded, as did her most painful memories, if indeed she still retained them. But the blades of stone had been made of stronger and more-stubborn stuff than even the Mountain herself, and they outlived her memory for years.

Now, most of the blades themselves have been lost to time and brutal use. There is one, at least, that remains intact, even into this distant Age. It was not the first to be formed, nor was it the last; it was not the largest or sharpest of its brethren, nor does it have the most storied history. But it is, so far as is known, the only one that remains. It has known thousands of hands too weak to properly wield it, and a handful just strong enough to manage the feat-- there are few left in the world with the strength of Giants. It is the last Bitter Blade, the last heavy memory of a lost Mountain's unheard pain. It has been called Heavy Harvest and King's-Cleaver, the Boulderblade and Entfeller. But its newest name holds the largest piece of its truth: to its current wielder, who considers himself a Warrior-Poet, it is called Mountainfang.