The man in the brown cloak walked to the side of the golden roc, and spent some time tending to the creature’s plumage. He pulled broken feathers from the roc’s breast, and cleaned the dirt and grime of their travels from the great wings.
Bird squawked, and looked at the man quizzically. It was rare for his master to show this much attention to his steed.
The man scratched absently at the tattoo over his heart and continued to work.
The druid held tight to the seaweed harness of Manitok, the whale. The two companions moved swiftly through the dark waters.
The creatures of the sea had been crying out for as long as he could remember against the destruction brought by the land-ones. The poison had increased slowly but surely, growing ever worse in the most recent years. Young died in the egg, the strong swimmers withered – his home was dying. His people were dying. The sea was dying.
But now something worse had been discovered.
The great travelers of the sea had called him. The whales has sung to him in dreams, telling of a new abomination growing in the waters to the west of his tribe. At last, Ziria could abide it no longer. He saw to the defenses of his tribe, and took to Manitok’s back for the long journey west.
After several days they arrived, cresting over a deep abyss in the sea floor.
A vast structure of metal had risen from the floor of the sea. Ziria could see tiny craft moving about the
rising tower, strengthening it and adding more metal. The druid could just make out a vast stone ring at the base of the tower. Massive carvings fifty feet in length encircled it. He recognized them as Precursor.
It is wrong, Ziria. the whale’s mind sighed. So very, very wrong.
I know, old friend. Ziria replied. The might of my people are not enough to topple this thing of metal and death.
Who has the might?
I know exactly who we must find. Ziria said.