Uproar in the Great Vale

As the Mountains Pierce the Sky

The ancient willow tree droops its branches in sorrow, as if its entire being is filled with the age and sadness of a past era. The gnarled, weathered bark shows the marks time, harsh conditions, and the creatures which scamper, prowl and prance through the Great Vale have decided to add to the wrinkled tree. Though the great willow stands solemn, tears of morning dew slowly dripping from its thinning leaves, the sun rises, trailing fractals of light through the long grass surrounding it, and reflecting its essence from the snow caps of the massive twin mountains above. 

Though of course, there are places into which the light will not delve. Under endless layers of grassy meadows and barren crags leading far into the chasm of the valley, there lies a lightless forest of trees in various stages of decay, on the banks of a dark and foreboding river. These oaken monuments do not bend like the ancient willow tree. Most are as brittle as the sedimentary rock which the cold adjacent river has dug through over the centuries. Those that are not so brittle are very strange trees indeed.

The wide, sharp leaves of these trees are plentiful on their many branches, as lush as though they could thrive on the lack of sun at the valley bottom, their roots seeming to bulge and writhe with unforeseen nutrients. Legend has it that these trees, strangely full of life, can send their roots above the ground to quarrel with any who come near. Perhaps they are fed by the devoid river itself. 

Soaring back up along the cliffs and vines, one would not be surprised to find signs of life within the meadows surrounding the base of the mountain. Besides the sparse willow trees and surrounding forests, there are indeed many forms of life. Besides the common deer, wolves, and goats that constantly scale mountains and steep hills, stranger creatures soar above, scamper across the meadows, and lurk in the great crags of the deep chasm. 

For instance, giant, mottled, hawks make their home in the skies. Rodents in these mountains always find a slit in the side of a cliff to make their home, and much vegetation hugging the walls of the diving crags as a food source. As the ancient birds of prey who hunted the small creatures discovered, it is very hard to claw into the dim cracks to prey on the hidden mice, clawed mountain squirrels, and other prey desirable for their acute eyesight and small wingspans, and it is quite hard indeed to catch a bird in flight when armed for prey on land.

So the birds adapted, becoming massive scourges of the goats, deer, and even men on the mountainsides. Drumhawks, named for the exceedingly loud and powerful beating of their wings to lift themselves into the air to prepare for a dive, are armed with muscular, wide feet surrounding barbed talons, making it easy to keep a hold on their prey. Their toothy, hooked beaks are specifically built for ripping into the flesh of large beasts. 

These shrill-voiced birds are the terror of the upper mountains. By the time one hears the sharp drumbeats of their powerful wings, it is too late to reflect on their doomed past before they become prey. But a drumhawk, though well armed for hunting lone prey, is not the scourge of everyone in the Great Vale. 

The wolves of the mountains know that a drumhawk can only keep one target within its sight. Its barbed claws, though ideal for keeping prey within its grasp on the ground, also keep it locked in range of the claws and teeth of a wolf's companions. The drumhawk, though powerful, is still not quite strong enough to carry a wolf very far from its snarling pack.

The people of the mountains, learning from the pack behavior of the wolves,  live in the stagnant cover of armed villages, keeping the giant raptors from snatching away an isolated member of their clan. Excursions, such as those for big game hunting, are only performed in large groups of armed men and women, and one who leaves their village alone is considered to have an idiotic death wish. So whether on the plains of a meadow or the treacherous snowy peak of a mountain, a village is not often emptied, drumhawks being active for most of the year, and priorities being more focused on survival than adventure within said village.

The meadows of the Vale are likely the most quaint dwellings in the whole valley. Given the population of deer, wolves and drumhawks are not too rare there, but the weather, at least, is more predictable. Rain in the meadows is easily predicted, the clouds being visible over the mountains before a storm will hit, unlike the sudden blistering wind and snow on the frigid mountaintops as said storm passes over. Mudslides can be foreseen after large amounts of rain, unlike the rampant avalanches of snow on the mountaintop, possible at any moment and liable to plummet by the force of a sudden disturbance in the climate, a piercing yell, or a change in the flow of a strong mountain gale.

As many wise mountainfolk have spoken to the ears of the future generations, "The most certain thing on the mountaintop is how the peaks pierce the sky above." Indeed, the location of the sun to the mountaintops is kin to a slowly ticking clock. The lowest eastern mountain can be seen piercing the orange orb of the blazing sun at dawn, and midday is marked as the sun shines blindingly yellow directly above the chasm. The highest western peak slices the great source of light in the late afternoon, marking the evening meal, and by the time it makes its way past the sharp point of the lowest peak in the western range, the only light above is the shining face of the moon, less predictable in its position than the sun above.

The solstice of midsummer is by far the most important holiday to many in the valley, being the sun's longest stand against the great rising spikes to the east and west, the winter solstice being seen as the sun's weakest moment in its many rounds from night to day.

So despite the unknowns deep below within the chasm, the sudden killing beats of a drumhawk's wings, the unpredictable mountain weather, and the varying chance of success for each large group hunt, the peaks of the eastern and western mountains will always slice the same ribbons in the spinning of sky which the villagers hold sacred.

Though a day in the Great Vale may bring any kind of fortune, it relies on the certainty of the rising of the sun. As the ancient willow tree continues to serve its motionless penance against the changing weather, it endlessly gives forward its time and energy in an eternal drooping bow to the light of the cycling sun.