The world is small up here. Far into the distance over the cascading ridges carved by dense rains over a millennia, the sprawling valley opens in the distance. On the best days, it he visage of a miniature wall hundreds of miles north dots the horizon, blocking the view of the northbound the curve of the world.

You are small up here. We all are. Turning south you stand below the Last Spire. Ominous and bulbous, like an eye stalk of some deep monstrosity looking to scorch the earth from hundreds of feet above.

You are defense up here. The Mouth is the result of the collapse of the cavernous roof that would later be honed into Ettlemont. A fissure in the earth found on a perfectly smooth table top of land that sits below the Last Spire, but still at the highest point of what is deemed the natural mountain range. Here the guard stalks and waits. Vision in all directions, and solace knowing that anything that would make its way up the mad scramble necessary to get here from the outside would be either too large or require too much power to do quietly. Guard shifts trapse about the cut out keeping eyes both inside and out. Able to rain arrows down on attackers that enter Ettlemond and call out large masses hustling through the pathways and ravines of the mountains.

The scorched orange earth, clay hardened against the all too close sun, stretches down around the top of the mountain before giving way to far more dense and dark stones.