Bear Claw Odyssey
A Cool Bob Studios Epic
Long before Elias ever drew breath beneath the vast Colorado sky, and long before Cool Bob first coaxed molten silver into glowing life within his hidden forge, the Mountain watched over all who dared tread her rugged ridgelines. She was ancient beyond measure—older than the stone that formed her bones and the storms that carved her face. Her pulse beat with a rhythm far slower than human time, a deep, resonant thrum that only the truly attentive could sense in the quiet spaces between heartbeats. Hunters entered her domain seeking glory or meat and often vanished without trace, swallowed by her silent judgment. Wanderers came begging mercy, their voices lost in the endless wind. Very few ever truly understood her will, for the Mountain did not speak in words but in trials, in mercy granted or withheld, in the subtle language of snow, stone, and spirit.
She had seen empires of ice rise and melt, forests grow from bare rock and burn to ash, rivers carve canyons only to be redirected by her whim. Her slopes held the bones of those who had come before—forgotten trappers, ambitious prospectors, entire villages erased by avalanche or famine. Yet she was not cruel. She was simply complete, a living entity whose breath was the wind howling through passes, whose blood was the snowmelt that fed the valleys below, whose thoughts moved in the slow grind of glaciers and the sudden crack of rockfalls. To walk upon her was to accept that one’s life was but a single fleeting note in an eternal song.
One brutal winter, when the stars appeared to hang closer to the earth and the air itself cracked like brittle glass with every breath, a young silverworker named Bob answered a call that had echoed through his dreams for months. It was not the call of ambition or conquest that drew him high into the wilderness, but a low, vibrating hum that settled beneath his skin like a second heartbeat—a summons, a test from something far greater than himself.
For seven grueling days and seven freezing nights, Bob wandered the high slopes. Snow devoured every trace of his trail behind him. Razor-sharp winds sliced through his heavy coat and into his lungs, turning each inhale into an act of defiance. Blizzards blinded him, and the cold seeped into his very marrow, numbing fingers until they felt like foreign objects, stiff and unresponsive. His boots grew heavy with packed ice, and every step required a conscious effort of will. Yet Bob refused to curse the Mountain. Instead, he sang to her with a voice hoarse from the cold—ancient songs taught to him by weathered silverworkers and by grandmothers whose memories stretched back to times when the world was still being shaped. These were songs of balance, of reverence, of knowing one’s small but meaningful place within the vast, unforgiving order of the peaks. The melodies rose thin and fragile against the gale, yet they carried a power that seemed to soften the wind around him, as if the Mountain herself paused to listen.
He remembered the words his own grandmother had sung to him as a child by the hearth: verses about the first people who had learned to read the Mountain’s moods through the shape of clouds and the direction of migrating birds. Each note he offered was a promise—he would not take more than he needed, he would leave no scar that could not heal, and he would carry her lessons back to the world below if she allowed him to descend alive.
On the final night, as shimmering auroras painted the heavens in flowing ribbons of emerald green and deep violet fire, the Mountain finally sent her messenger. From the swirling snow emerged a great bear, immense and utterly silent, its thick fur shimmering with an otherworldly luster beneath the starlight and dancing lights. The bear did not charge. It did not flee. It simply stood and studied Bob with eyes that held an intelligence ancient and profound, as though the Mountain herself gazed through them—eyes that had witnessed the birth of rivers and the death of forests, eyes that knew every secret fold of the land.
Bob’s legs gave way. He dropped to his knees in the deep snow, hands held open and empty, head bowed in complete submission. The cold burned against his skin, but he felt no fear, only a profound stillness that spread outward from his chest. “I come not for blood,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the wind. “I come only for understanding.”
The bear circled him slowly, its massive paws leaving prints that seemed to glow faintly, each step deliberate and measured, as if measuring the worth of the man before it. Its warm breath curled upward like sacred incense in the frozen air, carrying the wild scent of pine resin and raw earth. Then, in a moment few humans would ever witness and even fewer would dare believe, the great bear lowered its shaggy head and placed one enormous paw deliberately upon the snow directly before Bob—offering a single, perfect claw that had detached as if by the Mountain’s own will. The claw lay there, gleaming faintly, untouched by frost, as though the Mountain had decided in that instant that this silverworker was worthy of a fragment of her power.
In that instant, the pact was forged, sealed not in words but in silent mutual recognition—a covenant that bound Bob’s hands, his heart, and his craft to the living spirit of the peaks forever.
Bob carried the claw with reverent care back down to the hidden sanctuary the Mountain had permitted him to build—a forge carved deep into living granite, veiled from all unworthy maps and prying eyes. There, surrounded by the constant hiss of snowmelt veins trickling through the rock and the sharp, cleansing scent of juniper fires, he poured his skill and his gratitude into the first Bear Claw talisman. It was never meant merely for adornment or show. This was a vessel of covenant—forged for protection, for spiritual grounding, for those rare souls the Mountain herself judged worthy of her attention. The silver flowed like liquid moonlight under his hammer, each strike echoing the slow heartbeat he had felt on the heights. When the talisman cooled, it seemed to pulse with an inner light, warm to the touch even in the coldest forge nights.
Years slipped by like melting snow. Bob aged, his hands growing knotted and steady, but his craft remained sacred and pure. Silver dust clung to his beard and the creases of his palms, and the forge’s heat had etched faint lines around his eyes that spoke of long hours spent in communion with molten metal and mountain stone. He spoke little of that fateful night on the heights. Only those who approached his forge with genuine respect, who knew how to listen to the silence between hammer strikes, would ever be gifted one of the Mountain’s talismans. Word spread quietly among the high-country families—those who still remembered the old ways—that Cool Bob’s work carried something more than beauty; it carried the Mountain’s own breath.
And so, when a young hunter named Elias sought him out years later, the Mountain stirred once again, her ancient attention turning toward a new soul ready to be tested.
In the shadowed heart of the Rocky Mountains, where time itself seemed to slumber beneath blankets of snow-laced pines and even the echoes of footsteps hesitated to linger, Elias began a pilgrimage as old as memory itself. Here, far above the noise of civilization, the high-altitude backlands obeyed a different order entirely—one ruled by raw instinct, profound silence, and the unpredictable, volatile will of the Mountain.
It was late March. Winter still held the peaks in its iron grip, and any hint of spring thaw remained only a faint rumor carried on the restless wind. Elias ventured deep into this realm carrying nothing but his trusted longbow, his honed survival wits, and the silver Bear Claw talisman that rested warm and alive against his chest—a piece personally cast and blessed by Cool Bob. The talisman’s weight was slight, yet it felt heavier than any pack, a constant reminder of the promise he had made when Bob had placed it around his neck.
Elias was no newcomer to these unforgiving lands. Generations of his bloodline had hunted these slopes, offered prayers in hidden clearings, and sometimes met their end among the jagged rocks. His father had taught him to read the language of the stars for navigation and timing, pointing out constellations that told stories of hunters who had become constellations themselves. His mother had shown him how to listen to the winds for warnings and guidance, distinguishing the playful gusts of spring from the killing breath of winter. His grandmother had instructed him in the ways of the spirits that moved through tree and stone, teaching him the quiet rituals that honored the unseen. Yet it was Cool Bob, the quiet silverworker, who had instilled in him the deepest lesson of all: reverence.
“You walk upon her very backbones, Elias,” Bob had told him one night as firelight danced across his weathered face. “But never forget—the Mountain is alive. She gives life freely to those who respect her, and she takes it without hesitation from those who do not. Always remember whose favor you are asking when you step into her domain.” Those words had settled deep in Elias’s marrow, shaping every decision he made on the trail.
**Day One: The Invocation**
The first morning dawned crystalline and bitterly cold, the sky so clear it felt brittle enough to shatter. Snow crunched and whispered beneath Elias’s snowshoes like the murmured secrets of an ancient tongue that only the worthy could hope to partially comprehend. Each step sent tiny avalanches of powder cascading down the slope, sparkling in the sunlight like scattered diamonds. From the very start, the Bear Claw talisman pulsed with a faint, steady rhythm against his skin, as if acknowledging that the Mountain had already turned her vast awareness toward him. The sensation was not unpleasant; it felt like the gentle pressure of a trusted hand on his shoulder.
Elias moved with the natural, fluid grace of someone born to these steep slopes. His eyes caught the smallest details: a slightly displaced snowdrift suggesting recent movement, a single broken twig half-buried in white, the faint, misty puffs of elk breath rising from a distant ravine. The air carried the clean, sharp scents of cedar, deep frost, and the distant metallic promise of approaching storms. He paused often to run his gloved fingers over the bark of ancient trees, feeling the rough texture that told stories of lightning strikes and slow growth through centuries. Every breath tasted of pine resin and cold stone, filling his lungs with the Mountain’s own essence.
As evening settled, he made camp in a natural cathedral formed by towering blue spruce trees whose branches arched overhead like protective arms. The trees stood so close that their trunks formed living walls, and the canopy filtered the last light into soft, cathedral-like shafts. He gathered fresh pine needles and wild mint for tea, performing the small ritual sip that Cool Bob had taught him—letting the steam rise and carry his intentions upward before drinking. The fire crackled to life, sending sparks dancing upward into the gathering dark. With the flames warming his face, Elias closed his eyes and offered his first silent prayer of the journey:
“Mountain, I enter your breath with an open heart. Guide my steps. Test my spirit. Return me whole if it pleases you, so that I may carry your lessons back to those who will listen.”
He lingered by the fire long after the tea was gone, letting the warmth seep into his bones while the stars wheeled overhead in their slow, majestic dance. Sleep came lightly that night, filled with half-formed dreams of his ancestors walking the same ridges, their footsteps leaving no trace in the snow.
**Day Two: The Stirring**
By midday of the second day, the sky began to change. It grew heavy and oppressive, the air tingling with the sharp taste of iron on the tongue. Clouds gathered with unnatural swiftness, piling high against the peaks—a clear sign his grandfather had always called “the Mountain’s unsettled breath.” The light shifted from bright white to a dull, bruised gray, and the wind carried a low, moaning note that seemed to vibrate through the very ground.
Fresh elk tracks led higher toward a sheltered wintering basin, but they were soon joined by another set of prints: broad, powerful, and deliberate paw marks pressed deep into the snow. The great bear had begun its own solitary pilgrimage, moving parallel to Elias’s path. Elias studied the prints for long minutes, noting how the claws had scored the ice beneath the powder. He felt no fear, only a deepening awareness that the Mountain was orchestrating this meeting with patient precision.
Elias paused on a windswept ridge, pressing his gloved palm firmly against the talisman. A quiet whisper escaped his lips: “Not yet.” The words were carried away by the wind, but he felt the talisman respond with a single, stronger pulse, as though the Mountain had heard and approved his patience.
**Night Two: The Whispering Storm**
That night the wind rose into a wild howl, sounding like a choir of lost ancestral souls crying out across the ridges. Lightning flickered and danced along the far mountain faces, briefly etching the black silhouettes of twisted trees against the sky. Around his carefully built fire, the flames pulsed and twisted wildly, casting long, dancing shadows that resembled the spirits of his forebears moving at the very edge of perception—shadows that seemed to nod in silent encouragement.
Elias worked quickly to strengthen his camp beneath a protective rock overhang, layering thick cedar boughs into a dense shelter. The boughs released their sharp, medicinal scent as he crushed them underfoot, filling the small space with a fragrance that reminded him of his grandmother’s healing poultices. All the while, the Bear Claw talisman pulsed with increasing strength against his chest. The Mountain was no longer distant. She was fully awake, and her attention pressed upon him like a living weight—comforting yet immense, a presence that made every heartbeat feel shared.
He sat wrapped in his blanket, listening to the storm’s symphony, and allowed memories to surface: his father’s steady hand guiding his first arrow, his mother’s voice singing the same songs Bob had sung on the heights. Each recollection strengthened him, weaving his personal story into the Mountain’s larger tapestry.
**Day Three: The Trial**
Morning brought no relief. Instead, the full fury of the Mountain descended.
This was no ordinary snowfall. It was thundersnow—violent, chaotic, and merciless. Snow spiraled in blinding, horizontal sheets that stung like needles against exposed skin. Thunder boomed and cracked as though entire peaks were being split asunder. Jagged bolts of lightning ripped across the darkened heavens, illuminating the world in stark, terrifying flashes that left afterimages burned into Elias’s retinas.
The Mountain’s judgment had arrived.
While carefully traversing a narrow, ice-slick shelf high above a sheer drop, Elias’s footing betrayed him. The ground suddenly gave way in a cascade of ice and rock. He plummeted, crashing hard onto jagged stones below. His left leg twisted with a sickening, audible crack. White-hot pain exploded through every nerve, radiating upward until it felt as though his entire body had been set ablaze. Bright blood bloomed rapidly across the pristine snow, staining it in vivid, spreading patterns that steamed faintly in the cold.
Even through the agony, the talisman burned hot against his chest, its pulse now urgent and insistent, as though urging him onward. Elias lay there for what felt like an eternity, breathing through the pain, feeling the cold seep into his wounds. He whispered thanks to the ancestors who had endured worse, drawing on their strength.
Gritting his teeth until they ached, Elias drew upon every scrap of ancestral knowledge. He splinted the broken leg with sturdy pine branches and tight strips of leather cut from his pack, his hands shaking but precise despite the cold that made his fingers clumsy. His mother’s calm voice echoed clearly in his memory: “The Mountain grows what we need, if only we know how to look.” The words anchored him as he worked.
Despite the storm, he searched methodically beneath boulders and along frozen streambeds. He found clusters of wild arnica to reduce the swelling and carefully stripped the inner bark of young spruce for its healing tannins to slow the bleeding. Bitter willow bark he chewed slowly, each mouthful a prayer of thanks to his parents for the knowledge that now kept him alive. The taste was acrid and sharp, but it dulled the edges of the pain enough for him to continue.
That night he dragged himself into a shallow cave, where he coaxed a small, defiant fire to life. The flames hissed and spat against the storm’s invading icy fingers. Lightning struck terrifyingly close outside, splitting ancient trees with deafening cracks that shook the very stone around him. Half-delirious with pain, Elias whispered another prayer into the roaring chaos:
“Guide me through this darkness. Strengthen my body and my will. If I am to fall here, let it be with honor, and let my spirit return to your embrace.”
He drifted in and out of consciousness, the fire’s warmth mingling with the talisman’s steady heat, both keeping the darkness at bay.
**Day Four: The Spirit Path**
The storm continued its assault for many more hours, yet it began granting fleeting moments of unexpected mercy: a sudden parting in the whiteout that revealed a safe path forward, a hidden spring bubbling warm beneath a thin skin of ice, small signs that the Mountain was testing his resolve while still offering the thinnest of lifelines to those who endured.
Elias’s body grew steadily weaker. His injured leg throbbed with every movement, and exhaustion pulled at the edges of his mind like a heavy blanket. He drifted in and out of waking visions—seeing his grandmother carefully drawing protective sigils in the dirt with a weathered stick, hearing the rhythmic ring of Cool Bob’s hammer shaping molten silver, and catching glimpses of the great bear watching him patiently from the borders of dreams. In these visions the bear’s eyes held the same ancient intelligence he had sensed in Bob’s forge, and Elias felt himself being measured, weighed, and gently encouraged.
Each painful, limping step forward became a profound, conscious choice between continuing to live and simply surrendering to the cold. The line between the two felt razor-thin. He spoke aloud to the Mountain now, voice raw: “I am still here. I am listening.” The talisman answered with warmth that spread through his chest like sunlight.
As darkness claimed the land once more, his small fire burned low and weak. Yet the Bear Claw talisman radiated a steady, comforting warmth that sustained him far more than the dying flames. In his half-dreaming state, he clearly heard Cool Bob’s calm voice cutting through the howl of the wind:
“The Mountain speaks most clearly in her trials. Listen with more than your ears.”
The words anchored him through the longest night yet, and when dawn finally came, Elias felt a quiet certainty settle over him—he was no longer merely surviving; he was becoming part of the Mountain’s story.
**Day Five: The Confrontation**
When dawn finally broke on the fifth day, the Mountain grew still. The violent storm dissolved into a hushed, almost sacred quiet, as though the peaks themselves were holding their breath. Sunlight pierced the clouds in golden shafts, illuminating the snow in a way that made every crystal sparkle like living light. The air felt charged, expectant.
Elias pushed onward and at last reached the sacred clearing—a pristine hollow perfectly encircled by ancient, towering pines that stood like silent, eternal witnesses. The trees formed a perfect natural amphitheater, their trunks scarred by centuries of wind and lightning yet standing tall and unbowed. As the first pale rays of sunlight touched the snow, he saw it.
The bear.
It was colossal, timeless, a living embodiment of the Mountain’s power. Steam rose in thick plumes from its nostrils into the cold air. Its eyes burned with an intelligence that belonged not to any ordinary animal, but to a sentinel—a direct extension of the Mountain’s own ancient will made flesh and fur. The bear’s fur rippled with subtle shades of deep brown and black, catching the light in a way that made it appear almost luminous. Muscles shifted visibly beneath the thick pelt as it breathed, each movement a testament to raw, unfiltered strength.
The bear reared up onto its powerful hind legs, towering over Elias like a force of nature. Its roar erupted with such force that it shook him to the marrow of his bones and sent cascades of snow sliding from the surrounding trees. The sound rolled across the clearing like thunder made flesh, vibrating through Elias’s chest and making the talisman flare with sudden heat. Instinctively, Elias reached for an arrow and his longbow, but the Mountain herself intervened. A sudden, fierce gust of wind tore the arrow from his numb fingers and hurled it spinning away into the trees, lost forever.
With a thunderous drop to all fours, the bear charged.
Lightning cracked dramatically behind the beast, framing its massive form in blinding white as it barreled forward like living thunder across the snow. Elias stumbled backward, his splinted leg buckling painfully beneath him. Death itself roared toward him, unstoppable.
In that desperate moment, the Bear Claw talisman ignited with power. Not with visible flame, but with a surging wave of ancestral memory and primal strength that flooded through his veins like liquid fire. Voices of his forebears filled his mind—grandmother’s songs, father’s steady instructions, Bob’s quiet wisdom—all blending into one clear truth:
*You are of us. You are the bear too.*
A roar tore from deep within Elias’s own chest—one that felt older than his body. He drew his father’s carbon-steel hunting knife, the blade catching the weak sunlight and flashing like a promise.
The bear struck first. Its enormous paw swept in a blinding arc, claws like curved obsidian daggers ripping deep into Elias’s shoulder. Blood sprayed in vivid arcs across the white ground, hot and steaming. The pain was explosive, a white-hot lance that nearly drove him to his knees, but Elias refused to fall. Instead, he lunged forward into the bear’s deadly reach, driving the knife upward with every ounce of strength he possessed. The blade sank deep into the thick muscle of the bear’s chest, and he felt the resistance of hide and sinew give way.
The beast twisted violently, roaring in rage and agony. Its massive jaws snapped shut mere inches from Elias’s face, its hot, rank breath washing over him like the blast from a forge—carrying the scent of wild meat and ancient earth. Elias twisted the knife and wrenched it free, then struck again, slashing hard across the bear’s powerful foreleg. Blood now poured freely from both of them, staining the snow in chaotic, steaming patterns of red. The ground grew slick beneath their feet, turning the pristine clearing into a battlefield painted in crimson.
The bear reared once more, slamming its full, crushing weight downward. Elias threw himself into a desperate roll, the motion sending fresh agony through his broken leg. The massive paw smashed into the ground where his head had been only a heartbeat earlier, cratering the frozen earth and sending shards of ice flying. He scrambled up, gasping, vision swimming with pain and blood loss. His leg screamed in protest, but he circled slowly, knife held ready, breath coming in ragged bursts that clouded the air.
The bear lunged again. This time Elias met the charge directly, ducking beneath another sweeping claw that whistled past his ear with lethal closeness. He drove the blade upward into the bear’s thick throat. The steel bit deep, and hot blood gushed over his hands and forearms in a torrent that soaked his sleeves and warmed his skin even as the cold tried to claim him. The bear staggered, its roar now raw and ragged, louder than any thunder. It swung wildly in fury. One glancing blow caught Elias across the ribs, cracking bone with a sickening sound and sending him skidding painfully across the bloodied snow. Copper flooded his mouth. His vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing, but the talisman burned like a second, defiant heart against his chest, feeding him a strength that felt borrowed from the Mountain herself—strength that kept his grip firm and his will unbroken.
Bleeding heavily and slowing, the bear charged one final time. Elias planted his good leg as firmly as he could, waited until the last possible instant, then sidestepped with a surge of will that felt almost supernatural. With both hands gripping the knife, he drove the blade straight and true into the bear’s heart. The steel slid home with a final, terrible resistance, and Elias held it there, feeling the great heart’s last powerful beats against the blade.
The great beast shuddered violently. Its roar faded into a deep, rattling groan that seemed to echo through the trees and into the stone itself. For one endless, frozen moment, man and guardian stood locked together—blood mingling, breaths rasping in the cold air, two spirits intertwined in the Mountain’s gaze. Elias could feel the bear’s warmth against him, could smell the wild musk and the copper of shared blood, and in that closeness he understood: this was not victory or defeat, but completion.
Then, with a final heavy sigh, the bear collapsed onto the snow.
A profound silence fell over the clearing, heavier than any storm. The Mountain watched in quiet judgment. The pines seemed to lean in closer, as if bearing witness. Elias stood swaying, knife still in hand, the world reduced to the sound of his own labored breathing and the slow drip of blood onto snow.
**The Offering of Reverence**
Elias dropped to his knees beside the fallen guardian, his body trembling with exhaustion and pain. Tears carved clean paths through the blood and snow streaking his face. He refused to take any trophy from the noble beast. Instead, he placed a shaking hand gently upon the bear’s still-warm flank and whispered the ancient words his grandmother had taught him long ago—words that few in the modern world still remembered or honored:
“Your breath returns to the Mountain from which it came. May I carry a small part of your spirit with true humility and lasting respect.”
The Bear Claw talisman pulsed with one final, deep throb of acknowledgment, then settled into a gentle, comforting warmth against his chest. In that moment Elias felt the weight of generations lift slightly from his shoulders; he had passed the test not by conquering, but by becoming part of the balance.
**The Return: Three Days of Endurance**
For three long, grueling days, Elias limped and crawled his way back down toward the lower valleys and home.
He used the bear’s heavy pelt as both shelter and insulation against the returning bite of the cold, wrapping it around his shoulders like a living cloak that still carried the guardian’s scent. The meat he carefully harvested sustained his weakening body when strength threatened to fail completely—each bite taken with a silent prayer of gratitude. The Mountain provided what he needed for survival, but she offered no ease, no swift mercy. Every single step was purchased with fresh pain and deepened reverence. He moved slowly, conserving energy, stopping often to chew more willow bark and bind his wounds with strips torn from his own clothing.
His nights were filled with vivid, haunting dreams. He saw Cool Bob steadily hammering silver by the forge’s glow, sparks flying like stars being born. He watched the Mountain’s face form and shift within wind-sculpted clouds, her features stern yet kind. He sat once more with his ancestors around distant, flickering fires, their silent nods of approval warming him more than any flame. In one dream the great bear walked beside him, no longer adversary but companion, guiding him through passes he had never known existed.
By the morning of the third day, gaunt, bloodied, scarred, and forever transformed, Elias finally emerged from the high country. The villagers who spotted his staggering figure gathered quickly, their faces filled with awe and disbelief. Whispers spread rapidly. They called him a myth. They called him a living legend. Children pointed and elders murmured prayers of thanks.
Yet Elias only lowered his head in quiet humility.
“I am no legend,” he whispered through cracked lips. “I am nothing more than a child of the Mountain.”
**Epilogue: Cool Bob’s Quiet Smile**
Several weeks later, when Elias at last made his way to Cool Bob’s secluded forge nestled against the granite, the old silverworker listened without interruption as the entire tale unfolded in careful detail. Bob prepared a simple pot of pine needle tea, nodding slowly and thoughtfully as every trial, every wound, every moment of grace and terror was laid bare. The forge fire crackled softly in the background, and the scent of melting silver and juniper filled the air like a benediction.
When the story finally ended, Bob allowed a quiet, knowing smile to cross his face—a smile that seemed to carry the ancient weight of the peaks themselves.
“The Mountain accepted your prayer, Elias,” he said softly, his voice warm with understanding. “Remember this: the talisman did not save you. It only reminded you of who you already were—of the strength and spirit that has always lived inside you. That is all it has ever done, and all it will ever do.”
Bob raised his steaming cup in a slow toast toward the open doorway of the forge, where the Mountain loomed vast, silent, and eternal beyond the trees.
“We serve her,” he murmured with deep respect. “And in return, she remembers us.”
As if in quiet agreement, the Bear Claw talisman pulsed once more against Elias’s chest, warm and alive with quiet power.
Outside the forge, fresh snow began to fall again—soft, gentle flakes this time, drifting down like a silent blessing from the heights above.
*Forged by Covenant. Blessed by the Mountain.*
*A Cool Bob Studios Legend.*