The Hecaton Range

There was something in the Hecaton, once.
The mountain range towers between Ogygia and Tron Daurat. No paths or settlements give safety from the ice and snow. No beasts of woolen coat travel the frigid peaks. No maps chart its treacherous cliffs. Only one guidance is repeated to any who wish to travel the Hecaton:

"Turn back, or go around. There was something in the Hecaton, once. All it left behind is hate."

Some say that the elves built something there, a mistake even they have buried and forgotten. Others say that warrior-kings crossed the mountains seeking the power of dragons and never saw the other side. Few recall the ancient giants who created the mountains with their own sleeping bodies. Only a handful who ignored the warnings and braved the blizzards have glimpsed what lies among the peaks.

Shapes emerge from the storm. Ruins of fortresses and castles in rough-hewn stone. Braziers not lit for untold ages. Shattered chains and iron gates bent off the walls. Wellsprings of thick red fluid, tasting of iron and putrefaction.

And deeper, cliffs reveal themselves to be titanic monuments carved from the earth. Shadows become undefined forms ducking into unseen corners. Staircases spiral downward, leading to citadels of too-pristine architecture. The wind sings a dirge of the world to come.

And deeper still, the mountains open, plunging miles into the earth, swallowing the edifices of an unknown people. The air gusts from below in frigid death-rattles. Nausea and fear permeate every snowflake. Something watches. Nothing lives in the ice.

Turn back, or go around. All it left behind is hate. Do not ascend the Hecaton Range.