It isn't the way it used to be. The mountain is the same, at least it seems so at first, but then it is obvious. It's gotten so ... shabby. All tarnished metal, broken crockery, crumbling plaster. Even the clouds seem less majestic, the Brocken specter seems less spectral, the clear skies less brilliant and the dark ones less terrible. Less terrible, also, the gods who once dominated this peak, drained of ichor and exhausted by the burden of immortality, less deities than curiosities. No powers that the hundred handed beasts below can't duplicate if not improve upon. Apathetic, they watch, they wonder, they fade away. Conquered by the clay they molded.
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