The Obsidian Hills

They had not seen any life other than themselves in two weeks. The obsidian hills were warm, a welcome break from the deathly chill which they had traversed to reach them. The black glass formed spires and spines all around them, groaning beneath their feet from time to time. Molten rock in a deep crevasse chuffed steam and smoke; the sky responded, dusting down ash and ice. They broke for rough lunch, jerky and trail bread, avoiding the sharp stones which littered potential seats. They drew close now, close to the final resting place of the founding First among Equals.