While the dragon ascended to the top of the monument, I took in my surroundings. The ocean of writhing tentacles below represented the vast, ominous landscape. My mind churned at the thought of falling thousands of feet into the mass. I would be imprisoned; the continent’s last savior would be gone. The horizon was a dark cactus-green poisoned with inky tints of blue and black. His thousands of eyes floated like clouds, watching my progress. Old Herma would have his way, and I would fight his champion. We descended onto the ebony tower where the battle would ensue. There the Champion stood with Herma’s gifts: harrowing green robes, a sword engulfed in tentacles, and a mask, as hideous as the old god’s face that gifted it to him. Herma, the god of knowledge, would meet me here in his realm. Amidst the books and eons of knowledge, I would fight his pawn.