Shrieking winds, crashing waves and roaring thunder combated with each other for dominance in the ears of the climber. Having tethered his boat to the massive craggy pinnacle, he began the arduous climb to the top.
The winds whipped his tattered cloak. The climb took hours, not just because of the climber's deformities but time and space seemed to warp strangely on this discarded, forgotten pseudo-plane. After years of research and tracking, he had finally found the object he had been searching for.
Reaching the top, he heaved himself over the ledge. Clambering to his feet, he stretched to his full height. Although stooped and with a hunch, he rose to over six and a half feet. With his good right hand he attempted to both keep his hood up and keep it closed. His left arm was withered and held tightly to his side. The creature's left leg was twisted and could not extend fully. From his back sprouted two wings, although the left one was stunted, the membrane torn.
Making his way across the pocked, cracked and creviced summit, he limped towards the only remarkable object that occupied the surface. A four foot high slab of black granite, the top edge bisected by an axe of strange make. The haft, made of a demon's thighbone, was split at the knee joint by a wedge of steel, the split was closed by golden wire. The creature collapsed to his knees in front of the tablet. He wiped his clawed hand across the flat surface, revealing writing carved there in Draconic.
"A good death is it's own reward"
A chuckling wheeze escaped the hood. "Ah, Durg, sire, ever the poet...". Using the Draconic pronunciation of his father's name, with a soft "g", he pushed himself to his feet. Grasping the axe in his good hand, and with a tremendous wrench, the half dragon/half demon stepped back. A piercing ring, barely audible yet somehow able to drown out all other sounds, Kurst raised the axe high. He then turned and with a swipe in the middle of the air, slicing open a rift and stepped through, leaving the grave and failing plane forever.