(A Lore Interlude)
Before Bloodmoon Mountain earned its name…
before the first Ursaluna carved dens into its shale spine…
before Ashfall Crossing even existed…
…there was the Titan of the Hollow Shell.
Back then, the locals didn't call it Goodra.
Not the way modern scholars do.
To the mountain clans it was:
"Kaulana o ke Pōhaku Wai"
— The Honored Stone of Water.
They claimed its shell was not grown but forged, layers of mineral-rich mud and iron sediment compacted through centuries of solitude. Its body—soft, luminous, gentle—was protected by a fortress of its own making.
The First Sightings
Mountain elders wrote that the Titan dwelled in the high-mist basins near the peak.
Sometimes a traveler would see:
A shimmer of lilac behind steam
A low hum like vibrating stone
Footprints that filled overnight with crystalized dew
No one feared it then.
The Titan Goodra was known as a quiet guardian.
It warded off violent storms.
It calmed rampaging Ursaring with a single resonant call.
It shaped the mountain's river paths, guiding water around villages below.
Children left bowls of polished stones at the cliffsides for it.
Traders swore the mountain's ore was richer because of it.
Life, for many seasons, was peaceful.
The Age of Thunder Soil
The first trouble began 400 years ago.
A series of violent geological shifts cracked the upper mountain region, releasing pockets of iron-laden fumes that ignited under sunlight.
The sky turned copper.
The soil sparked with static charge.
During these weeks, the Titan Goodra was seen stumbling down the mountain for the first and only time—its shell glowing painfully, its movements erratic.
Witnesses described:
Trails of molten slime etched into stone
A call so loud it rattled rafters
Ursaring fleeing in droves, cubs abandoned in terror
The mountain clans tried to approach.
The Titan recoiled.
Something in the fumes had warped it—its instincts twisted, its senses overwhelmed. It lashed out not in malice but in agony.
Three generations of mountain rangers died trying to calm it.
Finally, realizing they could not heal what nature had harmed, the clans led it back toward the high-mist basin, guiding it with echoing chimes that mimicked its old song.
The Titan disappeared into the steam.
For centuries afterward, the clans treated the upper region as sacred.
Forbidden to enter.
Dangerous to disturb.
A sleeping guardian is still a guardian, they believed.
Even when broken.
The Last Record
Two hundred years ago, a wandering scholar from Hisui documented the final known sighting:
> "A great shell, cracked but luminous.
A body weary, but enduring.
Its eyes did not see me, yet it turned its head as if listening.
The creature's hum trembled the mist—
but not with anger.
With longing."
After that, no one saw the Titan again.
Some believed it died.
Others believed it slumbered.
A few whispered it simply became the mountain.
And so the legend faded.
The Bloodmoon line rose in dominance, claiming territory once shaped by a gentler force.
Ursaluna dug pathways through old Goodra-formed channels.
Teddiursa played in mud that once shimmered with draconic resonance.
The world moved on.
But the oldest families of Ashfall Crossing still say:
"If the mountain groans, the Elder stirs."
"If the bears flee, the Elder wakes."
"If the mist glows purple… pray it isn't crying."
Because even a guardian can break.
And even a broken one can rise again.
Present Moment
Boots crunch over dew-drenched dirt.
Cyrus squints at the weather-beaten wooden sign, barely legible under centuries of scratches.
"…'The Honored Stone of Water,'" he reads slowly. "Kina… this is talking about a Hisuian Goodra."
Kina steps beside him, brushing a thumb over the carved text, her breath fogging in the humid air.
Sliggoo peeks out from the crook of her arm, staring up at the placard—quiet, almost reverent.
Kina murmurs, "A Titan Goodra… here? On this mountain?"
Cyrus nods, pulse tightening.
"Yeah. And if even half of this is true…"
He looks up the trail toward the mist-choked ridge.
"…we're not climbing toward the Bloodmoon Ursaluna."
Kina's jaw tightens, eyes narrowing with instinctive unease.
"We're climbing toward something that scared them."
A low, distant hum rolls through the fog.
Not aggressive.
Not a roar.
A tremor.
A warning.
And the mountain suddenly feels very, very awake.