It's high time, Cymbaline
They arrived at the root of the mountains that bordered the Valley to the west, stopping at the start of a narrow, coiling path that went up to somewhere,
—Go on your way without straying and you will arrive —said Canaga, giving Dashambe the flask—. Give me your sack, you will not need it. I will be waiting for you at the Den.
Dashambe walked the steep path that looked carved on the rock. On a bend, a ledge opened toward the sea and further, beyond the haze, lied a city with a port from which boats sailed. Further beyond there lied vast, far away lands. Dashambe took a rest, looking engrossedly at the lands beyond.
He retook his way and, after some time, he arrived at the path's end. In a tiny valley stood an obelisk of dark, slate-colored stone, decorated with engraved glyphs. Its dark color contrasted with the reddish terrain, making it look a bit out of place.
Dashambe uncorked the potion and, trembling with anticipation, he drank the disgusting swill.
Nothing happened. Whatever was supposed to happen, nothing happened. Bored, Dashambe gazed at the monolith. For a sun-baked stone, it was surprisingly cool. It was also smooth, almost silky to the touch.
What, now?”, he thought. He realized he had stopped trembling and, suddenly, the world changed.