I found myself under the Obsidian Arch in the midst of the Plains of Bone. The flatness of the land was broken only by jagged, jutting rocks that resembled the ribs of some large, forgotten beast. The ground was bare except for the rare, brown scrub brush, rooted stubbornly in the sandy soil. The origins of the arch were unknown. The shiny black surface was covered with runes, worn from years of standing against the relentless wind of the empty plain. Some of them I could barely make out. The rest were unreadable, and for that I was eternally glad.