The hill is steep, sloping upward at a hazardous angle. When you reach the top you are gasping for air in the heat of this hell, but it is not just the heat but the spectacle before you – a sight that defies belief even in this place.
Where before you had been nothing but limitless expanses of arid desert, there is now nothing but horror.
Fire and smoke, both sourceless and spread out like a blaze encompassing the world, has also appeared, seemingly from nowhere. There, just beyond the level expanse of the desert in the midst of it, you see thousands upon thousands of wooden crosses set into the steadily rising terrain, row upon row each one glowing wickedly in the flickering light. Mutilated human beings hang crucified from those tall wooden instruments, by their nailed wrists, blood oozing from the wounds. The stout wooden crosses stand at least 15 feet tall, and the nailed feet of the victims hang better than 8 feet above the ground.
It is a mass crucifixion, awesome in all its implications, to match any massacre in human history. Here too, the black vultures swarm and feed, adding a new dimension to the horror of this ancient form of execution.
Each is a victim of Caspian’s disdain; a special group, united by a common thread, the followers of a religion long dead.
Inspired by the manner in which the mythical founder of that faith was famously (and lawfully) executed, He has rewarded their devotion by allowing them to suffer in that same manner as their forgotten deity. Caspian has even improved upon it as only he could.
This means of inducing eternal pain is not as often utilized as the altar. There are less than 8,000 crosses on the hills surrounding this valley. The women are dressed in a ragged gray skirt and a tattered top. The men wear small gray loin clothes that scarcely cover their crotches. Their scant clothing offer virtually no protection from the elements, and the torn and shredded condition of their flesh tells the PCs that those elements extend far beyond the harsh sun and torrid breeze. The waves of fire and smoke is unrelenting, the heat unbearable from moment to moment. And it is obvious that the birds circling overhead frequently take the opportunity to feed upon their tortured bodies as well. Around their necks hangs a leather cord; and dangling from that cord is a golden crucifix; the sign of that ancient faith. Drool oozes from the corner of their mouths and their breathing is exceptionally labored, as their arms are stretched to the limit by their own weight. Occasionally they will push upward on their nailed feet in an attempt to take some of the strain off their arms and chest. In this way they are able to breathe once more, but only at the cost of a different sort of pain. Their wide eyes follow the approach of the PCs.
Less than 1% of them still cling to their faith after all this time, shouting prayers and singing hymns. The others have fully renounced their ancient false faith and instead call out shouts of “Praise Caspian!” and “Caspian is Lord!” Their torment does not hinder their exhortation because; along with their screams they keep giving Caspian praise as if that will save them.