Endlessly trudging upwards, you begin to question the sanity of the pilgrims you met and walked with for a time, who showed you the path crossing this "hill", and did not call it a mountain.
Then the forest opens into a clearing; you look up and are stunned by the view of the surrounding peaks and valleys. The memory of the high plain, its brownness and deadness, seems to fade almost in an instant.
Tied for 2nd place (out of 36) in the 11th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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