Batholith is an effervescent gaze into the stars, a deepseated stone protruding from a mountain. It is cold and grey here, but when the clouds part, the sky will slap you as summer heat might. It is the milky galaxy above you, though, not some meager sun. Someone, or perhaps just (just?) the wind, has carved dancing sigils into Batholith. Were they starstruck blind, forced to descend Batholith without sight, only by gripping onto the carvings? You best be careful, or you might share their fate. The stars are so bright and tricksy here.