This fic takes a lot of inspiration from some flavor text from the CK2 version of the AtE mod.
It stood as one of the great marvels of the Holy Columbian Confederacy, a marvel of nature married with a marvel of post-Deluge architecture. For what post-Deluge architecture was worth, anyway.
A great slab of rock rose from the earth and towered above the forest, the tremendous expose of naked rock rising up to support the imperial family's private retreat outside of Atlanta. Many an ambitious young prince had gazed out upon his eventual domain from that great height or traced out the old 'railroad' paths, the steel long since stolen away for some martial pursuit.
As silly as it may have sounded, it was almost possible to miss the mountain when you were in the thick of the forest. The foliage was thick, and if not for the many sheriffs and guards protecting the Emperor's own forest, he might have feared brigands. There were rougher portions of the Empire, especially in the rough country of Appalachia. Powell thanked the Lord he hadn't been sent to deliver a letter to the snake-princes of the hinterlands.
(Well, those messengers had great escorts sent with them, to show the Emperor would suffer no mistreatment of even his lowliest message-carrier.)
A bit further on the mercifully well-maintained road, and he got another look at the mountain proper. Coming in from Atlanta, he could only really see the gentle slope that led to the summer palace at the peak. He was hopeful, though: the sun had crept low behind him, so he hoped that he might stay the night and see the steep face. He had heard such rumors...
Another rider approached him, deftly navigating a stout little pony. His war hammer glinted on his waist, glinting brass overlay giving the impression of a phoenix's beak, but his armor, if he had any, could hide easily under a shirt of seersucker. Both the Atlanta phoenix and the fabric called seersucker were inherited from the Old World, but Powell had to wonder… what seer had been sucked?
Ahem. The rider was upon him now and was giving him a curious look, although his curiosity was swiftly satisfied when he saw the stamped metal badge on Powell's breast. "A message for the Emperor?"
"Yes, sir. From the Head of the Yellow-Jackets."
The rider snorted. "And I feared you brought news to end the Emperor's retreat."
"You doubt the venerable head of Gatek?"
"The Emperor would leave this retreat for nothing less than a war, and there is only so much that old coot can do."
"Ah, but what if we are to see more skirmishes with the seminary in Athens?"
"God help us. Perhaps they'll learn to fight."
They both laughed and set off for the mountain in higher spirits. A few gamekeepers and gardeners passed them by, all caught up in the complex business of keeping the Emperor and his retinue fed. Perhaps the Prince had gone hunting… if so, some of those workers were probably supplementing whatever meager amount of game he had claimed for himself.
"You're gaping like a fool," the rider warned.
"I've never seen the mountain," Powell defended himself.
"Fair enough. You're lucky to."
The shallow side could be surmounted by horse. In fact, divots had been cut so carts could make their way up the mountain without issue, two side by side so carts could go up and down at the same time without issue.
Some ways up the mountain, Powell realized his faux pas: "I forgot to ask for your name, Sir."
"Sherman." He answered.
Looking a little further ahead, he could see a trio of crosses standing upon the mountain's slope. "A calvary?" Powell asked.
"Aye," Sherman answered. "Alabama marble, or so I've heard."
"Not wood?"
"You think the Emperor would stoop to simple wood crosses?"
"Our Lord stooped to a wooden cross."
Sherman gave him a knowing look. "Other than that, the locals wouldn't install such a thing."
"Whatever for?" Powell asked, looking at the little lodges in a brand-new light.
"Oh, they're God-fearing Christians. They fear him so much that they refuse to risk a cross. There are stories. Old wives' tales. An army in white, a burning cross."
"The snake princes? The Americanists?"
"No. They say it was pre-Deluge."
"But- that doesn't make sense. I thought the whole area was Christian before the Deluge." That was the prevailing belief in the Holy Columbian Confederacy, at least: America was peopled by good Christian men, just like you or I, their marvels made possible by humility before God.
"That's what they say. Who knows. Again: old wives' tales," Sherman said with a shrug. "Maybe they were the sinners who provoked the Deluge."
"Maybe," Powell said. As they made their way further up the mountain, he could only marvel at the way the land stretched away. His duties had occasionally brought him inside castles or to the higher floors of buildings, but this was a step beyond. Sherman smiled.
Near the top of the mountain, they reached a low-lying stone wall with a gate, probably intended to stop any carts or riders before they could get to close to the imperial household. That security measure was complemented by the guards keeping a careful watch on the steeper sides of the mountain. It was a strange contrast against the buildings themselves, which seemed very different from the defensible castles of the great cities.
There was brick, certainly, but it was paired with handsomely painted white wood and glass windows. There were colonnades that vaguely reminded Powell of the woodblock prints of Americanist holy sites that you could buy in Atlanta. It did not seem like it could withstand a siege… but he supposed the mountain helped, in addition to being just a little east of the Empire's beating heart.
Sherman went up and passed the letter over to one of the guards. "But I must see it delivered-" Powell started.
"What do you think they would do but deliver it? They've marched with the Emperor for years now. Plus, it gives you time to see the carving." Sherman laughed as Powell flushed. "It's a site worth seeing, and you can't guarantee you'll come back. Let's make haste and hope the Emperor dallies with his letter, hm?"
Powell grinned, and they went back down the mountain. The descent gave him a view of Atlanta in the distance, and if he squinted he almost thought he could pick out a spire standing above the city… at least, before they descended further and it all sunk behind the trees.
They rode to the little village that sat before the mountain's steep face, racing against the setting of the sun. The forest made seeing the carving next to impossible, and for a few moments, Powell wondered if it was nearly as big as the rumors made it out to be…
Breaking out of the trees, they found themselves in a vast clearing, houses and huts opposite the mountain with a few stone circles for campfires in the middle. But of course, that was not the greatest feat of masonry he could see:
Three tremendous figures were carved into the side of the mountain, riding on carved horses. He couldn't even begin to guess at the scale of those tremendous riders, but he vaguely thought that the horses looked better than any current artists could make. He couldn't be quite sure about the accuracy of the people, though. It was impossible to make out any details above the necks – they had been, in the most literal sense, defaced.
"Lord…" Powell breathed. This was another one of those famed pieces of pre-Deluge architecture? He had seen the metal pillars in Atlanta, the aging edifices of formed stone, even the giant torch that stood beside the Eighty-five trench… the wonders never ceased. Looking over to Sherman, Powell could see that his expression wasn't happy. "Is something the matter?"
"It's impressive, sure… but there's a wrongness about the place."
"Is it just the lack of faces?" Powell asked. "Surely, the Emperor could commission-"
"It's not that. You know, there's never been a year when someone hasn't fallen off the mountain's edge. Maybe it's all the liquor. Maybe it's something worse."
"What, are you suggesting a curse? I didn't take you for a believer in old wives' tales."
"Those are at least half gossip, I figure… but I know that sin is real. And whatever those men did?" He gestured to the great figures, "It must have been a mighty sin indeed."
"That's a lot of theology to say ghosts."
"We inherited the sin of our father Adam. Who's to say we don't carry their sin as well? We certainly don't live in Eden."
"If only we knew what caused the Deluge."
"Sin."
"More specifically, I mean."
"Maybe it's just my profession… but I suspect it was violence. Murder."
"Were they the killers? The killed?" Powell asked.
Sherman stared at the great carvings, and neither he nor they provided any answer. While the stone held strong, the intent of their makers was long forgotten. Who led that group of riders, and for what goal did they ride? Perhaps that was a secret shared between God and the ghosts.