The Venatori dug this lyrium mine, and the Inquisition burned it. Smashed the cages, broke the scaffolds; freed, and killed, and cleansed whatever they were able. They left nothing worth returning for.

Not to Corypheus.

But above the scorched and blasted remains, wave a team of beaming fossil-hunters. A mix of academics and mercenary guides, they've been chipping at the enormous, frozen corpse of a mammoth for weeks. It's still buried. The excavation goes slowly, but faster than expected — the ground is strangely warm, melting the beast out for them.

That's a bad sign.

When it happens, it happens fast. Trunk wiggles under pick. A horrible crack, a rumble that shakes the earth itself, and the entire cliffside shears off into a crash of snow and stone. Those dodging the avalanche still need to contend with the possessed mammoth.

It bellows, enormous tusks threaded with crystalline growth, tall as twice the greatest war elephant. And mad. The spirit of this place — of all its bloody Rage — infests the shaggy corpse. A trunk thick as trees throws rocks for rag dolls. It stomps, it kicks, it tramples. Its hide studs with layers of spiky rime. Bringing it down won't be easy.

Later investigation reveals a seed of red lyrium still cradled in the mountainside, tendrils spreading outward from the chest of a small, fully-crystallized corpse. A local. Someone must have tried to escape the Inquisition's first assault.

Lyme alternates between the thrill of adventure, and outright hysteria for the site's destruction. He, and the others, will need to be watched closely to keep from toting home tainted flesh and rock.