He was frantically pointing towards the glowing mountain. “We need to cast The Spell!”, Bothar screamed!
I held up the scroll we all had risked our lives to get. “Nobody can cast this spell without a prepared mystic space and ritual equipment. It would be suicide,” I said. “Not even him,” I jerked my thumb towards the Magi who smiled slyly.
Silently, he unstrapped that bolt of cloth he had been carrying since I had known him. He unfurled it, tamped it down, with small spikes, pulled a small apothecary chest out, placed and lit four candles on the cloth, drew some lines with some handy chalk, unpacked his remaining tools, then he held his hand out expectantly for the scroll. It took a fraction of a candle mark.
“Solomontic Rug,” he said quietly. “The key to mastery is knowing and having the right tools, be they physical, mental, or magical, and having them ready when you need them.”
A flower possibly in the plains or maybe all over that is always tilted towards a certain place. Sunflowers. Could possibly follow the sun or could be forever facing a certain position because of something that happened, either the air forcing it that way and it staying, the fire was so strong that the flowers faced away from it. It could be that in one spot a large fire was made or a fire war where many fire elementals were destroyed by the True Gods and radiating out from that point all of this flower is facing away from it so no matter where you are you always know where this place is by seeing which way the flower is facing away from.