The desert at the foot of this mountain had once been green pastures for the roads that stretched across this continent to link its kingdoms. As the ancient monarchs raised their walls, the avaricious monsters produced from these wild fields grew to see them as a challenge to prove themselves against by ransack and conquest. They say Priest Seiryuu chased down the Man-horses of the Demon Khanate where they pillaged the land, who had been uncontested until he crossed their path with the fire-forged technique. There are no written accounts of these deeds wrought, only the miles of scorched earth, and bones beneath the dunes.
When the war had concluded and the treasure hoard confiscated, there was no rightful owner to return this to. Wiped out without so much as a remainder, who would remember? How many things were lost and forgotten? The grateful dead paid a kings ransom to the priests of Seiryuu's order, and to ensure this never happened again, they moved each artifact piecemeal up the sheer mountainside. An impossible task, but not for a Dragon.
Legends spoke of the wealth of the Dragon School, but that was a misnomer, for this was not merely an aesthetician's collection. The collective knowledge from time immemorial. The last bits of eroded civilizations, the sacred texts that prayed to deaf gods, lost they were all brought here, to Seiryuu's archive of the world!
In his youth Kuki had so desired to see it, and in response to his plea they'd challenged him on Neutral Ground - again with the conciet of worthiness! He'd fought their champion Shenlong to earn a chance...for his Master Qinglong to hear his request in person. He wouldn't deign to see him unless he had an offering, but Kuki could only offer them a truce. They hardly considered it a boon - much less recompense for their man - but were honour-bound to comply.
"...perhaps th'Balon fellow made good on th'amenesty. Hrm."
They sought to retain the last remnants of a history to preserve what would had been lost, but over time had become overly attached to the material. Instead of seeking to preserve the fading world as it sunk into the past in honour of those that had fallen, the collection itself became the end. Objects of artisan craft, all the remnants of various, disparate histories come to silence, and symbols of the ideas that moved the hearts of people were displayed next to prizes won by blood or tithe. It became a hoard to guard jealously, vainglorious trophies of the Dragon school's mighty deeds. The hymnals of a spiritual rite were seen as little different than to slay a warrior-prince in combat in order to keep his armour.
All it took to fall from the heights of grand ambitions was one slip.
Now in these plundered halls, Kuki stood a lone Turtle among the Dragon's hollow bones. The practitioners of the mortal arts so mighty once may have been compelled to gloat, yet he felt no victory here. It had not escaped his attention how empty these grounds were. The doors stood intact, but the ornate dais that once held the relics of the world were destroyed. Now it stood Ransacked for a man's aesthetic pleasure and primal satisfaction
All came to dust, the memories forgotten, and its worth traded on gilded appearances.
It was a matter Dragons and Turtles never reached an accord on, for they were about as compatible as fire and water. It was well understood that water could both nurture life and just as well smother it, that to float upon it one understood the potential to sink. Was it the same with those who carried a will of fire? That by immolation, break down elements to slag and vapours, reveal a single pure substance? While it'd be nigh impossible to drink an ocean dry, a flame must be constantly minded, fed and able to breathe. Water will flow, or simply be. Flames, somebody must offer it tinder to carry it forth. The Dragons never wanted that first fire to go out, and reaching back across the ages,they would sacrifice anything as kindling.
Yet the Sapphire Shell he now bore on his back had come from the same method as their holiest of relics, the Jade Dragon Claw. It was a remnant of this shared legacy, a piece of the Obushi-sennin offered as a material peace from Seiryuu to Yoroi. Whether Priest or Monk, there was an understanding that despite their acquired differences, that had at the heart of their paradigms a common goal, and a common root.
The problem was such a material peace brought with it a material price. Soon and after the Master's death, the Dragons would never let their Turtle Elder forget it.
But the ki and memory of the Master, created through this method of preservation was preserved with the greatest fidelity. If it was anythink like this Shell, it resonated with those who would listen to it. This Balon fellow had reacquired it. When Kuki had crossed hands with Young Ocha years ago, he knew that despite the ravaged archive around him, the spirit of the thing continued to live on. The coiling limbs, their dread talons, and the fire passed down through the ages passed through as any apt pupil. All it was that made the difference might have been a different way of seeing things; Doubtless what the Last Dragon saw within the fixed spirit was a history that went beyond its shaped greenery.
What he could offer the order of Seiryuu now was a spiritual peace. Stretching his hand out, a small, green globe of ki fell into the environs, illuminating the pathways that had been the studious grounds for generations. A simple token of his will, the knowledge that their legacy, in a way, would yet endure. With a throaty grumble, Kuki stroked his chin. Casting a look over the sea of fog below, he asked his turtle companion, "Now, how d'ya s'pose we get outta here?"
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
John Keats, "Ode to a Grecian Urn"