The dark stone of the cliffs rose up impossibly high around the rafts, so much so that one would have to crane their heads to even catch the merest glimpse of the top. Small waterfalls trickled down the stone walls, having carved channels into the stone after years and years of trickling down the walls.
Though the stone appeared as though it had been cleaved apart by a mighty slash, it was a rarity on the Isle, in that this was one natural formation that had truly been formed by nature's slow and steady hand, throughout the ages.
The walls of the cliffs had faint traces of ores within, criss-crossing veins of iron and silver, laid out like a mesh through the stone. But no one bothered to mine the stone, few wanted to brave the steep slick rock that would surely send them plunging to their deaths into the deep waters of the river below, and there would be no climbing out, since the walls of the cliffs rose so steeply upwards.
