The ancient beasts of old lore were in fact truth, and the roars of the two would echo across mountains and hills, above forests and valleys, rattling the trees and shaking the earth with their resound. One resided atop the highest peak to the east, his mountain home cold and unforgiving. There he roared like a bear, cried like a phoenix, and snarled like a tiger at his separated match. Above the highest peak of the west laid the other, a great powerful being who’s screeches would reach the he-beast, her cries cracking stone and shattering glass and ice for miles around. The she-beast flies to make her home with the he-beast once every century, the story says. And the bards sing, the poets write, for the separated beasts’ cries cease, and the land ceases her quivering, the seas calm, and the skies clear.