Deepest vein of the Scree Trench offered only a suffocating blackness. Ancient earth pressed in, cold and unyielding. Even the distant glint of a lone Waster's lamp struggled to pierce the absolute dark. Marks, deep gouges in the petrified rock, scarred the chasm's end. Not the patient work of wind and sand, but the clumsy violence of metal. Intruders had been here. Their crude tools had sought something beneath the Wastes' skin, something forbidden. Four defilers had met their end in this place. A cold satisfaction resonated in Kaelen's silent appraisal, yet a deeper purpose was sought. Nothing in the Wastes died without cause. An effect always bound to an origin. A prickle, an unnatural hum, vibrated through Kaelen's perception. Not the familiar thrum of the Wastes' life, a quiet song of erosion and enduring dust. This was a shriek, jarring and raw. Rift-Spawned Power. Thick, cloying, like poison gas in a confined space. It pressed against the very fabric of existence, a foreign pressure. Why did this corrupting essence pool here, in this specific, jagged cut of earth? Kaelen recalled legends of Outsiders, of those consumed by raw, untamed power, their forms unraveling to dust. Defilers, unawakened, would wither and rot. Their demise here was inevitable, a certainty in the face of such raw, untempered energy. Others, even those with a slight connection to the Wastes' power, might miss it, their senses dulled by the daily struggle or the cheap intoxication of forgotten ruins. Only this specific cut in the rock pulsed with such overwhelming intensity. Kaelen extended a thought. Subtly, the air-fine grit, the true blood of Aeolus, shifted. It sought purchase in the microscopic fissures of the trench wall, a silent, relentless invasion. Grains, sharp as blades, began to abrade, to stress the ancient stone. A groan, low and deep, echoed from the depths of the earth itself. Dust motes, agitated by the unseen force, danced in the lamplight. Kaelen pressed. The sand, a silent, relentless grinder, ate at the rock. Stone cracked, splintered. A vast section of the wall shuddered, protesting the unseen assault. Then, a roar. The rock face imploded inward with a violent burst of sound and shattered stone. Behind the crumbling facade, a space opened. Not empty air, but a yawning tear in reality itself. Darkness, absolute, not just the absence of light, but a consumption of it, stretched like a beast's gullet. A force, raw and primal, clawed at Kaelen, a violent suction that ripped at the soul. Before Kaelen could brace, they were torn, violently, from the familiar earth, from the very consciousness of the Wastes. --- Void swallowed Kaelen whole. Pressure, unimaginable, crushed bone and muscle. Every atom screamed, every fiber of Kaelen's being, tied to the Wastes, protested this forced severance. Mind blanked, consumed by the agonizing rupture, a profound, chilling emptiness where the vastness of the Wastes once resided. A single, searing thought, a desperate, primal command: *Return.* Mercifully, the ordeal was brief. Kaelen was spat out, tumbling onto unfamiliar, scorching ground. A gasping cough, the first sound Kaelen had made in years, tore from their throat, raw and burning. This was not the Wastes. Before Kaelen's eyes, a colossal, obsidian mountain clawed at the sky, its jagged crown ripping into the bruised darkness. Dark smoke, thick and oily, belched from its summit, a constant, sickening exhalation. Viscous rivers of molten rock scarred the landscape, flowing like blood from a wounded beast. The sky, bruised black by volcanic ash, suffocated the light, rendering the distant sun a mere memory. Vegetation, if it ever existed here, was a forgotten dream, turned to ash eons ago. Air, heavy with sulfur, burned the nostrils, tasted of decay and fire. Heat, an omnipresent torment, radiated from the cracked earth, making the very ground shimmer. The Scouring's fires, though legendary, were a distant whisper compared to this inferno. Sweat, alien and profuse, stung Kaelen's eyes. Clothing, hardened leather from the Wastes, clung to their skin, drenched. A foreign sensation, this weakness. Kaelen's gaze snapped back. Where the void had expelled them, a tear in reality began to mend. Edges folded inward, stitched themselves shut with impossible speed. A silent command, a desperate thought: *Sands, grasp, hold it open.* Too late. The passage vanished, leaving only solid, black rock, scarred and unyielding. No trace. No way back. The severance was complete. --- Kaelen felt the abrupt, violent silence of separation. The vast, living consciousness of the Wastes, a part of their own being, was gone, replaced by a profound, chilling isolation. An echo of a memory, a small shard of petrified desert glass, smooth and cool, retrieved from a hidden pouch at Kaelen's belt. Its ancient chill against Kaelen's palm offered a sliver of connection, a reminder of what they were, what they belonged to. Focus returned, sharp and cold. First, confirm the domain. Kaelen knelt. A hand swept across the dark, gritty earth. Black granules clung to their fingers. Ash. Not sand. A silent will, a primal command, reached out. Slowly, reluctantly, the black dust stirred. Grains trembled, then lifted, hesitant. They swirled, coalesced, obeying Kaelen's thought, though with a sluggishness unfamiliar to the boundless energies of the Wastes. Not the boundless power of the Wastes' true sand, but enough. A small, chilling reassurance. If the ash had refused, Kaelen would have become a ghost in this burning prison, stripped of their very essence. Kaelen checked a worn leather satchel, a relic from before the silence, before the Wastes remade them. Dried desert fruits, dense nutrient paste, a few cured strips of desert-lizard jerky. All intact. Enough for several cycles of this alien 'day'. Survival, for now, was secured. Next, the prison walls. Kaelen scanned the horizon, then the towering black mountain. Its jagged peak, spewing death into the bruised sky, dominated the alien landscape. This heart of fire, the origin of this place's torment, would hold the key. A path, cold and certain, formed in Kaelen's mind. --- Kaelen started toward the mountain. Air, thick with acrid ash, tore at Kaelen's lungs. Each breath was a burning rasp, a harsh protest from a body meant for clean, dry air. A scrap of heavy cloth, pulled from the satchel, was worn around mouth and nose, filtering some of the choking grit, though the burning sensation persisted. Step after punishing step. The ground pulsed with heat, a constant immolation that seeped through hardened boot-soles. More Kaelen witnessed, the deeper the cold fury settled. Dungeons, old legends called such realms, spaces beyond comprehension. Yet this was a desecration of all natural order, a violent scar upon existence. The volcano, colossal and real, pulsed with malicious life, its breath hot and poisonous. Lava flowed, flames licked. All undeniably real. Sweat poured, a testament to the foreign environment's assault, running rivers down Kaelen's dust-streaked face. An ordinary being, even one touched by the Wastes' power, would have succumbed quickly. Kaelen was honed by the Wastes themselves, a living extension of its unforgiving will. Such resilience, however, did not negate the irritation, the constant, gnawing discomfort. A way out exists. It must. A river of molten fire, impossibly wide, slashed across the path. Heat, a solid wall of it, made Kaelen's skin prickle even at a distance, tasting of cooked flesh. Dozens of meters across, a churning, liquid inferno, a river of slow, viscous death. Too far for a direct leap, even for Kaelen's hardened body. Kaelen moved, seeking a weakness, a narrower point in the fiery current. Higher up, the river constricted, perhaps ten meters wide. A desperate chance. --- Kaelen halted, gathering. A breath, deep and slow, drawing on the memory of the Wastes' boundless strength, though it felt distant, muted. Then, a burst of movement. Kaelen ran, a blur against the molten glow, the ground burning underfoot. At the precipice, a leap. Air whipped past. Kaelen soared, a dark silhouette against the fiery backdrop, muscles straining. Mid-arc, a ripple in the molten river. Terror, cold and primal, sliced through Kaelen. Below, something stirred. A maw, vast and jagged, erupted from the lava. Scales, rough and fire-hardened, gleamed, reflecting the inferno. Short, stubby legs, thick as ancient tree trunks, propelled a serpentine body from the molten flow. A Magma Leviathan, hunting. Teeth, each like a broken stone pillar, glinted with malicious intent. Kaelen, suspended, twisted. No leverage. No true sand in immediate reach. A plume of ash, summoned desperately from the distant ground, briefly shielded Kaelen, a futile veil. The monster's jaws snapped shut on empty air, but the shockwave from its violent lunge threw Kaelen off balance. Falling. Toward the liquid fire. The Leviathan widened its maw, ready to consume. A flash of black grit, the ash Kaelen had just manipulated, catching the light. *Form.* Below, a platform materialized, crude and unstable, of coalesced ash. Kaelen hit it, pushed off, a desperate lunge. Impact. The opposite bank. Not a landing, but a violent collapse onto unyielding, superheated ground. A low growl tore from Kaelen's chest, a primal sound of pain and raw effort. Every joint screamed. No time. The Leviathan heaved itself from the lava, its bulk immense, its intent singular. Massive, short legs, thicker than any logs from forgotten forests, propelled its mass with horrifying speed. Kaelen retreated, scrambling back. A silent command. Ash, concentrated into a cutting stream, shot from Kaelen's palm. The Sand Blaster, honed by the Wastes, a force capable of stripping flesh from bone, flayed at the creature. It met the Leviathan's searing heat. Melted. Dissipated. Vaporized before contact, a futile wisp against elemental fire. Kaelen's eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to shock. This was new. This was a threat beyond the Wastes' understanding. The monster lunged, jaws agape, closing the distance with unnatural swiftness. No reaction. Only the burning, cavernous throat of the beast, rushing closer. --- "Sand, eh? A curious trick in this hell." Voice, rough as grinding stone, yet piercing the roar of the lava and the monster's snarl. Kaelen's head snapped up. Someone fell from the ash-choked sky. Not descending gracefully, but plummeting, a spear of dark energy. A figure, broad and imposing, wreathed in ash and heat haze. In their hand, a blade, massive and black, seemed to absorb all light. The figure, a blur of violent motion, met the charging Magma Leviathan head-on. A sound like the Wastes themselves tearing apart erupted. An explosion of pure force, a concussive blast that ripped through the air. Lava, churned violently, splashed like hot rain, scalding the air. Kaelen shielded their eyes, muscles tensing. The Leviathan, a creature of primal fire, was simply... crushed. A broken mass of scales and molten flesh beneath the colossal figure. An elder, immense and scarred, stood atop the subdued beast, radiating an aura of brutal power. Eyes, burning with an ancient, terrifying light, fixed on Kaelen, a gaze that stripped away pretense. Voice, deeper now, a resonant rumble that vibrated through Kaelen's bones, echoing the very core of this brutal new world. More imposing than the creature itself.

Chasm's Gullet