A raw, guttural chant scraped against Elias’s eardrums, pulling him back from the edge of the Maw’s influence. His new body thrummed with suppressed power, a predator coiled tight beneath scholar’s skin. He’d spent countless hours in his previous life, meticulously theorycrafting optimal character builds, analyzing data streams, dissecting combat logs. ‘Barbarian.’ The word still echoed, a phantom prompt from a life extinguished. He remembered the allure. A two-handed greatsword, a whirling dervish of destruction amidst enemy ranks. Simple. Visceral. But it died too easily. Berserking was a death sentence, each battle a tightrope walk over a chasm. He’d researched. He’d toiled. How to make a 'savage brute' survive? No matter the effort, the brute always succumbed to its own ferocity. The instability maddened him. Then, a shift in perspective. A question: *Could this be a tank?* They had the highest vitality, colossal strength. Adamantium, even. Not the dwarf's cheating resilience, but a baseline for survival. Elias hadn't *wanted* to play a tank. His soul craved decisive offense, elegant destruction. But efficiency. The cold, unyielding logic of survival had always triumphed. He’d tossed aside preferred playstyles like discarded tools, all for the win. Now, the choice was real. No longer a game. His very existence, tethered to the Howling Maw, hung in the balance. --- Dust motes danced in the gloom of the Elder’s longhouse. Rawhide stretched across the walls, crude carvings of beasts and spirits leering from the smoky dark. Young Cinderlanders, barely past childhood, stepped forward one by one. Each reached into a pile of crude weaponry – obsidian knives, bone-tipped spears, jagged clubs. His turn. A tremor ran through Elias’s arm, not fear, but the Maw’s subtle impatience. He approached the pile. Most snatched at the familiar gleam of a newly sharpened blade or the heft of a heavy axe. A spear, meant to be thrown, then retrieved. A club, simple and brutal. They craved the feel of kill. He bypassed them all. His fingers closed instead around a coil of thick, braided hide and iron hooks. A grappling line, strong enough to haul a beast, or perhaps a person, from a ravine. The Elder, a craggy figure named Roric, grunted, a flicker of surprise in his ancient eyes. No. Elias would not draw a blade yet. He hadn't mastered the Maw’s strength. A sword would be an extension of its uncontrolled fury, a guarantee of self-destruction. This rope, this tool, offered distance, control. It offered utility beyond mere slaughter. Three reasons solidified his decision. First, the trading posts in Stonefall might pay a decent sum for such a robust tool. Second, his own primal tremors warned him against wielding a sharp edge until his self-control was absolute. Third, this path, this *barbaegis* of the mind, was his ultimate pursuit: survival through cunning, not just raw power. He returned to his spot among the newly-fledged, clutching the coiled rope. He felt their stares, a mix of confusion and disdain. A scholar trapped in a beast’s frame, choosing a length of rope over a blade. *What, never seen a Cinderlander choose sense over savagery?* He met their gazes, unflinching. There was no need for pretense. His new form was a mask of brute strength, but his mind, that was still his own. For now. "Next!" Elder Roric’s roar shook the very air. No regrets. Elias clung to that thought like a lifeline. --- His body vibrated. A sudden, intense pressure behind his eyes, a phantom weight on his chest. It wasn't a physical sensation, but a *knowing*. A final shift. The Maw’s influence, previously a distant hum, now resonated deep within his bones. *Tutorial complete.* The message was clear, a primal echo in his skull: *You are here. Now survive.* Elias suppressed a bitter, savage laugh. The entity that had pulled him into this twisted reality was a vicious bastard. *If you truly wanted my survival, you’d have granted me a gentler landing. My head nearly caved in when I first arrived, you son of a bitch.* His jaw clenched. Rage, hot and primal, flared. It was the Maw, stirring. He forced his mind to rein it in. Excitement, anger, any strong emotion, could crack his control. Mistakes followed. He wasn't one to dwell on the past anyway. What was done, was done. Nothing would change it. The real question: *How to get through this crisis?* *How to survive.* --- The 'coming-of-age' ritual ended. Now, a procession. Elder Roric led, his silhouette grim against the bruised twilight sky of the Cinderlands. Behind him, the young initiates, Elias among them. They moved through a gaunt forest of petrified trees, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching for a perpetually ash-choked sky. Most of the youths were boisterous, their crude laughter echoing through the silence, treating this journey like a grand outing. Elias couldn't. His intellect, now a burden, whispered of their true destination. "Halt!" Elder Roric’s hand shot up. Beyond the jagged, petrified trees, a massive wall loomed. Not the rough-hewn stone of the Cinderlander settlements, but cyclopean blocks, dark and ancient, scarred by some forgotten cataclysm. This was Stonefall. The gates, ponderous and iron-clad, groaned open with a slow, grinding shriek. Gears, rusted beyond recognition, strained. It was slow enough to make a patient man yawn, but the young Cinderlanders gasped, eyes wide with awe. Through the widening maw of the gate, Stonefall revealed itself. Crisscrossing roads, broken but still paved. Structures of dark stone, reaching higher than any Cinderlander had ever built. And in the distance, a colossal spire, piercing the eternal twilight. It was the place depicted in the scant, ruined scrolls Elias had found, a city of legend and death. *Shit. I’m actually here.* --- "Warriors!" Elder Roric bellowed, turning to face them. His voice was a thunderclap. Elias braced for a rousing speech, a final word of caution. "Go! Your destiny awaits!" That was it. No flowery words. Cinderlanders didn't need them. They understood the language of hunger and steel. "Whoooa!" The youths surged forward, a primal wave of energy. Elias found himself swept along, a raw, almost irresistible urge to run with them. He screamed, a rough, untamed sound he barely recognized as his own. The Maw, it seemed, approved. Dimly lit buildings, their windows like dead eyes, offered no refuge. Who cared for the silent sleepers within? *I am a Cinderlander now!* *CLANG!* The colossal gates slammed shut behind them, a reverberating echo of finality. None of the youths seemed to notice. Their excitement, their primitive exuberance, carried them onward. They ran, a wild torrent through the unfamiliar streets, until their sheer exhaustion finally forced them to slow. Then, Elias could think again. Conflicting emotions churned within him. A cold tendril of fear, yes. But also, a perverse, almost intellectual anticipation. He was *here*. In the very world he’d studied, strategized, *lived* in his previous life. How bizarre. He'd just promised himself to focus solely on survival. Yet these alien feelings bloomed so quickly. *I’m not entirely normal either, it seems.* But still, nothing compared to these brainless bastards. --- "Stop!" Theron, a brawny youth who'd appointed himself their first guide, skidded to a halt. He spun around, chest puffed, though his eyes betrayed a hint of panic. "I... I must have lost my way!" The others shouted, their initial awe curdling into indignation. "Roric’s third son, Theron, has led us astray!" "He has no qualification to lead!" "You must take responsibility!" *You lot, so eager to follow, now you have the gall to complain?* Elias grimaced. This was the true face of their society. Dirty. Unpredictable. And utterly inefficient. "Stop. I understand. I admit I am unworthy." Theron bowed his head, shame coloring his face, and retreated to the group. A female Cinderlander stepped forward next. Raina, daughter of the huntress-shaman, Penelin. "Wise Raina, she will guide us!" She took the lead, a proud grin on her face. It lasted less than a half-hour. "...I must have lost my way." She used the exact same words. Elias fought a surge of frustration. *Are these simpletons completely witless? Do they not realize that blind, unthinking leadership will only doom them?* He quietly slipped back, approaching Raina. She stood apart from the others, a giantess almost two meters tall, her shoulders slumped. "Elias, son of Thorne? Have you come to blame me too?" Her voice was rough, defeated. No. Not blame. They were all equally culpable. He shook his head slowly. "Then why? I don't need consolation." "I’ve come to show you how to find your way." She looked at him, skepticism warring with a flicker of hope. "Truly? How?" He pointed. "Observe them." "Observe...?" Elias explained, patiently, logically. Stonefall at midnight. Most windows dark. Yet, many figures moved through the streets. Not in crude hides, but in patched leather, reinforced plating, carrying battered weapons. Where would such folk, at such an hour, be headed? "Surely..." Raina’s eyes widened. "Now that I see it... Yes! I will try!" She returned to the group, shouting, "I have found the way!" The Cinderlanders, abandoning their fruitless debate over the third leader, roared their approval. "It’s Raina, after all!" "The wise huntress!" They moved again, following the armed figures. Elias watched as more and more such individuals appeared. In the distance, a pulsating glow, a chaotic spread of lights. They wouldn't lose their way now. --- "It's the Gullet! I see the Maw's Gullet!" "The Fracture Depths!" The Cinderlanders cried out, consumed by a feverish excitement. Elias, however, found his thoughts returning to the critical question: was entering the Fracture Depths the right move? The savages wouldn't notice if he simply slipped away. He could avoid the monsters, the bloodshed, the horrifying confrontation with the Maw's ravenous inhabitants. But he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that running was no solution. The Cinderlands had its own brutal 'tax system.' Beyond a certain age, every denizen of Stonefall, every scavenger and survivor, was expected to contribute. Failure to do so meant expulsion, starvation, or worse – becoming a meal for the very things you tried to escape. Survival here was earned, not given. "Raina! Faster!" "Wooooo!" He *had* to earn his keep. Entering the Fracture Depths wasn't the only method, technically. One could scavenge, or mend fences for the few who held sway in Stonefall. But not him. Not a Cinderlander, raw and infused with the Howling Maw. Not Elias. He was given his weapon, his brute strength, for one reason: *"A Cinderlander? Sorry, we just had a berserker destroy half the marketplace."* *"You're still here? Get out! You'll break something!"* The primal aura, the sheer physical presence of the Maw’s vessel, made him unfit for 'normal' work. His body was a tool for combat, a blunt instrument of destruction. He would scare away customers, shatter fragile goods, or simply be unable to perform delicate tasks without the Maw's power flaring. He needed to fight. It was the only way. Even if his intellect rebelled, his new body, his very essence, demanded it. "Ten minutes until the Gate seals! Come on!" The Fracture Depths didn't open on a whim. Like a hungry beast, it opened at certain times, drawing in fresh meat. If he couldn't enter now, he’d be stranded in Stonefall for a full cycle. What then? What if he *couldn't* find a job? What if his nature as a Cinderlander, as a vessel of the Maw, meant no one would hire him? His future looked bleak. The few scraps of dried meat Elder Roric had provided would last him a week at best. After that, he’d be reduced to scrounging, to picking through ash and refuse. He might starve, his intellect dulled by hunger, the Maw’s primal instincts overwhelming his dwindling reason. One thing was terrifyingly clear: if he waited, his body, his mind, would be irrevocably altered. Weakness would invite oblivion. "I'll be first!" "No! *I* come first!" Hunger, cold, unsanitary conditions. He knew, better than anyone, the devastating toll they took. So, if he was going in anyway, it had to be now. While his mind was sharp, while his body was strong, while the Maw’s power was a potent, terrifying new tool, not a parasitic master. He ran. Not with the blind fervor of the Cinderlanders, but with the grim, calculated stride of a scholar walking into the abyss.

Echoes of Ash and Steel