The Cinderscar: Ruin, Resilience, and Remnants
The ground is blackened, split by fissures that still breathe heat from the deep. What was once a thriving city now stands as a husk of its former self, its bones buried beneath layers of ash and time. The land is harsh, offering no kindness, no promise of renewal—only the weight of what was lost and the struggle of those who remain. Yet, even in the desolation, life clings on. The fire may have passed, but its mark is forever scorched into the earth, and those who endure here have been forged by its fury.
"No banners. No titles. Just grit." The warrior squints into the wind, ash curling past his boots. "And if they try to take it?" A pause. A grin without warmth. "Then they better not miss."
"Don’t look down." The words come with a faint chuckle, wings shifting in the breeze.
"Why? You afraid I’ll fall?"
"No." A pause. A glance back over a shoulder. "I’m afraid you’ll stop climbing."
The air hangs thick with something unseen, a quiet tension woven into the very earth. A whisper rides the wind-low, deliberate, laced with an eerie certainty. "Not yet - but soon. And when it comes, there will be no mistaking it." A distant tremor rolls beneath your feet, subtle at first - then stronger, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
"It used to be green," someone says, though no one believes it anymore. "So did we." The elder speaks without looking, gaze fixed on the glowing horizon. Ash swirls around them, catching in the folds of their cloak. The fire may be gone, but it still decides who belongs here.
The air hangs thick with something unseen, a quiet tension woven into the very earth. A whisper rides the wind-low, deliberate, laced with an eerie certainty. "Not yet - but soon. And when it comes, there will be no mistaking it." A distant tremor rolls beneath your feet, subtle at first - then stronger, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
"Storm coming," the dockhand mutters, tightening a rope against the mooring post. His gaze flickers toward the ship bobbing in the harbor—no colors, no name. Another nameless crew looking to unload.
Across the pier, a cluster of villagers watch, saying nothing. No warm greetings, no offers of trade. Just the unspoken understanding that, here, questions are dangerous and trust is a fool’s gamble. The tide carries in many things. Not all of them leave.
The fire has passed, but the scars remain—and some embers refuse to die.
