The land swelled up at the edge of what her people called The Maw; a monstrous mountain range like the crests of a dragon’s back, or a jaw filled with gnashing teeth. It had taken her nine moons to descend from her birthplace into the valley below, her crimson robes heavy and wet and her pale cheeks flushed as red as the linen. A hood of thick wolf fur shadowed her eyes, the dagger at her hip glinting sharp like the mountaintops. She stumbled down into the valley, tripping over her hemline.

The hooded girl was utterly swallowed by the mountains. For leagues around her, there seemed to be nothing. In the Wild, life remained hidden and sleeping, unless it was large or ferocious enough to contest the Maw itself. Even the land appeared lethargic and opposing, domed by an ever-changing sky with its throat bleeding red at the horizon. The wind flowed through the valley like a river, whipping relentlessly at the girl until she stopped, cupping her hands.

A flash of light appeared between them, quickly dying on the wind. Then another, and another, like the spark of a tinderbox, until she nursed a newborn flame against her palms. She held it close against the gale, stumbling forward down the last hillock of the mountain range, breaking into the rugged vale of the Maw at long last, with only the wind at her back as encouragement.

Then, a noise in the distance. Far, far away.

It was low and deep and rumbled across the land as if to wake it from its slumber. It sounded like metal scraping against metal, but the girl immediately knew it not to be. Her head shot up, gaze snapping to the horizon and her body whirling around, breathing harsh and labored. The fledgling flame between her hands sputtered, and died. She lifted her hands and lowered her hood, freeing a long tangle of light-colored hair that was promptly snatched up by the wind; her face was almost childlike despite her age, except for a pair of unusually thick, bushy eyebrows that knitted themselves together. It was an expression she wore quite frequently on her descent.

For the first time in her life, the Maw towered above her, and the land stretched out endlessly in front.

Oops, wrong board. x.x mods pls move

What board is this supposed to be on? Are you actually looking for people for this RP?

@uliop Nope I already found someone, its just I'm stupid and posted it in interest checks rather than the 1x1 board .-.;

@Waxnova Gotcha.

The gale screeched overhead as it swept over the roof of the gorge, its rage echoing against the sharp crags below. A thin, deep stream had cut its way through the mountains of The Maw, forming a deep crack though its center. As perilous as the fall down the gorge may be, its walkway was perhaps the safest route through the dangers of No-Man's-Land. The man known as Ruin was patient, and the journey down into the great crack was of little hindrance to him.

The man was overbearing in stature, but not a single mark of identity was apparent. His entire form had been clad in light grey cloth, and the brazen soles of his boots clicked lightly against the rugged surface of the rock. Perhaps his most peculiar attire was the headdress he wore; a neutral masque, forged from bronze and adorned with spiked trim around the jawline. Similar plate metal served as his vembraces and pauldrons, with the pauldrons' form blooming as petals would bloom from a rose. His decorated appearance indicated importance, but social status had little effect against the denizens that lurked beyond the doors of his homeland. His attire was meant only for protection against the elements; dust storms were frequent here.

In his right hand, Ruin clutched a staff. Brazen in colour and tall in form, the head of the staff curved into a deformed, circled blade. The upper portion of the blade bent into a sharp point, and a tiny, golden bell hung loosely from a small loop within the circle. It chimed gently as he walked.

Ruin's footsteps were echoed by another's. A horse, slow and steady, shadowed its master. A cloth blanketed its back and it bore the weight of food and water, which hung securely from the fabric. However, its steps were crooked and sharp, and its head hung low and indifferent. At a closer distance, the reason becomes obvious. The steed no longer bore skin, and the ivory of its bones was as clear as the sunrise. The soft sound of the creature's wheezing was barely audible, and it lifelessly matched the pace of the man in front, far, far from home.

The walkway soon thinned out, bringing Ruin to an area of water which swelled against the walls of the gorge. With little thought or consideration, he continued his slow walk, wading through the knee-length depths of the stream. The horse followed, but it did not drink. His gloved fingers ran through the water, and he lifted the droplets into his vision. The Maw bled only clear water; something that Ruin, Acolyte of Kaarth, was unfamiliar with.

After two hours of walking through the Valley of the Maw, the young woman could scarcely keep herself upright. Exhaustion crept into the very fiber of her bones, head spinning, breath shallow, face flushed with her two rust-colored eyes wide and desperate. The Elders had warned her of the dangers of her trial, and she was beginning to regret not taking them more seriously. The Wild will snatch you up and devour you whole if you give it the slightest hint of a chance, one of their voices echoed in her memory. Find shelter, food and water before the beasts find you, and you might yet live.

Water. The word rolled on her dry tongue. It had been days since she had drank something cool and pure, the snow she melted did nothing to quench her thirst. Letting her yearning guide her aching legs, she pushed on, the mountains looming around her beginning to look more like the jaws of a giant with every step she took.

Eventually, her eye snagged on the glimmer of a small lake in the distance as the sun crept over the mountaintops. The young woman bolted towards the source with little care for her surroundings—in fact, she scarcely noticed the uncanny tinkling of a bell as she sank to her knees by the water’s edge and drank deeply. Water had never tasted quite so good; it was pure life, it was ambrosia, it may as well have been the blood that pumped through her veins. She only stopped when she was completely sated, sitting upright and releasing a pent-up breath that relaxed her whole being and made her shoulders sink.

It was only afterwards that she saw what was, perhaps, the strangest thing she had ever laid eyes on.

The skeletal horse was standing only a few feet away, but it was not dead. In fact quite the contrary, the young woman could see that it was very much alive, somehow, and it seemed to be smiling at her with its sunken, lurid grin. Yet she found it almost beautiful in a sense. Slowly rising to her feet, she took a few hesitant steps towards the creature, her hand rising upwards, almost as if to touch, to check if it was actually real.



Before she could touch the skeletal horse, she was interrupted by the sound of water hitting water, woven with musical tinkling.

The pyromancer whirled around and saw what was probably the second strangest thing she had ever laid eyes on, which was not a creature but presumably another human being standing in the water. Not only that, but his appearance made her blood run cold in a way that the horse never could, and her reaction was both immediate and extremely clumsy. She stumbled backwards, tripping over a rock and landing squarely on her hindquarters in a pile of muck. As if to remedy her own misstep, her hand clawed at her waist, pulling desperately at the jeweled dagger there, which she pointed at him to match the fire in her eyes.

“Who are you?” she demanded, despite still being sat in the mud with a shaking grip.