The jagged ridges of the Iron Crags rose out of the burning red dust of the eastern wasteland like the rusted ribs of a petrified leviathan.
The sky above the territory did not know the pale, sterile blue of the western valleys. Here, the heavens were stained the color of dried liver and bruised plum, choked with perpetual sulfur fumes and fine volcanic particulate that drifted down in steady, gray sheets.
The air tasted of hot brass, roasted marrow, and the subterranean acid of volcanic vents that ran through the earth's deep fault lines.
Tharaxis descended through the turbulent thermal currents with the majestic, unhurried arrogance of an apex predator returning to familiar hunting grounds.
The primordial dragon's massive, pearlescent white scales did not gather soot; the ambient heat simply sheared off his skin in shimmering, translucent waves.
