Leaving the bar, now that he had gotten a sense of direction, the flat monotony of the ash dunes finally ended, but what replaced it was a landscape of pure violence.
The earth had been torn open. Stretching across the horizon was a massive fissure, a jagged wound in the planet's crust that plunged so deep the bottom was lost in shadow. Thick, swirling fog poured out of the crack like breath from a dying giant.
The Canyon of Lost Gods.
Alfred stood at the edge of the precipice, the wind whipping his coat tails.
The drop was sheer at least a thousand feet straight down into jagged obsidian rocks.
"Charming," Alfred muttered, adjusting his glasses which were speckled with grey grit.
"No guard rails. No stairs. Just a vertical drop into oblivion."
He scanned the rim. To a normal person, it was barren rock.
To Alfred, who had served as the Captain of the Voss Mage Corps before taking up the mantle of Steward, the terrain told a story.
A loose stone here. A faint scratch there.
