The eastern wastes stretched ahead like a jagged scar across the earth.
The guild transport rumbled heavily over volcanic plains of compacted ash and black rock, the landscape growing increasingly hostile with every mile. Plumes of acrid smoke bled from distant fissures. Above, the sky was a bruised, perpetual grey, as if the rain refused to fall. Even through the transport's heavy filters, the air tasted of sulfur.
Old Marren was uncharacteristically talkative, though his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel betrayed his nerves. His eyes constantly darted to the horizon. "Drak'thar. Never actually driven a crew out this far. Last expedition was twenty years ago." He swallowed hard. "Didn't end well."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
