The Calloused Plains

A melancholy place. Cold in shadow, hot in sunlight.

A breeze slithers and tumbles over dunes of scattered sand and gravel. The material is caught by jagged, black, rocks that seem to writhe with anguish.

Smoke rises from embers eons old. A band of travelers in the shadow of the sun sits in front of their fireplace. They are caught in nihilism, unable to die, unable to move.

One escaped a few centuries ago. Left the others to die. He walks towards the sun, towards the first plane. The miasma of dread stabs his lungs. The sand is tar under his feet.

A long journey halts with a pause. He looks up and has not moved. An inch of the tour is done. He is damned, as all is here.

Perpetually melting obsidian spires crawl upwards and shape into ever disturbing forms.

There is no sound. The birds left along ago.

This place is cursed.