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.
	
	
	
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