Forty Three
Umbra and Marin, borders of The Lava Fields
The climb down from the overpass was tiring but fortunately more tolerable as Umbra and Marin reached the Lava Fields.
Were the magma instead water one could consider this a charming island archipelago. In reality it was a hellscape of dotted mounds and narrow raised ridges in a sea of lava.
The lava rivers were hellish red, hot enough to melt anything that mis-stepped from the narrow roads.
Iron bridges connected the largest landmasses, any wooden bridge would have immolated before it was even finished being built.
And so, their thick fur coats now an uncomfortable burden were quickly shed.
Silvermane trotted across the rocky ridges, her shoes uncomfortably warm from the ashen soil.
The horizon shimmered, thick with volcanic fumes.
Umbra staggered onwards, hoping but realistically already knowing there would be no tavern to rest.
Marin was in an equally sorry state, basically down to her linens. Even her thinnest clothes stuck to her as sweat ran down to sizzle on the ashy soil.
Umbra was becoming delirious on the sweltering road. As Silvermane's shoes rattled on the metal bridge, Umbra was reminded of his water flask. It was frozen solid in The Rumble Mountains, but to his dismay, now it was piping hot and almost undrinkable.
They pressed on as they saw a faraway volcano erupt a pillar of fire into the sky, despite being so far away the ground shook beneath their feet.
Marin was baffled by the sight of a nearby lava ravine. A boar with skin of stone running freely across the lava chasing what appeared to be a crimson red fire toad equally unaffected by the hellish heat.
A cinder butterfly swooped over to land on Marin's shoulder, ashes dancing under its spindly legs. How strangely pretty, she thought before the butterfly's scalding hot feet stung her flesh and she swatted it away.
Umbra shuffled on but was falling behind the pack.
Over his shoulder he could swear he was being watched by a familiar grinning demon. Belphagor
He weakly drew his halberd before realizing he was just hallucinating. A harmless, but oddly-shaped pile of rock lay before him.
"Umbra, we are nearing the Cut-through Pass," Marin called back, too delirious to notice him lag behind Silvermane.
One of the sturdier and rockier chasms, the Cut-through Pass was so-called because there was a folktale claiming that an ancient fire primordial sliced a mountain in half to create it.
Umbra was thankful to see safer ground hoping it was also colder.
As they drew closer to the Cut-through Pass they were astounded to see towering stone carvings of two ancient dwarves in the cliffside. Showing the ravages of time, the inscriptions were long since eroded but the unmistakable dwarven outlines remained.
Marin recognized the figures from her studies. "This used to be the kingdom of the Chrome Hammer Dwarves in the ancient past, not too much is left though," she was too hot to stop and admire the stonework.
Umbra knew vaguely about the Chrome Hammers, supposedly they had metal skin, expressionless faces and spoke a bizarre language. But the part that intrigued him the most was their worship of The Forerunners. A fanatical obsession with their supposed extraterrestrial creators.
Umbra was skeptical of anything claiming to be a maker or creator, or all-powerful. His reality was living in Turbulus, a land on the brink of destruction and his own impending doom.
And so, they pressed onwards towards the rocky pass, praying for an unimpeded journey ahead.