The Scenic Route

Far away, Anora and Dren found themselves navigating a particularly unforgiving stretch of the Waste. The ground beneath them was cracked and uneven, riddled with jagged stones that threatened to twist an ankle with every step. Gnarled roots from long-dead trees snaked across the terrain, their brittle remains sharp enough to tear through boots if one wasn’t careful.

Above them, the sky shifted in ominous hues, a dull gray streaked with flashes of ochre that hinted at a distant storm. The air hung heavy with the tang of minerals and decay, making every breath feel thick and metallic.

“Watch your step,” Anora said, her voice calm but firm as she pointed toward a patch of ground that shimmered unnaturally. “That’s not solid.”

Dren squinted, noticing the faint, oily sheen of quicksand just before his boot landed on its edge. He stumbled back, muttering under his breath. “This place is out to get us.”

“It’s the Waste,” Anora replied simply, not looking back as she adjusted her course. “It doesn’t care enough to try.”

They pressed on, weaving through what remained of a once-forested area, now reduced to a tangle of scorched tree trunks and crumbling earth. Each step felt like a small battle, the terrain resisting their passage at every turn.

At one point, they came upon a narrow gorge carved by a long-dried river. Its steep walls were jagged, and the ground below was littered with shattered stone. “We’ll have to climb,” Anora said, already scanning for a safe route.

Dren groaned. “Climb? Why not just go around?”

“It could be miles,” she said, already gripping the edge of a boulder.

As they navigated the uneven rock face, Dren’s muttering grew louder with each scrape and stumble. But when his foot slipped, and he nearly tumbled backward, Anora’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with startling strength.

“Focus,” she said, her voice sharper than usual. “This isn’t the place for mistakes.”

Dren swallowed hard, nodding as he steadied himself. They reached the top moments later, the vista revealing even more of the Waste’s relentless expanse—barren, harsh, and indifferent.

“You ever think about taking the scenic route?” Dren quipped, hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

“This is the scenic route,” Anora replied dryly, her gaze fixed ahead.

As they reached the other side of the gorge, the landscape crested towards a rocky incline, the Waste stretched out before them, vast and unyielding. The horizon shimmered under the weight of the heat, an endless expanse of fractured earth and distant ridges. Patches of bristly vegetation clung to life in the cracks, while the occasional ruined structure jutted skyward like skeletal remains of a forgotten age.

Dren dropped to one knee, panting. “Tell me that view was worth it.”

Anora ignored him, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The usually unflappable mediator frowned, her sharp eyes scanning the hazy distance.

“I don’t like it,” she muttered. “Whatever ‘disturbance’ it was talking about… it’s probably trouble. Trouble always finds you.”

“Me?” Dren replied, adopting an exaggerated look of innocence. “You’re the one who dragged me out here.”

“Don’t start.”

Before they could exchange further jabs, a low rumble rolled beneath their feet. The ground shuddered faintly at first, then steadied.

“Did you feel that?” Dren asked, standing quickly and glancing around.

The tremor returned, this time with a more deliberate, rhythmic cadence. Anora tensed, her hand instinctively reaching for her comm device. “What now?” she murmured, her voice tightening.

Dren squinted, pointing toward a plume of dust rising in the distance. “There. Something’s moving.”

Through the heat haze, a silhouette emerged, growing sharper with every passing moment. At first, it seemed like another Creche—tall and sleek—but as it drew closer, the creature’s ungainly gait revealed its improvised nature.

“It’s not a Creche,” Dren said, narrowing his eyes as the massive construct advanced

“Then what is it?” Anora asked, her composure faltering slightly.

Dren took a step back. “Trouble.”

The figure emerged—a towering construct pieced together from broken Creche panels, rusted machinery, and scraps of bone and wood. Perched on its back was a wiry, sunburned man with wild hair, a staff resting across his shoulders. His patchwork clothing and soot-streaked face made him seem as scavenged as the machine he rode.

The man waved as he approached. “Ho there! Travelers! You look lost!”

Dren and Anora exchanged a wary glance.

“I don’t trust this,” Anora whispered.

“Yeah, but do we have a choice?” Dren muttered.