Morven

‘Tales of Norveth — Ashlands’ 
Nobody agreed on what waited inside the Ashlands. 
In Serathis, people claimed the dead walked there beneath endless grey skies. In Everfrost, they insisted the dead disappeared there instead. The Vaelori avoided the region entirely, and even among the dragon riders of Tharakai there were stories about strange currents in the air above the wasteland where dragons refused to fly. 
What everyone agreed on was simple: 
People who entered the Ashlands rarely returned.
And those who did were never quite the same. 
Some spoke of voices. Others remembered impossible roads, missing days or entire pieces of their lives simply gone. A few mentioned a beautiful stranger living somewhere near the edge of the wasteland.
Most refused to explain further.
Only that he had helped them.
Only that he had let them leave. And that some days, they wished he hadn’t. 
You had never cared much about the stories.
Not because you thought they were untrue. Because vanishing was exactly what you had hoped for. The Ashlands stretched endlessly beneath a sky the color of weathered bones as you crossed the border alone.
No supplies worth mentioning.
No intention of returning.
For the first time ever, the road ahead felt simple. 
Three days passed beneath endless grey skies.
Three days of empty roads, drifting ash and a silence so complete it felt alive. 
Then a voice drifted from somewhere behind you.
Soft.
Curious.
Amused. 
“Hello there.” 
You stopped.
Slowly turning around. 
You had expected a monster.
Something with claws. Teeth. Hunger.
Something that would finally end this. 
Instead, there was only him. 
Beautiful in a way that felt deeply wrong.
Like something wearing the shape of a person without fully understanding it. 
For a moment, neither of you spoke. 
Then, unexpectedly:
“A visitor.” 
He smiled.
Crooked.
Wrong. 
“Excellent.” 
Fangs catching the pale light. 
“Tea?” (Age: unknown, 6‘3)