TheObsidianDesert

The Barbarian came upon the desert at dawn, when the sun rose like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath, casting cruel light upon a land that seemed cursed even before it was known. Black obsidian stones jutted from the sand in jagged ranks, unnatural and sharp, as though the earth itself had been wounded and bled glass. They drank the light rather than reflected it, and their shadows lay thick and wrong upon the ground.

He walked among them with wary stride, his hand never far from steel, for the air pressed heavy upon his senses. Soon he saw the bones—bleached skeletons lashed to splintered crosses, their arms spread wide in eternal agony, ribs gnawed clean by sun and time. No carrion birds circled here, nor did beasts tread near; even death itself seemed reluctant to linger. The Barbarian felt it then, a presence old and patient, coiled beneath the desert like a buried serpent, watching through unseen eyes. This was no land of chance cruelty or passing war—it was a place of worship and sacrifice, and whatever god had been fed here had not yet grown sated. With a low growl, the Barbarian pressed onward, knowing that where such evil endured, blood and steel would soon answer it.