The Rift’s Maw

The Maw yawns at the end of a desolate plateau, where the very earth appears torn asunder in silent agony. The terrain around it is cracked and broken, as though some colossal claw had raked through stone. Its jagged mouth is rimmed by knife-edged obsidian shards, and faint aetheric glowstones glimmer like dying embers in the dust. When the wind stirs, it carries with it the faint scent of stone and something older—an unsettling sharpness that pricks at the mind.

The Maw’s edge sustains only the barest pretense of life. Brittle, colorless grasses cling to fissures where thin soil collects, and pale lizards sun themselves on the black stones before retreating to their crevices. Carrion birds circle warily but seldom land, and even insects seem to veer away as though repelled by unseen forces. The land feels quiet yet tense, as if holding its breath.

Seasons have little meaning here. The plateau endures an unchanging, sullen chill year-round. On rare occasions, storms sweep over the cliffs, drenching the land in icy rain, but the air quickly dries again. During the month of Obscurum, faint, shimmering lights ascend lazily from the depths, dancing on unseen currents, and the winds howl with such violence that the Riftwatchers retreat to their stone shelters rather than risk being cast into the void.

The Maw is host to eerie phenomena not recorded elsewhere in the Empire. Whirling winds rise abruptly from its depths, carrying with them fine dust and whispered echoes of unintelligible words. At night, faintly luminous vapors coil up from the chasm, staining the stars above with a ghostly pallor. Even simple instruments rebel: compass needles spin or point downward; dropped stones vanish into blackness with neither sight nor sound to mark their fall. Travelers often report a sensation of being watched, though nothing ever emerges to confront them.

Dry, unkind, and unnervingly still. Most days are crisp and cold, the thin air biting at exposed skin. When storms come, they strike suddenly—gale-force winds, sharp hail, and lightning that seems drawn to the rim’s jagged stones before disappearing as quickly as it began.

The rim is home only to the hardiest life. Sickly shrubs with thorned branches crawl outward from the plateau’s cracks, their roots clinging desperately to the rock. Ravens and vultures circle the perimeter but never venture far within, and no creature has ever been seen crossing into the chasm itself. Those who watch long enough may catch glimpses of strange, pale shapes deep below—though whether beast, spirit, or trick of the eye, none can say.

The stones of the Maw are too brittle and unstable to quarry, and though aetheric glowstones line the edges, they are faint and quickly crumble to dust when handled. Prospectors avoid the region entirely, claiming the land is more curse than opportunity.

Discovered during the Empire’s western push in 98 AR, the Rift’s Maw was first dismissed as a geological curiosity—until the first expedition descended and never returned. A second party met the same fate, prompting an edict in 102 AR forbidding further exploration. Warding stones were set into the ground around its rim, etched with prayers and Imperial sigils. The Riftwatchers were established as custodians of the plateau, their chief task to turn away the curious and keep the forbidden depths undisturbed.

Tourists and pilgrims alike approach the Maw with a mix of awe and dread. Those seeking penance or forbidden knowledge sometimes make the journey, offering prayers or sacrifices at the warding stones before retreating. A few linger too long, claiming to hear voices calling them down—and many of those are never seen again. There are no inns nor shrines here; only the Riftwatchers’ sparse shelters dot the plateau, and visitors are rarely welcomed beyond a night’s stay.