Glider

Wren rubs uselessly at the soot caked on his goggles.  His scarf is completely black; he can taste the ash every time he breathes.  The glider creaks.

Navigating the Black Dunes is always slow, and often fatal.  The elementals that scour the hills burst in odd places, dancing orange and white and red, burning whatever little fuel they’ve found in the ashen wastes.  Wren walks a tightrope, getting close enough to catch the hot air and gain a few hundred feet without dropping within scorching distance.

From there it’s a long, slow descent, praying that he’ll make the next platform.

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