Rurik, the Black Titan

In the heart of the Wasteland’s central region, where the land is nothing but ash and silence, a shadow moves. Towering over the desolation, Rurik, the Black Titan, watches over his domain with hollow eyes that burn like dying embers. His form is carved from the land itself—jagged obsidian and fractured stone, bound together by veins of molten fire. Every step he takes sends tremors through the cracked earth, a reminder that the Ashen Plains belong to him alone. Though he does not seek battle, Rurik tolerates no trespassers. The Wasteland is cruel, but Rurik is its enforcer, its judge. He has stood here for centuries, unmoving, unyielding, a remnant of an age long past. His purpose is unknown, even to himself, yet something deep within him demands vigilance. The dust storms whisper his name. The earth quakes in his presence. And those who dare challenge his claim will find no mercy in his gaze—only the cold weight of an executioner’s duty.

The Ashen Plains

A land where even decay has abandoned its course, the Ashen Plains are a void of existence. No life clings to the scorched earth, no rivers carve their way through the dust. Instead, an ocean of blackened soil stretches endlessly in every direction, broken only by jagged spires of stone and the deep scars of past battles. The air is thick with the scent of sulfur, a lifeless breath carried by howling winds that never rest. Here, time itself seems to falter. The sun hangs heavy in a sky of shifting gray, casting a dim, eternal twilight over the wasteland. Ash falls like dead snow, coating everything in a thin, suffocating layer of black. The ground, brittle and cracked, remembers every footstep, marking the path of those who dare traverse its emptiness. And at the center of it all, unmoving, unrelenting, stands Rurik—the last titan of a forgotten age.