The Burning Vale

Nestled deep within the Steamfont Mountains, where once stood towering peaks of stone and iron, now lies a realm reshaped by the presence of Krytus, the Eldest of Red Dragons. Here, in his chosen place of rest, mountains have shattered beneath his immense form, their jagged remains forming a scorched and broken landscape. The valleys between them have become veins of molten rock, glowing fissures spilling forth fire and ash, while rivers of lava snake through the ruins of the land, casting flickering red reflections upon Krytus’s impenetrable, ember-hued scales.
The air itself is a trial, thick with heat that burns the lungs of any who dare approach. The very act of breathing feels like swallowing the breath of a forge, each gasp laced with the taste of ash and brimstone. No life stirs in the vale save for the infernal—magma flows, embers dance in the wind, and the earth rumbles in time with the slow, measured breaths of the dragon. His slumber is restless, a force of nature unto itself; when he exhales, great gusts of superheated wind wash over the landscape, setting fire to anything that dares to remain.
Above, the sky is a mirage of fire, an endless distortion where the air ripples and warps like the heat rising from a grand forge. Distant peaks shimmer and waver as though seen through the veil of a dragon’s breath, their forms uncertain, bending and shifting as if caught in an eternal illusion. At times, the sun is swallowed by the haze, its light fractured into fractured streaks of red and gold, making it seem as though the heavens themselves are aflame.
This is The Burning Vale, where Krytus dreams in fire and fury, and where the land itself quakes beneath the weight of his eternal presence.