Leaving the Volantis proved to be as much of a hassle as entering that dammed city because the security, for some reason, was once again increased, and they were even searching through the carriages and wagons entering the city even more fervently.
Fortunately enough, due to the pass from the Clan Ferros, they managed to leave the Volantis without much problem because nobody dared to really give problems to someone bearing the sigils of the Clan Ferros, as Valkorion was right now.
They picked up the dwarven Slayer, Gotrik Gurnisson, and headed towards the Orange Shores. The journey itself was rather fast, because they managed to reach their destination within five days and some hours, as the coachman dropped them a few kilometers away from the Orange Shores.
Nobody really wanted to approach that dammed place, much less said about entering the pacle. It was rather common knowledge that the place was swarming with the Undead, so anyone with brains was heavily avoiding the place and wouldn't go there voluntarily.
Valkorion even tried to bribe the man with some additional Gold Dragon Coins to bring them closer to their destination, but the coachman vehemently refused and decided to wait for them in a nearby town.
If they returned alive, such were his last words before he left for the town, and the trio of adventurer, slayer, and red priestess headed toward the Orange Shore by foot.
Fortunately enough, the coachman dropped them relatively close to the Orange Shore, which was undoubtedly a positive thing, as they didn't need to walk that long before they reached the Orange Shore in a few hours.
The Orange Shore was a desert wasteland that stretched far beyond what the eye can fathom, an expanse of sun-scorched earth and shimmering waves of heat rising like spectral veils. It was a realm painted in the deep ochres and pale golds of sand that had been churned over centuries by relentless winds.
The dunes, tall and proud, stood like monuments to time itself, their sweeping ridges constantly shifting and reshaping as if the desert were alive, sighing under the weight of its history.
The sky above was an endless canvas of stark blue, an oppressive dome with no hint of reprieve. The sun, a merciless orb of molten light, rules this domain with an iron glare. Every grain of sand seems to carry its searing touch, and any movement stirs up small clouds of shimmering dust that dance briefly before surrendering to gravity's pull.
This was the long-destroyed landscape filled with relics from an ancient civilization that lay half-buried, whispering tales of splendor now lost. Crumbling stone columns jut out at haphazard angles like the jagged teeth of some colossal, forgotten beast.
They were adorned with faded carvings, glyphs, and symbols whose meanings had long been swallowed by the sands of time. Weathered statues, once proud sentinels of temples or palaces, now sit broken, their faces worn smooth and featureless by the cruel passage of centuries.
A once-great archway, now fractured and stooped, marks the threshold to what must have been a grand city. It stands defiant even in ruin, casting elongated shadows that slowly creep along the ground as the sun marches across the sky.
Beyond this shattered gateway, the outlines of foundations and fallen walls trace a labyrinthine skeleton of the past. Piles of sun-bleached stone blocked hint at a civilization that once thrived here, the glorious heart of the Firelink Shrine and Pyromancers of Izalith.
The silence here was profound, only broken by the occasional whisper of the wind as it snaked through the ruins, carrying with it the scent of dry earth and a touch of mystery. In some places, the sand has claimed its full victory, burying structures so completely that only the faintest outline remains, like a mirage of memories.
To Valkorion, it was unnerving, even more, the fact that they had apparently crossed the outer wall of the Izalith a few moments ago, and the entire area seemed to be entirely empty. In the ancient past, the entire Orange Sore was surrounded by a huge wall that enveloped the entire region.
It was a testament to the power of the Pyromancers because, once in the ancient past, they were one of the most powerful factions in the entire Faerûn. Due to that, they were able to build something so humongous, like the wall that was built along the borders of the entire region.
"Due to the walls around the Orange Shore, the Undead can't cross and leave the Orange Shore. It is rumored that the Pyromancers have enchanted the wall, and somehow it managed to bind the Undeads to the region itself, so once they cross over the walls, even though nowadays they are mostly destroyed, the Undead would fall apart..."
Mellisandre was very knowledgeable about the Pyromancers of Izalith and the history of Izalith, which Valkorrion suspected was related to the history of the Red Temple and their unknown connection between the Red Temple and Izalith and the Chaosflame Covenant.
All three of them were walking through the main road, which apparently led to the center of Izalith and the Firelink Shrine, the place that was now known as the Undead Asylum Catacombs.
The road was littered with the shards and remnants of ceramic fragments, pieces of what might have once been scrolls or tools, their uses now left to the imagination. Sometimes, an ancient metal object glinted beneath the sun, tarnished and twisted into unrecognizable shapes.
These scattered artifacts, though lifeless, give the sense that the desert is a graveyard, holding secrets it will never fully divulge. Valkorion was very surprised that there were so many of them because they looked valuable.
"Hey, why are there so many things littered around the entire place?"
This was something that had been bugging him a bit since they entered the Orange Shore because there were too many of them, and some looked like they were made from silver or so.
It didn't make sense because he knew that there were many adventures that were dwelling in this place.
"Most of the things that are left here are cursed with powerful dark curses. If you take even a single thing from here, you will become a target for all the Undeads that were right now sleeping deep underground. If it is elaborately crafted, a trap or just a coincidence is rather unknown."
Hearing that made Valkorion stop in his tracks as he took a look at his feet, and the dwarven slayer mimicked the motions of Valkorion as he was too surprised by the revelation that there were Undead sleeping beneath the ground.
"As long as you don't take anything from this place, they won't awake... this has already been tested several times."
No wonder this entire place was seeded with countless precious-looking objects.
"Now, wonder that it's still there; I swear that I saw some gold back there..."
Valkorion muttered as they then continued forward, passing some occasional patches of hardy vegetation clinging to life, their pale, wiry forms testament to a stubborn resilience. A gnarled tree, leafless and nearly petrified, stretches its brittle branches skyward as if still pleading for rain that will not come.