He won't howl. Howling is for country where sound carries. He'll walk up close and make you an offer.
The ash out here swallows every sound. So when you hear one thin chime of glass, you have already stepped too close.
The vent breathes when the work is good. When it isn't, something climbs out of it.
It isn't hunting you. It's waiting for a verdict - and it will not let you walk away without giving one.
You will hear it grazing a mile off. Turn the wagons then, not when you can see the frill.
In a settlement that measures worth by what you've done, dwarf archivist Sigra Truecut keeps Ash'rift's oldest forge-records by cutting every tablet herself. She'll tell you exactly what the stone says about the Ashen Crown, and exactly where the stone goes quiet.
Ash'rift's ancestor tablets are inscribed by a priest, but they are poured, ground and made by Zerai Slagwright. The tiefling carver behind the settlement's obsidian and slagglass has put a keepsake in almost every grieving household in town.
Ash'rift sends out few caravans, and every one of them comes home. Zurek Grale is the half-orc road-master who makes that true -- hauling steel and slagglass out across the Ashen Plains, and water, timber and grain back in, past every mirage the fissures can offer him.
At the farthest ritual forge-camp on the upper Ashen Plains, orc forge-warden Ushka Slagmend keeps the last fire between Ash'rift and the grey - mending caravan steel, feeding strangers, and judging everyone by what they carry back through the ash.
Ash'rift remembers its dead by name, cut into molten stone that glows for one night a year. Nadarra Ashvow is the forge-priest who cuts them -- and who refuses to carve a single name she cannot prove is the right one.
She isn't waiting for you to die anymore. She's decided to help.
It used to just hide your shoes. Now it wears your mother's face.