Fyrissia

Fyrissia is a dark, ancient land, filled with the grim relics of an older, larger civilization. It is a land of high seashore cliffs, where the waves assault the basalt walls in endless, mindless animosity. It is a land of long, bitter winters; the spring is short and drenching, the summer hot and brief, and the autumn early and prone to blighting frosts long before the crops are due. It is a rugged land of bleak stone ridges, where nothing grows but scrub trees and worthless weeds. Here also are swift, cold rivers and streams; their water is pure, but bitter cold. There are forests, too, in Fyrissia - forests which are better left alone if you wish to reach a ripe old age (unlikely though that is in this jealous country).

To the cursory glance, Fyrissia appears much like any other country where things have grown, and died, and been covered over only to resurface again eons later. But in this strange corner of the All, you must be very sure that the thing died in the first place. Here and there among the hills and dales and stone ridges are places where strange survivals occur. Things come sometimes to the light of day that are much as they were when they left it hundreds or thousands of years ago, and they are often puzzled (and sometimes quite displeased) to discover how much things have changed while they...slept(?). Some of these holdovers from other days are forces for weal... and sometimes they are unmistakably forces for woe. More often they are concerned with neither, and are equally likely to prove sympathetic to either cause - depending, often, on who asks first.