Drangurinn
The Cunning North
Beyond Fjall, past the frozen rivers and wind-swept tundra, lies Drangurinn, Zoa’s untamed frontier. The land is harsher, the winters longer, the settlements fewer. Here, the mountains claw at the sky, their ridges carving the land into deep, shadowed valleys. The forests are sparser, the rivers run slower beneath sheets of ice, and the wind carries with it the howls of beasts unseen.
The people of Drangurinn are fewer in number but fierce in spirit. They are hunters, trappers, and warriors who make their homes in great longhouses fortified against the cold. Once, the Ice Dwarves lived here in harmony with the Zoans, but history turned to war, and now they dwell in Oriclan, a land carved from Valhedge’s southern reaches. Yet their ruins remain, their underground halls echoing with the memories of a people lost to conflict.
Drangurinn is home to the wild things of Zoa—the glacier bear, whose white fur is as thick as plated armor; the snow lynx, swift and silent in the drifts; and the frostvine, a creeping, thorned plant that blooms only in the dead of winter, its violet petals a rare sight against the endless white.
The great spirits of the north are still honoured in Drangurinn, even as the rest of Zoa turns to Dhara. Carvings of old gods stand in forgotten shrines, and some say the northern lights speak their language still. To the people of Drangurinn, the past is not gone—it lingers in the land, in the ice, in the bones of the earth, waiting for those who will listen.
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