But the combatants are thankfully small and operate on the easternmost fringes of the civilized World. To the east of the borders lies the Baadghizi Vale, an enormous cawl between the Grayrange Mountains, in which a giant forest of thick, black trunks and thorns like spearpoints flourishes. It is such an impenetrable maze that no man, or fool, ever attempts to pass through it, although it is said that strange creatures have evolved within its confines, having learned to navigate the bolestrangled land and to brachiate daringly across the tops of the great forest.
And so it is possible that Pindar and Eyck shall never be at peace. The claims of rightful borders are always a delicate subject, especially among nations who have a not-very-tenacious grasp of their true self-image. Such is the pitiful state of Pindar, and of Eyck. Neither possesses a governmental system that is much removed from what one might call “musical assassinations.” In fact, one of the perennial political jokes in G’Rdellia, a neighboring country of some culture, asks the question: Who’s running Pindar this week?
And since the only viable exports of these two nations may rightfully be termed unrest, hate, and distrust, it is easy to ignore them when considering the general state of the World. Pindar and Eyck are thus the clubfooted stepchildren of a world that is only marginally more fortunate but chooses not to recognize that basic truth.
It is a world of gross ignorance, galloping pestilence, petty injustice, unrelieved famine, early death, and meaningless existence. It is a world in which the spirit of humankind—that sometimes brilliant, sometimes infamous, driving force that fuels civilization’s furnace—has departed. And perhaps the most dismal testament is that the departure has been a slow and ugly thing. It did not leave in a flaming burst of glorious war, but rather it slouched away during the long nights of ignorance and fear. It did this thing so slowly, so insidiously, that no one—or practically no one —even noticed it was missing. Until, of course, it was too late.
But this is not to say that the World is dying, for it is certainly not. More precisely, one might observe that the World survives in spite of itself, and will continue to survive.
And there are the bright spots, the untarnished bits and pieces attempting to escape the corrosions of time. There exists a great, capricious body of water. It is as blue as the eyes of a Vaisyan maiden, as fierce and unpredictable as her mother, and as faithless as her father. Storms and calms walk hand in hand across its shimmering surfaces, courting no ship, no country, and wanting no quarter. It is a vast, moody sea misnamed the Gulf of Aridard. It is surely no gulf—having none of the connotations of serenity and placidity which that term may possess—and almost qualifies as a small ocean. It is a surly, waspish mistress to the nations of the World, which huddle like tramps about a bright fire along its broad shores. The Gulf of Aridard: focal point of the World.
Due west of the Gulf is the Sunless Sea—so named because of the cold mist and rolling fog which ever obscures the setting of the sun on its farthest horizon. It is a monstrous ocean with shifting, rolling waves thirty ems high, valleys equally deep, and the grayest, coldest skies west of the Ironfields. Several expeditions from the maritime nations have attempted voyages into and across the Sunless Sea, but none of the great ships have ever returned. Some of the more optimistic ship captains have described their missions as “crossings,” but we historians have cautioned against this kind of positive thinking because it presumes the existence of a landmass, a shore, a something on the other side of the Sea.
There is no record in the modern era substantiating the presence of anything beyond the Sunless Sea.
Legend, folktale, fragments from the First Age, the oral tradition at large: all these sources speak of other landmasses—Continents, as they were called—but the names of such places, the locations, the sizes, and all other authenticating data have been lost or, perhaps, were never known.
Continuing the geography lesson, one may find to the extreme northwest of the Gulf a very large desert area, lying primarily below sea level and set off by a colossal mountain range known as the Haraneen Divide. This great arid expanse is called the Manteg Depression, and it is generally avoided by most of the World. Fierce sand and dust storms stalk the Depression with an almost cyclic frequency. The intensity, the sheer viciousness of the storms are enough, it is said, to strip the flesh from a man’s bones with the clean, crisp efficiency that a surgeon’s scalpel could never rival. There are levels of radiation in the Manteg Depression which are still surprisingly high, considering the unknown number of years since thermonuclears may have been employed in the region. Some legends say that there are still silos and installations within the Depression, still cradling rusted and/or scorched ICBMs, although, again, such claims are totally unsubstantiated by the record. (It is hoped that the pictographic or, as some insist, photographic technique will soon be perfected so that such claims can be proven without reasonable doubt.)
The temperatures in the Manteg Depression may get as high as 50° Centa. The amount of rainfall the area receives is little more than two cees per year.
And yet there is life in the Depression. A nomadic tribe called the Idri roam about its fringes and high elevations. They ride an indigenous animal called the loka which has evolved an outer hide of such thickness
