It is a strange day. The clouds bubble as though boiling, and the wind rushes in convoluted patterns, unable to decide in which direction it ought to be blowing. The sun is as weak as it always is in this god-forsaken land, barely breaking through the tumultuous clouds, and casting only a scant light across the bleak landscape. Nearby, jackdaws cackle from treetops, sounding nervous, as if before a storm. The trees themselves look gaunt, their black limbs knotted as they twist towards the watery sun in a desperate search for life. The brown grass that grows in a meagre sprawl across the plane stands still, oddly unaffected by the wind. Then, almost inaudible above the buffeting gale, a lone wolf howls in the distance, a lonely, rending cry that splits the air, silencing the agitated jackdaws. The call came from the clutch of mountains that stand on the horizon. Seven great monoliths rest there. The people of this land have named them all: Krag, the shortest, Rond, Klin and Daw, after which the native jackdaw is named. F'Adlon, Onto and the great Nolnar, whose snow-capped peak stretches above the clouds. Those silent sentinels reach into the heavens, their atramentous bulk oblivious to the sufferings of the land. The river Nin flows from the smallest eminence, Krag, its waters murky. It labours across the planate landscape not, as one might expect, providing life to its surroundings, rather it seems to drain it away, the grass and trees nearest the embankment being utterly devoid of life, as though the river were poison. I have met few people, and those I have barely deserve the definition. They speak in a crude tongue, consisting of croaks and other such guttural sounds. From what I have been able to learn, they call this land "Uk'Nond" - No Life. Their actions are as base as their language, many moving about on all four limbs as comfortably as they do on two. What little food they scrounge is never cooked, but is eaten raw, if not alive. Relationships are a simple affair, the harsh conditions leaving little room for love or other such indulgences. I have been with them for six weeks now, long enough for me to see that their life is a constant struggle for survival. They are as disturbed by the weather as I am. They tell me the skies are an ill portent, that the wolf heralds disaster. They are a feral race, deeply superstitious, but nonetheless I begin to wonder whether or not this expedition was wise, and if I will ever see my homelands again.
-Excerpt from 'Ill Omens', written by the Great Traveller, Olno Seerman, circa 1194, the Winter Rotation.
~J.L.
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