DAE LUIN - Map of Minya Amar

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Area Descriptions


Ancient Ruins
The crumbling remains of a once-mighty castle bare their jagged teeth at the sky, yet their bite is worn soft by the work of the weather, and they have not been able to snap for a thousand years or more. Tendrils of creeping plants, ivy and mistletoe, have worked their way across much of the stonework. One has to be careful where one walks, as detached pieces of masonry nose up from the ground to catch an unwary foot and cause a fall. Remnants of mighty statues, pillars, buildings, they still remain, bearing mere traces of their former glory. Who once lived here, what civilisation built these works, why they were abandoned, few now live who can remember.
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Bittersweet Field
Beyond the mountains of the north, civilization seems to end. Traders dare not risk their carts on the high cliff paths nor in the narrow crevices and valleys below. Rock falls and mudslides make passage through the hills treacherous. Desert bandits have been known to prey upon unsuspecting travelers who thought they could avoid such a fate by passing through the ravines. The chipped skulls of cliff rams and oxen litter the barren canyons. Here, the wind roars furiously through the gorges, howling like banshees and sirens. The rising cliffs are wrought from sedimentary rocks, myriad bands of colors running through them. Perhaps, in times of antiquity, a great river once flowed through these mountains, hence carving the desolate canyons. But all traces of water have dissipated into dust, including all manner of sea life that turned into fossils long ago. It is through this canyon to the north that one must pass in order to reach the barren headland of the continent. And when one finally does breach the divide between treacherous hills and sweeping planes, an even more horrid sight is fated to befall one’s eyes.

The Bittersweet Field spreads outwards from the mouth of the deep-bellied canyon. It dives over rolling plains and timid brooks. Groves of dead, skeletal trees pepper its face. But what characterizes the field as such a horror is that at first glance, the entire span, miles long, seems bereft of life. Dried, dead grasses sway in hollow breezes. The soil is scorched, dry, and fallow. Every weary tree is burned to charcoal or leafless and gnarled. Heavy, omnipresent storm clouds bellow in the heavens, as if enraged by the stark field. Thunderheads roar in the distance, and crags of lightning shatter the peaks of the far-off mountains. Occasional, rain soaks the fields, but not a nourishing rain. Rather, the droplets are a translucent gray, as if polluted by ash and dust. The field reeks of death, and rightly so, for its history is one of blood and steel and those who call it home are either wandering spirits or ghosts.

Centuries ago, an epic war broke out amongst the kingdoms of old. Brave knights and warriors took up arms, loaded down their horses and oxen with all manner of weaponry and supplies, and set off for conquest and glory. Some armies snuck through the red-rock canyons, drinking from the trickling streams that once flowed down through the rocks. Other battalions reached the north by sea, docking their ships on the far coast and marching inland. Still, the most elite of all traveled on wing, riding upon the scaly backs of a thousand war dragons. At that time, the plains were luscious, verdant, and overrun with beautiful forest glades. Spring fawns frolicked through the pasture, and elegant, long-necked geese made their homes in the soft thickets. But what dominated the landscape were vast, crawling bushes of bittersweet vine. The red berries of the autumn plant were like droplets of blood upon the boughs of the virgin forests. One soldier wrote of the bittersweet, “It was the only wise thing in the forest. It knew that war would come to its home, and it tried to warn the ancient trees and the young lambs with its glistening red. Only the veteran soldiers knew its significance- it foreshadowed the colossal battle to come.”

Soon enough, the silt of the Bittersweet Field became sour with the stagnant odor of blood. The armies clashed on the field, bringing steel, fire, and bloodshed onto the battlegrounds. Forests were burned to nothing, the earth tamped flat by pounding boots, and wildlife cut down to feed the hundreds of thousands of soldiers who fought on. Finally, when all sides had lost innumerable lives, when the Westerners’ horses all died of weariness, when the Easterners’ dragons escaped their chains; the armies turned from the battlefield and trudged home. They left their dead for the carrion vultures and scuttering rats to feast upon. Soon the field was corrupted by the rank of rotting flesh and the taint of plague and disease. Any travelers to happen upon the fields thereafter were caught by the icy hands of illness or were mauled by some of the straggling, half-dead soldiers that still lingered in the burned forests. So, the way north became abandoned. All cities north of the valley decayed into ghost towns; trade posts along the canyon routes were eaten away by the wind; and the toil of the soldiers at Bittersweet Fields was very nearly forgotten.

Hundreds of years later, the fields still reek of death. Shades and specters gather here to feast off of the anguish and the pain that had rooted itself deep into the soul of the wastelands. Large, disgusting rats scamper over fallen logs and into dark boroughs. Murders of crows and lone vultures turn slow, weary circles in the skies over the field. Here and there, one can find an ancient, rusted sword, a battleaxe stuck headfirst into the soil, an old mage’s staff, even a suit of armor worn by a soldier of ancient times. Perhaps great treasure can be found here; few have ventured into the heart of this dead-land to find out.

But the legacy of bloodshed at Bittersweet Field lives on. Even today, guild wars, regional conflicts, and even duels are fought on this sinful, unhallowed ground. Young, naïve warriors think it brave to travel north and spare with one another. In time since the great conflicts of old, most travelers have lost their respect for the field of death. Few recognize that they walk upon the gravestones of one hundred thousand men.
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Dark Bramble Cemetery
Ages ago, the paths to the south-east of the continent were lost. For decades, rogues, thieves, highwaymen, and assassins haunted the weathered roads. Caravans no longer took their summer sojourns on the Eastern Sea. Merchants cut the west roads off their trade routes. Over time, the dark paths were forgotten and, eventually, overgrown with the gnarled brush of the Dark Forest. Years later, though the highways were still bramble-choked, the original footpaths remained. Adventurers seeking treasure and glory recently blazed the trail again, cutting aside a century’s worth of burrs and thorns. The trails west were reclaimed, but with them also came a relic from the old world that none had expected to uncover.

Several miles east of the Ancient Ruins, the dusty trail widens into a cobblestone paved road. The lane weaves its way through the sparse woodlands, delving over knolls of dead-grass and thickets filled with the dried husks of wrinkled trees. Worn and broken by the inconsiderate boots of travelers, the road wears thin as it swells over a high mound. At the crest of the rocky knoll, two large stone pillars rise out of the barren silt. They seem to be part of what may have once been a cast iron gate that passed across the road way. Built from round river stones, the two columns are topped with the looming figures of harlequin gargoyles. The immobile beasts loom down on visitors, silently mocking them.

Below, a stark and shadowed valley flushes across the landscape. Here, the fallow earth is black and gaunt towering trees spread their limbs out over the arid silt. The wasteland spreads outwards for miles, blending with the ominous, peaked mountains that form a ghastly backdrop. Dark thunderheads churn in the skies above, rumbling nefariously as they trample across the heavens. But what makes the parched valley so sinister are the thousands upon thousands of grave markers that jut from the earth at odd angles, endless gray pockmarks on the dark flesh of the field. Hordes of rats scurry about the ditches where old graves have sunken in. Vultures loom gloomily in the skeleton-like trees. This stark valley is the site of the Dark Bramble Cemetery, a tomb yard aptly named for the brush that barred the path to it for so long. The graveyard is uniquely circular and the headstones are laid in large rings. Reminiscent of the fabled circles of hell, the tombs closest to the center of the ellipses are more grotesque, decayed, and derelict than those in latter rings. Altars to lost heathen gods are erected throughout the rows; the eroded remains of statues cast their shadows over the maggot-laden ground; and by night shades, specters, daemons, and other creatures of darkness roam the death-laden yard.

At the very heart of the circular field is an antediluvian mausoleum. The colossal edifice is built from gray stone and is adorned with the statues of five faceless maidens. The door of the antiquated crypt has long been beaten away; beyond, an ancient staircase leads down deep into the bowels of the sepulcher. Rumors tell of hundreds of bodies that are mummified and buried in this axial tomb. Legends claim that these cadavers belong to members of a primeval royal-family of the old world. With royalty comes wealth, and with wealth a fine burial; and ipso facto the graveyard receives uncountable numbers of treasure seekers.

Though most of the corpses in barren soil of the Dark Bramble Cemetery are centuries old, it is not unheard of for a funeral procession to make a pilgrimage west to the graveyard. Benign drifters have been known to wander through with flowers and homage for the dead. The cemetery is a place that reeks of death, and yet a great many modern bourgeoisie seem drawn to it. Perhaps it is that many villagers are enchanted with the thought of sleeping for eternity beneath the watchful gaze of ancient gods and angles; for many will share tales of flitting shadows and feathered wings happened upon between the grave rows. Still, the truth of these yarns is as uncertain as are the contents of each and every tomb that is hidden beneath the earth. Nothing is for certain until one takes a look for oneself.
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Dark Forest
Partially shaded from a set of large mountains, the forest of darkness has grown in a way that allows for no light to penetrate through the dense canopy and hit the ground below. Throughout many years, the twisting, badly formed trees have grown in every direction, creating the dense walls of the forest. The entwining branches make travel impossible, unless on one of the few paths made in the foliage by humans or roughly the like. Although the plants appear to have been dead for some time, their leaves are still abundant enough to create the dense canopy. The natural barrier not only causes the whole of the forest to be pitch black, but it also stops any heat from the sun's rays from warming the stale air under the vegetation.

When inside the black heart of the forest, nothing can be seen without the use of fire. With the addition of fire, the branches cast odd shaped shadows throughout the forest, and even though the wind doesn’t dare creep inside the forest, the shadows still seem to move. Eerie sounds fill the depths of darkness from time to time; the noise is slow and shrill. Spiders, bats and a multitude of eerie unknown creatures lurk about in the trees and dense undergrowth, peering out at any who wander through this dangerous place.

To the east of the darkness, tall mountains too treacherous and dangerous to climb, stretch high into the sky. The ocean to the west storms often; and the bank lacks a low decline, and simply drops off into the deep depths of the violent waters. Most of the entrances are only from the north and south of the forest, and finding them is not easy. Some little tunnels through the dense undergrowth and branches start in the north and south, and are probably made by four legged animals, and don’t have a definite exit on the other side of the forest. There are a few actual paths from excess travel warn into the grounds and through cut foliage, some with known exits, others lead to dead ends in the center.
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Death Valley
No life is visible in this desolate place, merely barren earth with no speck of green visible, and tinged with a dusty red-grey hue. The stark figures of blasted pines stretch their bare fingers at the grey sky, the sun a mere pale disc and a shadow of itself in other places. The very air seems to choke a person, seeming devoid of life-giving oxygen and consisting instead of foul gases. The tramp of feet raises up dust clouds, mixing with saliva in the mouth to form a disgusting paste that coats the tongue. The few streams that dare run through Death Valley - such an aptly named place - are mere trickles of oily, brackish water, not fit for consumption. The bleached bones of some small rodent lie broken next to one such stream, disturbed as if by some rooting predator - one desperate enough to even seek out the rotting flesh of a long-dead rat.
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Desert - Four Sounds Outpost
Massive dunes of pure white sand, stained with blood, extend in every direction; with no sight of any greenery, minus a few cactus. The sand is dry as a bone, shifting beneath your feet. The sun burns down across the hapless traveler, bleaching all of any cool, soothing color, sapping at hope as surely as it devours the slightest trace of moisture. Legends tell of treasure buried in the heart of the desert - but even the most avaricious of men could not help but be daunted by the task of retrieving it.
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Eastern Forest
Pristine in beauty, the Eastern Forest is home to good and evil alike, although far more pleasant than its neighbor the Dark Forest. The Eastern Forest has beautiful foliage, filled with scampering deer, rabbits, and other animals that are normally found within a living forest.

All along the forest are different deciduous and coniferous trees, some which will wilt beautifully in the autumn months; other’s that will last to be covered in delicate layers of snow in the wintertime. There are many different types of plants, other than the large, ever-growing trees. Things like ferns rest against tree trunks and near man made paths, and ivy intricately snakes its way up tree trunks. Many different kinds of flowers, such as daisies, tulips, and wild flowers, all of which have sprung up in random locations adding beautiful color to the forest foliage, especially during spring.

Above the forest floor, a dense canopy gives shade over the life below, and an umbrella during the rain. In the canopy above, openings and holes allow shimmering rays of light to glow through. During the night, the trees make little shadows from the moonlight, many dancing in the occasional wind.

Clear streams and brooks trickle through the forest, giving the creatures a clean source of water to drink.
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Forest
Sunlight filters down through the canopy of leaves that the trees create, that forms a delicate, timeless glade. The babbling of a brook is heard nearby, snatches of birdsong can be caught by the ear. This is one of the pleasantest parts of the forest - some areas are much more sinister. There, the leafy branches become clawed arms, reaching over and enclosing you, the emeralds turning to murky greens, dark, dank, with no breeze stirring and an oppressive silence hanging in the air.
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Gold Sands Beach
A mile-long stretch of pristine sand, golden in hue, spreads out before the water. A thousand romances have begun - or ended - here, with the waves lapping against the sand as the sun sets on a perfect day. The ocean is a transparent aquamarine color, glimmering softly in the sun. For the most part, the seas are calm and peaceful, but occasional a storm dwells on the horizon causing massive tsunamis to roll into the shore.
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Highlands
From the time of the ancient barbaric clans, many different peoples have called the Highlands home. Whether residing in the lovely, sloping foothills or the jagged, cragged cliffs of the highlands, these people have harmonized with the ageless, mighty spirit of the mountains. With dusty gravel they paved roads through the hills, and with their tireless feet wore winding paths through the towering promontories. They hunted the rams that tussled in the rocks, the elk that cavorted through the forests, and the agile hares than bounded amongst the swaying, verdant grasses. But always the distinction was made between life on the ground and life above the world. The highlanders existed closer to the heavens than any other mortal beings, or so they thought, and believed the world to envy their enlightenment. But staring upwards from the mortal earth, lowlanders pitied and feared the wretched souls who dwelled in total isolation, unnaturally suspended above the spinning clay that first bore them. Two parallel worlds, divided by altitude.

The lowlands roll on gently for miles. Sparse forests of oak and ash populate the hillsides, harboring a thousand forms of life within their glens. A great many flora thrive at the feet of the mountains, fed by the trickling streams of run-off from the mountain peaks. With each morning, a translucent veil of mist rolls in from the mountains. And as dusk descends the breathtaking reds, oranges, and purples of sunset cast themselves over the lowlands. As night falls, ceremonial bonfires can be seen all across the mountainsides.

But as one climbs nearer to the sky, the hills become exponentially steeper. The earth, once downy spring green, gradually thins into the occasional sprig of scraggily mountain sage. Eventually, even the most stalwart of herbs find life unbearable, and snow begins to blanket the barren ground. Pines, spruces, sumacs, aspens--all monstrously tall and imposing--leap from the earth in droves. They shroud out the sun, turning parts of the mountains into eerie, dark woodlands. Coniferous needles blanket the icy skin that covers the heads of the cliffs. Wolves and bears, among other beasts, have acclimated themselves to the treacherous environment. Ravens wheel circles in the sky, living comfortably off the half-rotten meat they scavenge from the carcasses of fallen travelers. Without the penetrating glare of the large cities, the stars blaze brilliantly above.

But with the moon whispering through the clouds, the tree-coated mountainside is illuminated with a steady, silver flood of light. In the basking light one can easily make out an ominous outline that rises up against the horizon. Poised atop the highest of mountains crown-like are the crooked towers and crumbling battlements of an old castle. Though the citadel looks to be abandoned, its wicked pinnacles still brandish red banners embossed with a mysterious family crest. A throng of bestial gargoyles snarl from the rooftops as if to ward away visitors. These stone effigies are hardly necessary though, for many adventurers have reported sightings of shadowy, daemonic-looking figures patrolling the battlements of the citadel. Heedless of this, treasure hunters have attempted to enter the castle and pillage it. However, all such attempts have met incredible disaster by some unknown force. What has thwarted all these plunderings and who are these mysterious beings that keep vigil over the ancient castle?

The majority of travelers find the highlands haunting, unforgiving, and terrifying. However, some see it as a place of ancient beauty, a hallowed, untouched holy land. One’s opinion of the highlands often depends on one’s route of travel and, more importantly, on one’s ambitions.
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Hot Springs
Limpid pools lie in abundance here, steam rising from hollows in the rocks and bathing the air with a rich humidity. Even in the depths of winter, the pools are warm, heated by the underground channels of lava that run away towards MoonCrest Volcano. The babble of the water sounds like the giggles of hidden nymphs, and the area is often held to be filled with healing magic.
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Hyloth Dungeon
Long, dark passageways, twisting staircases, vaulted dungeons surrounded in gloom and shrouded with mystery. Orcs are said to roam the lower floors, their weapons and armor forged in the molten lava pits. The walls, floor and even ceiling of the tunnels glisten with slick grime, and are covered with coagulated blood. A stench rises up from the depths, the smell of death and rotting corpses of lost adventurers. It is a foul place to be and best be left to the strongest of adventurers and warriors.
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Ice Isle
A stretch of an island creates the Ice Isle, off the southwestern shore of the homeland continent. It is eternally winter here, for this is a place of merciless winds that blow snow against whatever exposed skin one has, and leeches the heat from their bodies almost immediately. The weather here is so intense there is rarely a creature found, and if one is lucky to encounter said creatures, they are often unfortunate in such an acquaintance. Frost giants, worgs, and goblins are known for their raids that comb the isle, whether they are towards humanoid settlements or wanderers that seek the treasures of the Occlo Town Ruins.
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Ice Isle Cave
Farther in on the Isle of Ice, the ground starts to gain hardness and gradually starts to incline into a large mountain. On the southern side of the massive mountain, there was an opening, probably eight to ten feet in height. Snow covered the entire area around the opening, and near the top there were large, deadly looking ice sickles formed with changing temperatures, which were seemingly rare.

Inside the natural made crevice there were small and large rock formations alike. None of them had any such spiritual meaning; they were simply naturally made my dripping water and the flow of wind over time. The depths of the cave were dark, and the walls were constantly cold and damp. The idea of using this cave for a place of shelter was seemingly preposterous, and the cold only seemed to increase into the depth of the cave. About ten feet into the cave all sight of light vanishes, and without the presence of a lantern or candle, the rock formations, walls, and ice sickles were all lost in the sea of black abyss.

On the top of the cave were more crystalline, deathly sharp ice sickles, and the sound of some sort of animal was always present. Trickling water slid down the walls of the cave constantly, even when the temperatures were at their coldest, though the amount was never enough to quench thirst.
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Kindor
Upon the surface, a small town practically deserted sits against the ocean. The crystal clear water laps against the pristine white sand, providing the perfect setting for a day, or night, at the beach. The town itself is practically deserted, less than 20 people inhabit this small village. An inn holds up visitors and a small café situated on the side of the beach provides a perfect place for a meal. This small village, however, holds a deeper secret. A fortified building towards the outskirts of the village houses a thick stone tunnel that seems to dive deep into the earth. The tunnel does not appear to be guarded, but from the looks of the building it seems to ward off any intruders.

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Most of the natural light dies out a short way down the tunnel, and from there it is illuminated by burning torches hanging on the walls. The torches are frequently checked, replaced and relit when they burn out. Light from the burning torches dance upon the stone walls, and provides enough light to make the journey down the tunnel safe. The stairs seem to continue on forever. A fair distance down the tunnel, the stone walls of the tunnel become dank and the ceiling drips water through tiny cracks. Further down the tunnel, the stone walls begin to change into a glass like substance, and eventually the ocean is visible. Under the previous stone of the tunnel, the glass is used to keep a flood from happening, but it is not noticeable.

Through the glass the beauty of the ocean is truly apparent; unlike from the surface where the true beauty of the ocean is obscured. The vast array of life in all forms, the shining clear water, and shining rocks or the occasional piece of gold are only a few of the stunning things under the ocean’s choppy surface. Once the now glass tunnel hit the ocean floor, the flooring is also made out of glass and the walls no longer leek the outside liquid. A bit of the ways ahead is a widening opening guarded by two men, neither carrying any weapons. The peaceful town’s men take shifts to water the entrance to the under water city, and the opening was never left unguarded. At the opening to a large glass dome, all weapons are deposited safely, until leaving the town. The town has a prohibition on weapons and is quite strict with this policy.

The town is lit from natural sunlight filtering through the ocean water above the dome, and at night bioluminescent fish contained in jars illuminate the paths. Other than the obvious differences, the city resembles that of a much larger town. Buildings line paths, which for appearances sake are made of smooth stones, to represent a path like any other town. Many of the buildings are decorated with dried starfish, sea shells, and coral. The ground is completely made out of glass, but it has been covered in dirt and grass, all hand planted from seeds from the surface. Trees, flowers, and even rocks have been brought down to create a more realistic, although artificial, environment for the citizens of the city.

Kindor is very clean, and the people are oddly nice and respectful of everyone, including visitors who come with no good intentions. Even the tavern lacks vulgarities and heavily drunken bodies. In some ways the town actually functions better than those above surface. Also like other towns, there is a bazaar and most everyone participates. Booths line the paths, without any shading cloth like many of the surface towns, selling different oddities, even including some ocean artifacts that hold little value, other than beauty.
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Land of Mist
Beyond the Western Mountains lies a territory vastly unexplored. Cut off from the rest of civilization, this open frontier is riddled with mysterious places. Among ancient ruins, wrecked airships, and abandoned, ransacked villages is a place as old as Daeluin itself. Where the mountains slowly taper down into the sloping hills are a series of steep, jagged cliffs. Several cool springs run down the mountain, dripping through crags in the rocks and down the face of the cliffs. There, the springs fade into towering waterfalls. The falls drop down and down, eventually hitting a very vast lake below. However, due to changes in temperature that result from the long fall down the mountains, the water creates a great amount of mist as it settles into the lake below. The steam is thick, so much so that one can hardly see ten feet in front of oneself. It pools over the surface of the lake and billows like dust from the foot of the falls. It is from this eerie, ever-present fog that the Land of Mists gets its name.

Running across the silver lake is an ancient, stone bridge. The bridge is very old, yet still largely intact. In the few places where it has broken, large stones remain just above the surface of the water and act as stepping-stones. Every so often, the bridge widens into a sheltered pavilion. The curled, pagoda-like edges of the roof are covered with wind chimes, so travelers lost in the mist can find their way to the bridge. Small benches are left waiting under these pavilions. From the shelters, one can somtimes catch glimpses of the beautiful white cranes that populate the falls. They can be seen winging by soundlessly, carrying saffron koi in their beaks. By night, the entire bridge is lit by enchanted torches that burn with blue fairy-fire. Fireflies gather around the bridge as well, adding their soft golden glow to the cloudy nights.The bridge spans several miles across the lake, and throughout the journey the oppressive fog and the pounding of the falls are constant reminders how destitute the Land of Mists really is.

Finally, miles away, the bridge ends on a rocky shore. In the shallows that surround the land, several old boats are still tied to docks. The bottoms of the boats have been eaten away, but their beautifully crafted bows still duck and roll in the currents. A stone-paved path winds up the lakeside, carefully climbing through the mists. Along the path, dead beach grass sways in the winds. Once golden statues of dragons dot the hillside periodically, their shattered forms glistening with the last of their gilt paint. From the shore, one can sometimes hear the songs of sirens as they sing to travelers from the rocks. To be lured away by their song means certain death for all that stray to far into the mists.

At the end of the path is an enormous stone staircase. Because of the steepness of its incline, the stairway seems to fade into the mist.
But if one braves the climb, one will see a most amazing sight at the top of the stairs. A stone platform sits against the hillside with a small wooden fence running around the perimeter. Here, the fog is cleared, and one can look back across the lake. But what is most surprising about the platform is that from the step cliffs above flows a great waterfall. The water pours over the far edge of the platform, running down the mountain through an ancient irrigation system. But the waterfall glows with an ethereal, blue light. If one dares to pass through it, they will find themselves in a most remarkable place- the land of Spirits.

Once through the waterfall, one will find oneself atop a mountain. Other peaks dot the horizon in all directions. In this strange place, it is always dusk, and beautiful clouds roll across the sunset sky. A profusion of gleaming stars dot the heavens as well. But what is most amazing about this place is that here, one can revisit deceased loved ones. If one wills it, the spirit of the deceased will appear in semi-tangible form. The spirits will appear in exact accordance to how the visitor viewed that person when they were alive. Yet though the departed will truly appear, they are but an illusion. The spirits will not talk or react to visitors. Eventually, they will fade away, leaving one alone on the desolate mountaintop. Walking back through the waterfall, one will come upon the stone platform once again.
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Misty Swamplands
The misty swamplands are a sickening place. Everything is covered in slime, and rotting animal corpses, each sinking into the murky depths of the quagmire. There are festering trees, living but rotting in the mulch and filth. The air is putrid, the sickly-sweet smell of decomposing vegitation and animals creates a rank stench that wafts above the ground in waves of objectionable, nauseating, living death. The marches release slow rising bubbles as something slightly heats the what could be considered water from beneath. The swamplands extend for miles in every direction.  

[ContayVona]

Continued...

Minoc
Situated on the southern end of the continent of Minya Amar, north of the Golden Sands Beach, the run down town of Minoc was built. From its earliest stages, the town was lawless and decreed as such. In an attempt to bring in people from all over DaeLuin quickly, they announced the settlement as “the city of freedom”; where people could do as they please. But it quickly turned to anarchy, as people flouted their civil responsibilities and their basic humanity, murder, rape and thievery ran rampant. Amongst the chaos gangs formed to keep each other alive, and take over parts of Minoc. Pirates, thieves, smugglers, harlots and the like took over the town.

The town was so overrun with thieves and pirates that anyone who stepped within the confines of the town’s walls would be robbed and killed – or possibly worse – before they even had a chance to seek out safe harbour. Due to the duplicitous and evil nature of the town, a sentry outpost was positioned on the road outside of the main gates, preventing anyone from leaving or entering without specific authorization… Minoc had been isolated from the rest of DaeLuin for the better part of a decade. But now, after the crime run town culled off its own inhabitants, a much smaller and potentially far more dangerous population is all that’s left. The guard post has been informed to allow in people who wish to visit the town, but maintain the ban on anyone who resides within from leaving.

The town itself is all but run down. With no civil services, carpenters, or general traders, the town has not been repaired in many years. The many battles over the years has caused immense amounts of damage to the buildings. While some remain relatively unscathed, these buildings are generally controlled by the higher powers of the town. The streets are filthy, with blood splattered stains all over the cobblestone pathways. Small dirt alleys between the building plays host to the decaying corpses of recently killed victims, dragged off the street and simply abandoned.

The town, as a whole, slants down the side of a mountain. The main street leads directly from the decadent front gates of the town to the strangely preserved docks in the ocean. At least a hundred boats of varying size have been moored at the docks, or sitting anchored in the small bay. Pirate ships, smugglers vessels and general trading ships make up the majority of the boats. Black flags with a sword through a beer mug sail from virtually all ships, showing their allegiance to the town of Minoc.

Gangs of pirates, thieves and the like patrol the streets of Minoc, showing their clear dominance and hierarchy of order within the town. Gang wars are continuous, but relatively minor, with each of the gangs knowing their position within the town. Visitors to the town should make their presence well known, lest one of the gangs kill them for spying. Several gang halls lie hidden throughout Minoc, within buildings, below the streets and even in large ships at the docks. Virtually anywhere can play host to a gang’s headquarters, or meeting place.

Anyone who enters Minoc does so at their own risk, and may very well never make it out alive. But the treasures hoarded within the confines of the town are virtually limitless, if one is smart about their ways, and capable of infiltrating the larger gangs, their rewards would be well worth the effort. But anyone caught attempting to steal or trick the gangs of the town will find themselves in an alley decaying with the rest of the corpses.
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MoonCrest
The streets of MoonCrest, one of the busiest in all Daeluin, are thronged with people. Never quiet, the town is bustling, with vendors calling out for people to buy their wares and many animalistic noises coming from the livestock pens. With many stalls, as well as established businesses, just about anything can be bought in this town. Goods, information, even the magic of spells...
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MoonCrest Island
((Missing))
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MoonCrest Mines
On the western cost of Daeluin, a rugged stretch of hills reach high into the mountains. The knolls are rocky and massed with stubborn boulders and weather-worn stones. The unforgiving terrain ascends high into the jagged peaks. Thin, dried grasses grow between cracks in the stony silt; creeping purple lilies clamber over rocks. Where the road leads towards the snow-capped summits, the way gradually becomes a paved lane carved from the earthen soil. The air is thin at these high altitudes, and only the wild rams roam the narrow cliff-ways. Temperatures plummet by night, and each morning a lingering mist coats the landscape. Just as travelers come upon the highest altitudes, the great towering spires of the Mooncrest Mines rise up against an endless sky. The gates of the city-like mines are eternally open, immense double doors that seemed to be wrought from the very flesh of the mountain. An arch of gray rock surrounds the doors; long, wicked spikes protrude from around the crumbling structure. Flanking the entire keep are two great statues. The monuments depict two Dwarven kings, bedecked in the luxury of royalty.

The mines are one of the few remaining wonders of the early ages of the Dwarves. Warlords and kings feasted in the magnificent halls epochs ago, their mighty axes propped against monstrous doorways and elegant pillars. From the depths of the mines the Dwarves dug ore of mithril, gold, silver, steel, and a myriad other precious minerals. What eventually drove the Dwarves from their mighty hall is a fact lost to time.

But the mines are far from abandoned. For one step within the great structure will reveal that civilization has stretched its hand to the west as well. Scattered through the chamber are the weathered carts and caravans of traveling merchants, adventurers, and miners. Small tents selling supplies, water, and dried food flap in the subterranean breeze. Filthy, scowling commoners mill about, sharpening pick axes and repairing hammers and stakes. A great din rises to the vaulted roof of the keep, the mixed sounds of clinking smithy’s tools, groaning cart wheels, and the incessant drone of human voices. But the cavern is constructed in such a way that when one descends into the actual mines, these sounds become muddled and inaudible. The farther into the earth one goes, the more silence and darkness one will discover there.

The grand hall branches off down several main mine tunnels. Deeper into the black shafts, the tunnel walls are lined with roughly carved runes. The symbols explain the depth of each zone, tell what ores can be found there, and warn against any potential dangers that may be found in the shadows below. However, these signs are often ignored as they are scribed in the Dwarven language. The hollow pathways slither down and down into the heart of the mountain. The shafts are narrow with low, moss-covered ceilings. Flaring torches illuminate the walls of the stone mining shafts, though each light only brightens a radius of about two meters. Stalactites hang tooth-like from the cavern roves, dripping with mineral-rich spring-water. The liquid pools along the rough ground of the passages, collecting into dark puddles. In the central parts of the mine, a vast fissure in the mountain splits the caverns in two. Here, narrow stone bridges span the gaps. By the natural passage of time and the wear of pounding feet, several of these spanning bridges collapsed. Due to the loss of these structures, many parts of the mines have become lost altogether, inaccessible to all that roam the chasm.

But even more dangerous than the chasm are the lowest, infernal levels of the mines. There, temperatures soar to unimaginable heights and lava can be seen through fissures in the rocks. Few dare to delve this far into the earth, but still some reckless ones make the journey. After all, it is said that in the heart of that fire there are diamonds to be found.

Still, while one delves deep into the darkness of the earth, one must keep in mind the ancient tales of the Dwarves who built the Mooncrest Mines. Legend tells of a sinister presence that lurks in the deepest and most infernal parts of the stronghold. The spirit is said to be a creature blacker than the night sky with the breath of the sun. These descriptions are vague though, and are mere yarns after all. Few miners worry about the daemon that is said to haunt the mines. Still, others travel here for the soul purpose of finding the beast and attempting to slay it. All that is known is that not one of those adventurers has ever succeeded.
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MoonCrest Volcano
((Missing))
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Oak Wood
While walking through the overgrown forests of Oak Wood, a common traveler might not find even the slightest trace of a city. Here, the trees are monstrous- at least five times as wide and tall as ordinary trees. Yet woodlands are pristine and untouched. Year round, different flowers fill the gaps between leafy foliage, their bright faces basking in streaming sunbeams. Not even the footprints of men litter the paths of the woods. It seems impossible for an entire city to be snuggled between all this unmarred vegetation. But there is indeed a city within the forest and to find it, one must merely be looking in the right direction- up!

Oak Wood is a small metropolis built high in the colossal trees of the NorthWest Forest. Wood Elves constructed Oak Wood long ago as a capital city. The Elves planned the city in a circular formation with a single, ancient tree at the center. Dubbed “The Nexus Tree”, this ancient wood contains the palace of the Wood Elf royalty and is itself worshiped in a religious fashion. Every building in Oak Wood is expertly crafted from natural parts of the forest. The ancient edifices wind around, through, and even inside the trees. One enormous tree can house up to two -dozen families in its branches.

Rope bridges and winding staircases connect the various districts of the city. In the Amaranth District, Elven gardeners care for colossal tree-gardens. Within the very living bark of the trees, a myriad flowers blossom beautifully. In the Hallowed District, sacred rituals and services are carried out inside The Nexus Tree. In the Arrow District, young men are taught the art of marksmanship, a vital skill for the elves both in wartime and peace.

By night, the entire forest is illuminated with phosphorent, glowing lanterns. The lights hang from the trees, swaying in the evening winds. They give the entire city a fascinating, enchanting ambience. On warm summer nights, the Wood Elves love to stand outside their homes and sing to the moon. If one is lucky enough to visit Oak Wood on one such evening, you may hear the magical voices of the Elves, high above, laughing in their city in the trees.
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Occlo Town Ruins
The barren and desolate tundra of the Ice Isle stretches for fathoms in every direction. Stark whiteness encompasses the landscape, coating mountains, knolls, and sharp plateaus. Miles away the horizon jets upwards in a jagged, inconsistent line. Several sparse cedar forests are scattered helter-skeleter across the Isle. But at the heart of the ice-locked continent, the forests seem to be charred, burned away. Amidst the tangle of arctic brush and ashen husks of trees, the rising pinnacles of some stone construct rise out of the woods. The ruins are covered in a tangle of frozen over vines and dead foliage.

This ruination is all that remains of the once thriving metropolis of Occlo. The town once spread out for miles across the ice. In eons past it was the home of the Ice Elves. Occlo was, in its former days, a hub of Isle trade, a revered center of arcane studies, and the monolithic capital of a once flourishing civilization. However, centuries ago the Ice Elf Empire began to collapse. It is said that a rouge crusader set out to destroy the civilization, spreading destruction and carnage in his wake. Some legends claim that this dark warrior was once an Ice Elf himself, but that he had been twisted into insanity by black magicks. At his hand, Occlo fell. Subsequently, the Ice Elves seemingly became extinct and were banished to the pages of history.

The skeletal husks of buildings are all that remain of the once glorious Occlo. Dust and snow blow across empty, forgotten streets. Merchants’ stalls and carts still stand as they did on the last day of Occlo’s existence. Shattered pottery and glass litters the untended courtyards and gardens. Buildings are now derelict, doors fall from rusted hinges. Ice seems to have found its way into every corner and nook. At the heart of the metropolis is a grand terrace. Pools and fountains, now frozen over, flank the entire courtyard. In the middle is a long-dead garden. Frozen weeds and scraggly brush lie frozen across the masterful masonry. Yet amid the forlorn stalks, a few fresh, verdant flowers grow in rebellion to the cold and silence. They are tall, yellow-flowers with delicate tendrils. Never seeming to die of chill, the amaranths are the only color left in the gray city.

There is a great deal to see and explore in Occlo. The old Temple is still intact- an ancient house of worship to the Ice Elf gods. Many market squares still wait to be rummaged through for remaining goods (though raiders and treasure hunters have long stolen away the most valuable of Ice Elf relics). Mansions and conservatories are left to decay slowly in time. But nowhere in the forgotten streets or homes will one find the skeletal remains of an Ice Elf. The true nature of their disappearance is vastly unknown. Some fantasize that the Ice Elves are merely in hiding, slumbering in tombs beneath their vast city. Others claim that the crusader who destroyed Occolo burned the bodies of all he found. It seems as though, one night, a chilling wind swept through the metropolis, turning every Elf into dust, and froze everything else as it was. It is a place that defies time for it has remained the same for a hundred years and will remain so for hundreds more.
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Sunken Ruins
Just like the raging winds and the tireless fires at the core of the world, the seas are ever changing. At any moment, towering mountains may rise in tall, cragged peaks, only to shatter downwards into the briny surf seconds later. The water is restless, always flowing, always rushing. It takes heed of nothing and will not cease its endless journey for any magic or divine will. Its anger cannot be quelled. And so when, long ago, the oceans boiled hot with rage and caused a storm like nothing previously glimpsed, neither mortal nor god was able to prevent the cataclysm. The sky and the clouds had turned a sinister, brooding gray as sea and sky touched hands briefly in the indescribable moments of a storm’s birth. The lightning and tsunamis swept across the Western Seas, surrounding a vast island where an affluent civilization of sailing men had flourished. Within a day, the entire isle had vanished into the brawling ocean. In the ferment of the night, every denizen and traveler had been pulled down into the dark depths. Once towering palaces and pillars slept dreamily at the bottom of the bleak waters. What had been a lively, bustling center of life had succumbed to the most sublime forces of nature.

In the aftermath of the calamity, snarling whirlpools opened in the surf. Even the most magnificent caravels could not run such a gauntlet, and for ages access to the now sunken city was impossible. Without any first hand accounts of what had become of the metropolis, Daeluinians were only able to speculate. Gnarled old sailors and airship captains told half-crazed stories of a great populous of monsters that dwelled amid the ruins. Mystics and psionics glimpsed the sunken world in dreams, and rambled of the half-dead residents, caught midway to death and trapped in a watery limbo. Scholars were certain that the city was intact, albeit quite ravaged by decay and oceanic drift. Yet even the most senseless of these propositions was put to the test when, without warning, the perilous whirlpools spiraled to a dead stop.

Now, the sunken ruins are open to all travelers. But the route is still perilous and fraught with ceaseless storms. The waters surrounding the ruins are blackened with an eclectic miasma of discharged magic and algae clusters. Leagues down, the sunken ruins wait in their eternal sleep. Rising far above the buildings is a vast, sweeping archway that straddles the entire city. The arc is inlaid with lost runes, describing the history of the city. At the heart of the city is an immense coliseum. Built to seat spectators in the thousands, this arena is several hundred feet tall and rises up like a hollow pillar from the epicenter of the metropolis. Beyond, the buildings seem untouched by time, and appear to be almost inhabited. The cobbled streets of the city are still strewn with broken crates, bear-axeled carts, and shattered pottery. Eerily, it seems that the metropolis sunk only days ago, for ancient produce and market goods are miraculously preserved in the stalls and shops. Building fronts are coated in fine layers of aquatic plant life, as though the facades were draped in creeping ivy. Behind the windows of houses, furniture is rotted, but whole. Yet what seems totally absent from the city in any form are signs of life. No living being appears to inhabit the city; worse yet, not a single corpse has ever been found among the ruins.

What could have happened to the thousands of citizens who sunk, screaming, into the brine? Some explorers speculate that the myriad maritime monsters that lurk in the ruins quickly consumed them. Others tell fantastic stories of a great curse that gave every citizen gills and fins and immortality to match the restlessness of the eternal sea. The truth has yet to be determined.

For now, the sunken ruins wait for their secrets to be exposed. Why did the sea grow so furious with the island? What caused the whirlpools to vanish so suddenly? And most of all— what happened to the poor souls who once inhabited the cursed city?

The route to the ruins is open. Who will be the great explorer to unlock the secrets of the restive deep?
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Trinsic
Unlike any other known village in the lands of DaeLuin, this small hamlet is comprised mainly of clay and straw huts, perched upon thick bamboo stilts.

The village itself is situated snug against a great mountain range, which towers hundreds of feet above the village. These mountains spread out along the northern peninsula, rugged and far steeper than any normal formation. Cliffs rise high into the sky, touching clouds, and plunge into deep chasms. The erratic, unforgiving mountain range is all but impassable, making any kind of entry from the north side of the island impossible. The mountains also provide shelter for Trinsic from the harsh, cold winds and give it a much pleasanter climate than it would otherwise have. Still, even on this tropical island the mountain tops are layered with snow all year round.

The bamboo huts are mismatched, some large, some small, and all are raised different heights off the ground. They have long ladders, or, rarely, an intricately designed bamboo staircase. The huts themselves are fairly open, with large windows on all sides, designed to allow as much sunlight in as possible. The walls are held together with nothing more than clay, dried in the scorching sunlight until rock hard. Rain is clearly a rare sight here, as the roofs are made of straw, their primary purpose shade rather than protection. If rain were to fall, these huts would provide little protection.

Inside, brilliant rugs and decorations hang from walls, doorways and window ledges. Doors and curtains are represented with long strings of beads – privacy is clearly not an issue here.

To the south of the village, vast, lush green plains roll on as far as the eye can see, the long grass swaying softly in the cool ocean-bred breezes. Both flora and fauna seem plentiful and peaceful, undisturbed, and friendly with the native inhabitants of the island. To the southeast of the village, running alongside the rolling plains, a verdant tropical jungle sprawls out to the foothills of the eastern mountains. The jungle is largely unexplored, and what lies within remains a mystery.

To the southwest, the ocean extends unbroken to the horizon. The clear, greenish-blue water glimmers in the sunlight as schools of fish swim just below the surface. Several fishing boats float gently in the water, with a few upside down on the beach waiting for repairs. The ocean provides the village of Trinsic with the majority of the food it needs to survive, allowing it to leave the animals on the land free from hunting.

Trinsic is isolated from the rest of DaeLuin, with few outsiders managing to make their way to this hidden island. However, despite this lack of contact, and the seeming impossibility of invasion from the sea, the villagers are not feeble in their fighting skills. The young men begin their training two years before they reach the age of adulthood, so the sons of Trinsic are always ready to defend their home, should anyone ever find the village and be looking for trouble.
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Underdark
There are darker places in the world than the shadows alone. A great, massive collection of tunnels upon tunnels constructs the Underdark, where not a sheave of sunlight touches the darkened world beneath the ground. It is moist, humid, and most indefinitely lightless here, and for many of the creatures that live here, sight is rendered useless. The Underdark is very cavernous and the tunnels are carved through almost solid rock and dirt. The infamous Drow call the Underdark their homeland, as well as many other creatures, like those of the gray dwarves and hook horrors.
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Vespora
Vespora is a rich and hearty town, with clean-swept streets and warm lights shining in the windows of each building. The city is sturdy, made with thick oaken planks from the nearby forest, which after hundreds of years still show no wear at all -- perhaps enchanced to prevent decay.
Vespora has been built in a small inlet in the ocean, allowing shipping and trade between other cities and easy access to ships for explorers to travel much quicker. Vespora is best known for its smithing, as some of the finest blacksmiths in all of DaeLuin have taken up residence here.
Crime is taken very seriously in Vespora, with even the most minor of infractions, such as stealing, taken very seriously -- sometimes even with removal of a limb or two.
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Waterfalls
Cascading down a great horse-shoe shaped rim are hundreds of water falls, from tiny trickles to the great, roaring tumults that fill the air with rainbow spray and cause this place to never be silent. The air is moist, even in the driest of summers, and great arcs of color shoot through the air as light falls on the myriad, minuscule droplets. It is an area of rugged beauty, nature's forces beating down, unstoppable by any mere mortal.
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Western Seas
No one can believe a sailor's tale - but when they all say the same thing ... perhaps there is a grain of truth to it all?

The Western Seas are vaster than anyone knows; men have sailed for months without seeing land. They are deep as well; an anchor could fall for an hour before it reached the bottom. The water is a dark, murky grey, and every now and again there is a greasy patch of floating kelp, which winds itself around oars or rudders. It clings to them, slathering the wood with a thick green sludge. Sailors also talk of a clinging green sea-creature that hides among the rotting vegetation. Small and slimy, with frog-like fingers, they say it will climb up and strangle an unwatchful man. But sailors are fanciful people, and their words must be taken with a pinch of salt.

In winter, the Western Seas are a dangerous place to be. Storms strike up suddenly, lightning rents the sky and the rain pours down in sheets one can barely see through. The waves rise up like angry giants, taller than houses, grey walls of water crested with white foam that looks more like scum than froth. They tower up towards the dark sky, until they curl over, engulfing anything unlucky enough to be in its path. A boat swallowed up by one of these monstrous waves is never seen again; the sea has claimed it, and all aboard. According to sailors, who have a story for everything, these gargantuan winter waves are great sea-dragons that swallow whatever craft crosses their path. The dragons are hungry, they reason, because the seas are so large they rarely get a meal.

Even in the summer months, lives are lost in these waters. Sudden squalls will blow up out of nowhere, breaking masts and pitching men overboard. Once in the water, a man is lost. According to legend and myth, for one man to attempt to rescue a drowning man is to invite a curse upon the whole crew. So they daren't throw a rope, lest the next morning they're found with that rope in a noose about their neck. But it's just a legend, right? Superstitious sailors tend not to want to risk it ...

Even if a man doesn't believe in the weed-monster and the sea-dragon, there are many more beasts in the Western Seas. Every now and again, a battered boat will tack into port, and weary, wounded, but triumphant men will stagger off deck, carrying the limp body of a giant sea-serpent. The creatures vary, from slimy to scaled, but all are massive, and all bear great fangs or venomous spikes. They stink of dead meat and something vaguely fishy, but the head is preserved in turpentine and the meat sold as a delicacy. The fat and blubber are used to make tallow or grease, the poisons carefully bottled and bought by assassins. The skin is shared amongst those who caught it, and fashioned into bandoliers or belts. A sea-serpent-skin item is a badge of honor among watermen.

It takes a strong, swift craft and a skillful crew to make it out of this part of the ocean alive. Many men who venture forth never return. Those who do return rarely go out again. And yet ... some men are gripped with a strange fever that always draws them back to the Western Seas. They spend their lives on those waters, risking death with every waking minute and enticing it with every second of sleep. Mad, other sailors say, and they must be crazed if they are considered strange by a group of people generally held as raving lunatics.

Sailors. Who can believe a word they say?
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Witherthorn
Some places, it is said, are best forgotten. Perhaps that’s why the Witherthorn is unheard of by most commoners, though it has existed for epochs. Any wise traveler who happened upon it saw the cragged, uneven terrain as it rose before him and quickly turned back. Those that struggled out of the arid desert only to find themselves in the black lands lost hope and died somewhere in the wastes or crept back to the hellish desert. Only skilled armies ever tried to conquer the rocky expanse; only fool-kings ever attempted to build their citadels upon it. Cursed land, no matter how untouched it may be, is cursed nonetheless.

The Witherthorn is a vast, rock-strewn wasteland that spans miles and miles to the north-east. Broken crests of land surge upwards like frozen waves. The earth is parched from years of drought, and deep crevices run like wrinkles across the face of the land. Trickling down from the mountain creeks, little dribbles of spring water slither through the cracks in the ground. The hidden pools are just enough to provide nourishment for the stalwart mud-grasses that sprout helter-skelter from between the rocks; but travelers will always be dismayed to discover that by some cruel trick the water will hardly ever be enough to fill their flasks to satisfaction. The landscape is strewn with a plethora of rugged boulders, seemingly dropped out of nowhere. The dead husks of trees dot the landscape like ancient, hunch-backed sentinels. Only the wind creates the slightest motion as it stirs the stagnant sienna dust.

Where the land rises several degrees, the bleak wilderness swells upwards into flat, long winding plateaus. The high tablelands gaze out across the red, fallow plains, and here the sun bakes down in unrelenting blows. During their migrations, flocks of scheming magpies and skulking ravens will nestle along the cliff sides and feed on the baked carcasses of dead explorers who found nothing but dust on their journies.

Yet there are still remnants of civilization among the wilderness. Relics of witless kings and emperors who once tried to tame the Witherthorn still stand. Ancient stone forts, though half crumbled, rise against the horizon like sad, old warriors. Forgotten guard towers part the hillsides, their tattered banners furled as if the guards were still waiting at the windows. Rotten cottages are covered in bramble and thorn-bushes. Broken cart wheels can be seen stuck fast in the ravines.

For decades, scholars and historians have struggled to understand what inspired the builders of the old monuments to settle the Witherthorn. Without wild game, fresh water, or any trade routes to speak of, to attempt to live upon this cadaverous earth seems like suicide. But among the wild, dead land, the wind cries rumors and legends of the old realm. It whisks desert-legends off the sharp tongues of Northerners, steals their words out of their dry throats to whisk its way south. A stolen breath: the breeze tells a yarn of the Witherthorn. Once, it whispers, the Witherthorn was a mythic paradise. Its dales were cloaked in the thickest grass, and droves of buffalo and elk roamed its fields. It was, in fact, a holy land, a place revered by every race and creed of people. Because in the Witherthorn, it is said that the very life force of DaeLuin was created: the Gods. Here, the original stream of divine power was fastened from the heart of the land and the light of the skies. Manifesting itself into the very first of the deities, the immortal energy began to drain from the Witherthorn and flow through air and stream to the rest of the land.

Yet as DaeLuin came alive, the Witherthorn began to die. But its decay was slow, so that the period of decadence lasted centuries. Over time, new pilgrims began to venture to this holy land to settle it and build their lives at the very place where the Gods began theirs. Somehow, the arrival of mortals in paradise catalyzed the death of the Witherthorn, and within a matter of years it shriveled and ‘withered’ away into a barren wasteland. Perhaps, the wind will breath, paradise was lost because too much of the divine power that enlivened it was flowing elsewhere. Or, maybe mortals killed it with their short-lived souls. Some say that the Gods murdered this sacred land with neglect. Whatever the answer may be, even the immortals themselves are unsure of why their birthplace was destroyed.

They know only that it is a place they are tied to immensely. And thus, when the Conclave was divided and driven to war, it was the Witherthorn that was chosen as the battlefield. What more apt a place to end a God’s life than the place where that life was first wrought?