Balanced between the billowing sea and the furrows of impassible peaks, the Imbrial Rim is the liminality of the coast. The city of Praphf, rising above the crux of many rivers, seems to have existed for an eternity. It is glutted with strange contraptions that combine living matter, decorative artwork, and unknowable spellcraft. It is not clear what, or whose, purpose these constructs serve.
Further inland, civilization becomes sparser and the vegetation takes on the air of hungry wolf, or a malevolently rising tide. The forces that separate people dominate. Towns become split by strife or sorrow or apathy into villages. Villages become paranoid enclaves. Enclaves become houses in the shadows of trees, whose lanterns burn through the nights. The old roads are cracked and weed-eaten, the old wisdom half-remembered and sneering. Looking towards the sea one might have seen beautiful sunsets once, but now clouds of gnats obsure twilight’s horizon.