Embergloam

A people of the Overwood, the oldest and greatest forest in the realm, who live on top of it: the bough road runs from crown to crown, to a city no map shows. They hear the trees, and the trees answer in their own time. They keep no king: the forest chooses who leads. Tellers keep the tales, wardens hunt, menders tend. Their high cousins say they have gone a little feral, which they take as praise. Thelen is where the road comes down to the river.

A people of Vaeliriel, the heights at the crown of the world, where it is never dark: their Great Prisms pass the light from one to the next down the mountain. They built it before most peoples kept records, and not for show: in their country a shadow left standing gets up, and they have fought what gets up ever since. Worldly, exacting, and sure of themselves, with cause. Ilessane keeps the lowest Prism on the line, where the light is thinnest.

A people of the Long Shade, the deep wood where the boughs close overhead and it is always evening. Few outsiders have seen it, and fewer describe it fairly. They study what others would rather leave alone, and have heard every word for that. Their high cousins call them a tragedy; they are too well-mannered to say what they call their cousins. Lastbough is the one door they keep, where the coach road ends and the Ushers show guests in and out again.

A people of the deep halls under the Anvils, who build in stone as nobody else can, and whose smiths' iron is asked for by name. Many clans, each under its Clanmaster, and every one has knelt to the Underking, who is crowned by birth. Proud, slow to forgive a slight, glad of a fight, and in a shield line as fine a sight as their halls. A serious people, until the second measure of ale. Garrund is their East Gate, where the deep road comes up into daylight.

A people of the Gloaming Shore, on the far side of the great lake, where the fog never fully lifts. They like it that way: it is quiet enough to think. Their cities lie inland. Lanternhook is the harbor the Salvors' Guild cut into the sea-cliffs, strung with lanterns so the boats can find their way in. Gnomish clockwork began with pieces salvaged from the ruins under it. They are proud of that, and don't think about it much.

A people of the Great Desert, who follow the rain across it on the backs of the behemoths: many-legged grazers, each carrying a camp. They keep their giant forebears' standing stones upright, because the sky-drifters that bring the rain steer by them. Anyone under the rain is their guest, and a guest is fed first. High elves find them embarrassing; ogres find that very funny. Grumble is one behemoth, sent out to a sky-drifter that fell.

A people of the open sea, who live under it and come up when they choose. Their towns lie on the reefs of the eastern sea, and few outsiders have seen one; the Tidefolk most people meet are pilots on the lakes and rivers. They live by the tides the Moon pulls, and they sing: a Tidefolk chorus carries for miles under the water, far enough to turn a leviathan. Ooraluun is an outpost on the edge of the open sea.

A people of the crags out west, who share the mountains with the dwarves and keep the dwarves' high watch. They fly: not far, but far enough, and near a Rookmother, one of the elders whose hum holds their towers up in the sky, they can fly any way they like. They give their dead to the sky, and the ground-folk call them bonepickers for it. They are quick, and fond of anything that shines. Aarak is their easternmost roost, floating over the foothills.

A people of the farms and gardens round the lake, who grow most of what Embergloam eats, and make up much of the town besides: it is a halfling town, though few who pass through it notice. On market days they bring their carts in over the stepping stones by the Ring, as they have since long before anyone thought to ask what the Ring was for. Welcome anywhere, and consulted nowhere. Sweetwater is their nearest hamlet, across the water from the town.