Dylund is a quiet, long-shadowed swath of wheat fields and lone farmhouses and market town fairgrounds on the western coast of the Cauldron. It is easy of the Wencewood, north of Elessey, and south of the Sheepstrath. It is the source of most of the Ingle’s grain.
It is a land of rustling corn and long shadows on the dry ground and crows flying black across the early twilight. It is an autumnal place, even in spring, an orange October country.
It is home to meadowlarks and lonely spirits and folk who’re bound to roam. Travellers and traders come across the Whistlewinds, bound for the Cauldron, and they do not tarry long in Dylund. It appears a haunted place, not by ghouls or nightmares but by things unknown, unbound, the husks of autumn myth with nowhere else to go.