Far to the west, on the northern cut of the ragged and wind-ripped island known to some as Glanestrion, are the fabled Halls of Rhan, a land of smooth wide valleys and deep boulder-fields and broad mountain shoulders.
The mountains make stoic walls for the Halls of Rhan, and so infrequent are the doors that each long valley hardly knows of its neighbors. There are no trees to feel the wind, no flowers to wait for spring. It is a cold place.
Travelers, there, tell of a certain foreign geometry, a problem of scale like a house of mirrors. There, so far west, the whole world is soaked in a sort of proportional mist, and each step is shorter, shallower, smaller then the last, and by the time one reaches the horizon they are barely large enough to see it. What looks like a day’s walk to a curve in the valley often takes weeks, and, as one approaches them, mountains swell and remember their posture, and dry, pebbly washes are revealed to be boulder-fields, and streams seen in the distance are raging rapids in the light of proximity.
The Halls of Rhan make the only known passage to the Heavens of Zed.