Yon is the world, and the world is Yon. It is a land of fair winds and human progress and the smell of old magic, somewhere. The high, seasonal tide has a large effect on the shores of Yon and its people. Where did this all come from? Read about my process.
Here is an overwhelming waterfall of names:
The East
To those that think about these things, Daybreak is the center of the world. More reasonable people would notice how far east it is. It looks over the homely inland sea they call the Cauldron, and is the seat of power of the loose government of the Ingle.
In the valley of the Dun is quiet, bucolic Drumlind. Below the Cauldron is fair Elessey, home to the regal city Alexa and south of that is Ealdor’s Rest, kingdom of the descendants of the flight of Old Edya.
The South
South of the heartlands of Yon is the Middle Sea, the Neaping, sea of fair water and gentle tides. Ealdor’s Rest and the wide plateau that is Gandrin’s Run make up its northern shore, and to the south is the red-rocked, piratey coast of Daggarlund and Blisterlund. The Verventongue is east of that, bay of islands like teeth come vertical from the mellow green waves, and lawless towns on stilts along the cliffs. On the far side of Blisterlund is Kenzie, a country rich in coal and gems. The Thicket, a rainforest south, is an unpenetrable denseness. They say the bridge to the clouds is there, on some emerald shoulder of the mountains.
The Barrier Isles and the Eagle’s Talon protect the Middle Sea from the roiling north winds of Berehlias. There, the kingdoms of Rhingdar and the Tenehuat thrive in semi-isolation from the rest of the world.
The North
North of the Hornwood is an unfriendly barrenness, cold and wind-lashed. The Wildermoor is a gravelly scrapland of old spirits and iron ruin. The steppe of the Outlands are home to some small cities, Yalish and Wearinesse, but beyond that, over the Harrowhills and into the Ironfells, there is little civilization to speak of. Beyond that is only Goblund, the kingdom of black rock spires and battered square castles, and the thrashing sea, and the unknown islands in the far frozen north.
The West
West of the mountains is the ruin of Old Edya. Sunken Eleafe was once a wide, fertile valley where rice was grown and gleaming white towers watched over the land, but now it is a shallow sea, and the peaks of its towers barely graze the water’s surface. The Evening’s Empire is the only civilization that remains in those parts, a sour land of descendants of the flood.
The Far West
Glangildior, to the west of Edya, still holds some old power, and it is there that one might find echoes of how Edya once was. It is not fertile like Eleafe was, and it is home to a nostalgic, wistful people. Off its southwestern shore is Othlethin, last land of the west, place of tales of strange magic.
Here, we know, and we worry, of all the possibilities that might befall ourselves. The ailments, the illness, arthritis and gout and the goitres and boils. They do not know. They glide through their halls with their golden cloaks; they do not worry.
In the northwest is Glanestrion, wild island of giants’ scale, of scarred rock and wise beasts unknown.
They say, that far in the west, you run far enough towards the horizon the waves drop away under you and you keep right on running, sail off into the stars. Run so far west you pass the sun, and when it sets again it sets in the east, the whole world inverted.
Some things to expect in the far far west:
- Great wingéd worms on the thin western wind
- Banners waving ragged at the dying light
- Towers stained orange by the setting sun
- Mages older than the land itself
- Ruin and ruin and beauty and ruin
- Withered gleam on the battlements
- Power gone from the halls of power
The Far South
Beyond the Thicket and far Ossea is a strange primordial barrenness. The Scrubwastes and tidal Lake Sometimes are empty and still. Daring entrepreneurs from the Ingle have begun to mine the Iron Shore, but it is dangerous work, and they do not linger on land for long. Monstrous, horned and scaly lizards are said to prowl the prairie. Not much is known of them. Tales are tales.