The Greymire
"Lost and Listless, Come no Fabled Mistress Seek not your purpose here, Walk into the grey blear"
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The Grey Lost Mire, quite the dangerous place. Blanketed by a thick haze that comes from the spores of the great The Daregas Tree. The main feature of the mire, capable of growing into immense sizes. Their shelf like extensions are gardens to their own. And animals hide and thrive in them. Most noticeably, the spores they produce tinge the Greymire green. But when it rains and the haze is washed away, they are met with a colorless landscape. Neighbor to the Palereach.
At times where the Daregas thins and the mire turns muddy and rocky, the Scarzei reign freely. Tall reeds marked with a silverish crown. A feature the Weingand uses to camouflage itself whilst also signaling to others of its kind with its crown. These reed lands can stretch for two to four miles in any direction. They choke out the mud beneath them with their roots and disallow the spores of the Daregas to take. Ensuring the reedlands stay reedlands.
To seek pilgrimage through the Greymire is to become lost. Often feeling Cyacrafar or Kilhia as they trudge through this dangerous landscape. For the mire has a certain allure to it, a listless allure. One that shares no favorites and hides its secrets. One where the bed may be made, but the occupant shall never again dream. It’s a hard place, a dangerous place, not only to ones physical. But to ones mental. If one returns from their pilgrimage, often they are not the same. Yet not in the usual way- Distant. Lost. Listless. Yearning for something they can never return too.













