[Quatral]

The Isle of Uil
  

 

In the far north, where ice clogs the sea and frigid winds blow down from the polar regions of the world, a lonely island sits adrift upon the tempestuous ocean. Trapped in a timeless precipice between glacier and stony seafloor, the Isle of Uil rests precariously.

 

The Heights

 

Windswept tundra covers the northern tracts of land, which come to meet the sloping foothills of the Ealan heights. Winding and wending bluffs which serve as a natural barrier to the cold northern winds, and the valley behind- providing a huddled shelter to those spare few living upon Uil.

 

High along the crag, few things grow. Yet even so, the sparse wildlife of Uil find a way here... sheltering upon the rocky highland. Various colonies of puffin, snow fowl, and white-haired foxes make their home in the cruel ecosystem of the frozen north. These small game serve as a fair source of food for the humans who dwell upon Uil. A pure white fox pelt above the hearth is seen as good luck for the native villagers.

 

The Basin

 

Surprisingly, the isle of Uil itself hosts a rare smattering of mortals which eke out a living on the southern bend of its landmass. Where the Callas basin meets into the sea, and southerly winds make for fairer climes. Lonely villages and cabins speckle the sloped hillocks around basin's edge, the Lake of Moin Tarn sits as its centerpiece.

 

These small communities are naturally tight knit, and made up of generational families of hunters, trappers, and even fishermen who brave the Moin Tarn when summer comes. For the entire thing is frozen over nearly all year round.. and many have gone missing out on the ice, especially after nightfall. Such is the nature of these places, wrapped up in mist- a frigid hoarfrost gripping at everything from shore to shore.
 
When daylight speckles through the dim grey of cloud cover which seems to perpetually hang over Uil, the land appears in a state of perpetual dreamlike slumber. Fog lifts and still the land carries a hazy palette with it. Colors blur and blend under the midnight sun on high... dim, but never truly put out by the careless weather which dominates Uil seasonally. Like one might wake up a thousand miles away from this place at any given moment.

 

A heavy mist yet clings to the land, making the snowscapes between settlements quite inhospitable to humans and their ilk. Within it, so too do things beyond legend and myth lurk between shadowed passes...

 

What Lurks . . .

 

Out of the night-

 

Old knights in rune-crusted armor, wyrms of folklore the world over, and all manner of outlandish beasts stalk the deep woods of Uil. So it would appear... when wild tusks and fangs gore the poor woodsman who'd not quite made it home at dusk. Acts of brutal murder which follow the wary inhabitants of the isle, seemingly perpetrated by all manner of drakes, harpies, and faefolk.

 

... Yet not everything is quite as it seems, on Uil.

 

Strange phantasms take the form of these monsters out of fable, illusions of old heroes, and the visage of unconscionable nightmares. So does the myth of Uil rear out of legend and into reality- these spectral predators giving life to the works of seeming fiction. Their origin is unknown, only those who brave the roads near nightfall can say for certain they even exist. Yet their ravenous work is known to all- when dawn comes and the unlucky are found... only a few hundred paces from their doorstep. Draining the island little by little, until some say only the ghosts will remain to watch over the timber cabins and longhouses which have served the people of Uil since stones could be hewn to tools.

 

Such madness is rarely talked about by those natives of the isle, all the same. To acknowledge the fantastical is reserved for particular occasion, when stories are told and boasts become as real as any other deed. On the 14th day of the lunar cycle, families gather- and the myths which are made true by the wraith-like predators of the island are put to spoken tongues. Legends gathered from both the long history of Uil, and even those passed on by unlucky sailors who've made landfall over the centuries. All of them conglomerate into the massive work of fiction which is told on the isle, each month, of each passing year.

 

Every beating heart knows the myths and the stories, down to the last syllable. Going to the grave with this spoken epic, is each islander's solemn duty to their ancestors- till none are left to speak it.

 

Indeed, if corpses could be roused from the permafrost on Uil, they could tell you stories beyond truth and fiction.