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Kerofinela
Kerofinela is the region of the mountain Kero Fin; outsiders call it Dragon Pass. It is a rich and magical land of forests and marshes, of grassy meadows and rocky, storm-blessed peaks. It includes the land of Sartar, hard-won home of the Heortling Orlanthi. Kerofinela is a holy and sacred land, bursting with life and fierce spirit energies, home to the Storm Tribe since before the world was set. Well-watered it is, pleasant to the eye, and generous in its bounty. Its three great rivers draw together and flow to the south, and other streams dive beneath the earth, some falling all the way to the underworld. Sky-reaching it is, and its rocky uplands hide many secrets, home to sleeping dragons and tribes of powerful entities. Unbroken its forests are, stretching vast and secretive, untracked and holding many things, so thick that even Elmal's fiery eye cannot penetrate the gloom. Kerofinela is a magical land, defying those who say It must be so, or, Beyond this hill as the hill before. Only the godar and the skalds full-know the secrets of its mighty storms, its roving hills, its enveloping mists and colored snows. The earth is restless here, and shakes itself in anger without warning. Five storms each proclaim their mastery, bringing in their alloted turn fire and darkness, rain and harvest, bright sunlight, and cleasing wind. Kerofinela is a blessed land, whose many holy places incarnate wonder and treacherous beauty, where meadow nymphs distract the young from their herding and gods of the air tribe chant their silence and storm across the rocky uplands. Kerofinela is a wind-gifted land, where the blessing winds of Ohorlanth bring promise and gentle rain, where the great hurricane gales of Orlanth rage in furious battle against the ice demons of Darkness, and where Kolat winds call the mighty to the mysteries of the Other Side. Kerofinela is an ancient land, filled with reminders of the past. The ruins of ancient empires lie about mostly worn and battered from titanic battles before and after the Dawn. The ancestors built some: ancient hill forts and guardian stones. These have been restored and are used again by the clans. Some ruins still shelter evil: shattered wrecks of temples, fields of melted stones that once were armies, twisted gateways of the Predark. The tribes share their land with Elder Races who have long sheltered here: Uz, hiding in the shdows; beast folk, who worship at the Wild Temple; dragons and their enigmatic kin; durulz and other Little People, with their tragic hidden plans; Aldryami in the shrinking remnants of their elder woods; and many lesser known races and beings. The Predark is also here, vile Chaos. In the Storm Age, its hordes raged across the land tearing the bastions of order down to the barest roots of being. The mountains of Sartar were formed in the great battles of the gods against the void army. From the Chaos nests of Ginijji and from a hundred other places the Predark still ventures forth in ever-changing form, some gross, some subtle, all seeking to pervert and destroy. Kerofinela is a Heortling land. The realm to the south and east of the Mother of Mountains is Sartar, a kingdom of great tribes. They are a rural people living in clans, herding sheep and cattle, and reaping the rich bounty of the earth. The tribes, though cut to different patterns, are of the same wool. Their traditions, organizations, and sacred stories may vary, but their worship or Orlanth, Lord of the Middle Air, and his wife Ernalda, Queen of the Broad Earth, unites them. The Alakoring tribes of Far Point have in recent years made common cause with the tribes of Sartar, but their wyrd is once again their own. Kerofinela is a land in chains. A generation ago, the Lunar Empire conquered Sartar in the name of its Red Goddess. The Lunar Goddess has many names, but the holy folk recognize her as Shepelkirt the Blood Moon, false mask of the Predark. She is an ancient enemy returned. The Lunar victory seems complete. The power and the unity of the original Kingdom is no more, though the tribes endure. The ceremonies of the founder are lost: the roads decay and the city walls weaken. Save a puppet prince, the royal line of Sartar is no more, its heroes vanquished and its warbands subdued. Year by year the grip of the Lunar Empire tightens. Some now boast openly that Orlanth Himself is bound, helpless. The great storms themselves seem to be dying, and the Sacred Time ceremonies weaken and fail. So the land of Sartar waits, groaning in travail. Surely a hero will arise to unite the clans and drive the invader from the land. Surely a champion of the clans will rise to defend the ancient ways. Surely the Kingdom will be whole again, and purified of its taint. Surely the Son of Sartar will come and make the Freedom Wind blow through the land.