Dry winds scour the land, carving the foothills into broken spines of stone. Nothing grows here without a fight. The soil is cracked, the air sharp, and the sun rarely shows its face-only the ash-gray clouds drifting like ghosts above the ridgelines. Travelers cross the Lowlands only when they must. Most don't make the journey twice. Yet despite the desolation, life clings here-hard, bitter, and proud. Camps rise from the dust, forged from ruin and defiance. War bands gather in silence, and law is made not by crown or creed, but by strength alone. In this land, power is not inherited. It is taken, held, and defended by blood.