The Virgin Lands had never known the footfalls of men. (Never you mind the ghostly steps of Quiet Ones.) Loamy soil broke in glee against sea-salt pitted plows.
Some few homesteads have bloomed into towns. Even fewer towns have splayed into cities, most hugging tight to the coast.
Iron and fools still flood towards vague hopes in this new place. Lumber, crops, and precious potash bleed back toward the Old Homes. However, nearly half of returning trips flounder and drown. Still though, iron tools and desperate fools keep coming.
You should know, before your charter your boats, ten paces outside city bounds quickly shifts to deadly wilderness. Wilderness that cannot be.
Why do mad castles and wimpled maidens await in far off forests deeps?
Why do wet nymphs call from crystal streams, bedecked only in foreign flora?
Why do moldering Empire ruins stray so far from the Old Homes?
How did the Quiet Ones loose their tongues? How long had they been here before us?
I do not know.
And who would come to such a strange and dangerous place?
None who are well. This much I can surely tell.