The hills of Phyrwold are empty places. They are always empty, of life wild or domesticated to subservience, or of death pervasive in decaying roots and bleeding rivers – emptiness instead holds her pale, pliant hands around the sky, a terrarium of silent fog and silenter rain to paint the trees in silver. Empty roads carve straight lines through deserted wheat fields and barbarous fences; an empty hamlet lies in the valley of a long-dried tarn, where not even ice will find its way in February snows. The emptiness of Phyrwold makes the gray clouds seems as playful children in the sky, racing over the trees so quickly as to not see anything under their feet – there is nothing to see in any case, only the presence of trees is deceiving.
