"The seashores of the sunken anvil"
Skirt the coast of the world's end until the sun sets to your left. Keep heading towards the mists and turn right when your solar stone shines blue. Sail straight until dawn. Then look back.
There was a time when the magical land of Ysslandril rivaled in beauty with the reflection of the sun on its seas. The fine sand in its beaches shone like gold; its mountains, proud giants, rose up to the sky entertaining clouds that caressed its peaks; and its flowers ... ah, its flowers!
Maybe they are what I miss the most and it hurts to remember. Splashing the ground, painted in a thousand colors, they defied all logic with their forms, whispering to the wind their rain of petals and pollen.
There was a time when springs followed winters, and summers gave way to autumns. The Ysslandril's magic flowed with the passing of seasons... until one spring day, when the first dandelion flew high, Fulvinter, the White Worm, unleashed its icy breath.
The Harsh Winter plunged life into an eternal lethargy, the winds tore the flowers and the trees were left bare; the snow numbed the land. The treacherous Fulvinter, moved by resentment, had triumphed.
Nowadays Ysslandril still retains a drop of magic in the form of hope. Four kids imbued with magic and endowed with the impudence that youth and ignorance give, go to the top of the Niflheim, to the dragon Fulvinter's lair.
Will they succeed where others failed? The Crafty Rival still keeps many tricks in its claws. It is possible this old man must still instill some wisdom in those featherhelmets...
I am the avalanche that fell from the skies,
Twilight of the seasons,
the Herald of Fate
and the Three Winters.
At the most remote and forgotten end of the archipelago, which is difficult to access, this gigantic glacier rises dominating the horizon and overhanging the rest of the mountains.
Although it is a huge mass of ice and ancient stone, its interior hides reminiscences of an old forest in an icy autumn. Some trees, of gnarled trunks and scarlet leaves, twist their thick roots colliding with the ice. The grass, totally pale, resembles a snowy field, where each blade slowly rocks in a cold glacial breeze.