In the far northern stretches of the continent, icy seas batter against steep cliffs. Small trees, stunted by the wind, struggle to maintain their purchase on the thin soil. Eerie lights flicker through the long nights, and howling winds shriek through the canyons. At first glance, it seems to be a place utterly unable to support civilization.
The people who live here are hardy folk. The privations of the long winters and short, chilly summers are something they’ve become used to. And while the steep, rugged land isn’t ideal for farming, the ocean abounds with food. So, the Celymnur have become some of the best seafarers on the continent. They have long, sleek ships with shallow drafts, driven by oars or by the wind. The men row out to sea, then sail back on the unceasing winds. Many of them venture further, seeking foreign shores ripe with food and treasure, which they steal at swordpoint.
There isn’t much in the way of government. The villages are bound by ancient oaths and grudges, the men by honor and glory. But no one man rules this windswept nation; they’re too busy struggling to survive to worry about bigger things.