Don't make eye contact with a xin. Not superstition — they read intent through ocular contact and adjust their approach accordingly. You want to be unreadable for as long as possible.

Every crosslander and denizen in The Dark Peak worships Dunlockslyn — the giver of life flowing through the Dun, the Loxley, the Rivelin. At the end of life, the soul goes up to the ripperthroat mountains, where the murk sits thickest. Nobody's come back to confirm the logistics.

Murk starts at the eight-hundred-metre contour and it starts all at once — no smell, which is the wrong kind of wrong. Fog should smell of something. Most people see moss on the valley walls; I see infrastructure.

Dyapnids are the size of a spaniel barker, move in coordinated packs, and will wait at the treeline for days before deciding to flush a position. Their mandibles crack bone.