Cricket Creek Bog an afterglow, abandoned no longer

A'yan pawed at waters still fresh, mesmerized. Water - clear. Clear. Here?

She had followed streams here from the east, then realized the west was dawning upon her. The sea must be quite close, she thought; it would be quite nice to greet it before the waters turned too frigid.

Many a wanderer had warned her of the so-called "hinterlands"; a place unforgiving, not quite in the ways of the north's harsh cold, rather, a distinct cruelty worn by the south. The forests, the mud, the very water stole - and many lives had thus been stolen here. But they also spoke of beauty, a strange one at that. Where light fell, there came life; and where light dared not peek, there, too, also laid life. 

But still. They warned. Wolves did not enter this hellhole for a reason, at least not until famine had forced them to enter a desperate search.

Here, A'yan stood and wondered, as she looked about the rivers and forests alike. She turned to the water and asked, Do you know what hell they speak of? I cannot see it.

She really did wonder. Where was the dreadful "cruelty of the south"? She chased the sun here, and surely the sun could not lead her to so much suffering? She laughed; laughed at the idea of hell in a place so vibrant. 

Or perhaps it was because misery did not know A'yan's name.