Yir is a kingdom of vapors perched high above the world. Cold rainforests sprawl across shattered uplands where the land itself rises in broken cliffs, thousands of feet above the grasslands below. Mazes of mangroves knot with drowned forests, and black pools yawn like mouths between their roots. Paths vanish overnight, swallowed by shifting waters, and the cliffs themselves bleed waterfalls that vanish into the mists beneath.

The descend from Yir is near suicide. The plateau was not meant for escape, only endurance.

The folk of Yir are scattered and sparse. Small mammals dart through the undergrowth, preyed upon by tall, sharp-beaked bird clans who prowl with spear and arrow. Between them stalk the lizard-folk, chameleon-skinned and silent, hunters who thrive in ambush and camouflage. None bend to any empire, and all live uneasily amid ruins far older than themselves.

Everywhere in Yir rise the shattered remains of temples—stone long claimed by moss and rot. Their carvings are worn, their rites forgotten, but still the swampfolk whisper of the beings once worshipped there. The old priests promised change, spoke of transformation as a gift. Yet the stories linger of shapes half-formed, of folk who shed their skins endlessly, never complete, never at peace. In the black pools, the locals say, something still waits.

Conflict festers even in isolation. The Bird–Civit Wars rage, tall hunters clashing against nimble arboreal fighters in ambush and reprisal. In the drowned forests, the Arboreal Kingdoms feud endlessly, their skirmishes as frequent as the storms. For Yir is a land that breeds no peace; its folk are too busy surviving one another, too busy fearing the return of whatever once ruled here.