"Its a dangerous place, the Wastes. Bandits, Gnolls, Goblins with all them teeth!"

*shudders*

"Still, Harpies are the worst, the others will scare you, Harpies make you want it."



A large nest of broken trees, limbs, and pieces of old wood carts sits at the top of a shard of rock, like a plinth of stone in the center of a collection of broken hills. Soft crooning can be heard on the wind by all those get to close. They say that that crooning might even turn into the last song you will ever hear, if you don't keep your wits about you.