The snowlands stretched endlessly like a frozen sea at the southernmost edge of the continent of Ronia Cresus. A merciless expanse of white, where the wind howled like a restless spirit and the sky seemed permanently stitched to the earth with threads of frost. To the untrained human eye, the land was lifeless, dead and forgotten.
Snow blanketed everything in suffocating silence. The few trees that dared grow there stood twisted and skeletal, their bark pale and brittle, their branches clawing at the sky like they were begging for warmth that would never come. No birds sang, no beasts roamed, not even the whisper of movement broke the stillness.
And yet beneath that illusion of emptiness, life thrived. Ancient, dangerous, and always on gaurd.
The shadowlands, as humans called them in fearful whispers, were home to two of the most feared races ever to walk the continent, the nosferatu and the lycans.
