It always fascinates me how peoples and cultures can evolve in isolation from each other, and yet share such similar legends. Take the Turali, for instance. When they appeared here in Alexandria thirty years ago, our cultures could not be any more different, any more separated, and yet even they told tales that sounded oddly familiar to an Alexandrian ear. For instance, we both have a legend where crystalline creatures appear on the fields of war after battle, to feed on all the energies released in the fighting. And the bigger the battle the more energy expended and life force liberated the more terrible the titan that appears to feed. Perhaps the tales were intended as warnings against war: that nature will always punish those who wage it, no matter how powerful they might be. Or perhaps they are simple statements of fact: that here, as in Tural, massive disturbances in the aether are wont to awaken something inside the earth. If crystalline beasts start to appear during a particularly strenuous hunt, don't be surprised if their master isn't far behind!

  Do you know the Maw of Sansheya? It's a collection of springs that marks the border between the grasslands and the wilds. The water's undrinkable – not only because it's rich in ceruleum, but because that ceruleum's always on fire, ignited by the harsh light of the desert sun. It was named by the Tonawawta who make their home nearby. According to an old legend passed down among them, Sansheya is a beast of blue flame that sleeps in the earth below, awakening when its minions cast themselves into its maw. You might think it naught but a fable – a cautionary tale to warn people away from the burning pits. Indeed, many did – till a beast of blue flame matching the description in the legend was sighted in the area. The name "Sansheya" means "the reincarnated" in the Tonawawtan tongue. They know it as a vengeful spirit, who drinks in all the pain and suffering of the animals who slip into the pits and lose their lives to the flames, only to rise again to regurgitate it across the land. Whether you believe that or not is up to you. All I'll say is: if you do a lot of hunting in ceruleum country, don't be surprised if it should stoke a certain, cerulean flame.

  If you keep traveling north of here, you'll come to a mountain range where the air is thick with noxious fumes. That's the hunting ground of the Keheniheyamewi: the "mouth that breathes poison." In case you hadn't guessed, it's this poison that makes it so dangerous. The miasma it brews up in its belly plays on the nerves, you see. Makes you lose all sense of direction, and wander right into that same, putrid maw. If the danger it poses to any folk foolish enough to stray into its territory wasn't enough reason to see it slain, just think of its effect on the environment.

  It's a Shetona name, combining the words for ȫlue", "wings", and Ȯxtinction". I expect you're wondering about the Ȯxtinction" part. That's down to it being an extremely picky eater. Once it gets a taste for a certain animal it'll feed on nothing else, till their numbers are so reduced that it's forced to find some other, unfortunate creature to prey on. We need to put the ugly varmint down before that "other, unfortunate creature" is you or me.

  The Eshkeyaani Wilds are lousy with snakes. Getting bitten out there is just a part of life – or part of death, if it happens to come at the jaws of the silver–scaled Uktena. It isn't venomous, so far as we know. It's just enormous – swallowing unlucky travelers and their rroneek whole. Soon it'll be big enough to qualify as a full–fledged tural vidraal... unless we have anything to do with it.

  As you journey across Shaaloani, you may be approached by those who'd have you slay wild nopalitenders and claim the prickly pears that grow upon them. It's a common source of coin for many a viper. If so, you'd do well to focus your attention on the single–headed kind. Their fruit's far more fragrant than that of their triple–crowned cousins and fetches a much higher price. Sure, the 𢾫uloso" variety has a price on each of their three heads, too, but that's because they're a gardener's worst nightmare: aggressive, destructive, and invasive little weeds. I'd stick to the fruit–picking if I were you.