It was a place of pure magick. A place where magick was rumored to have been birthed. Spora, the crystalline spores of dried liquid magick, drifted on the breeze like playful feathered seed as it danced about on currents of magick-scented air. It was said to have once filled all of Sentmar. That it fell as the flakes of snow fell upon the Glacial Mountains and filled the valleys like a heavy magick fog. That was before the Sidhe tricked the magick sects and placed the humans within the most distant mountains of the planet. Those creatures who were not natural to the lands, their evil was like a plague, like a sickness that arose from the magick and the lands they inhabited became imprisoned within. The Vale was to most, even those of the magicks, known to be only a place of legend now. Only a precious few knew the Vale still thrived, the magick that sustained all of Sentmar flowing from it to those created to be sustained by it. To the warriors of the Causeway, the Ogre, it was a place where no taint of human darkness could be found.
