Sinjoh came to the world through a crack in a mountain, a secret hole, opened by some archaeologist swiping their fat, bumbling, blunt fingers the hundredth time across some old, old writing that looking at makes that lizard part of your brain want to find a hole to die in. Because that's what you need in Sinjoh. Stubbornness. Not science. It's all one big mystery and all the shadows that come bleeding off those monstrous mountains don't give up much; the light doesn't reach too far here. It's all one big swath of forest, split by a big, mean river, the apotheosis of all rivers -- they call it the Grandfather, but the locals know it by Paw Paw, and there isn't a stretch of water in Sinjoh that don't come from it. You have to know the Grandfather in Sinjoh, because there's no other way to travel unless you're brave enough to risk the forest, that unwelcoming snarl of root and bark and leaf. Roads get reclaimed too quick and easy by that thing, making upkeep aggravating if not a downright waste of money, and the winds and weather are too fickle to fly in.
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