Lake Crimin, many days walk southeast of the Principality of Jurra, is where they come from. They, them, those, that! I don't like them. I don't like how they make me feel, them being all shifty and detrimental makes me all shifty and detrimental. It's certainly not my fault, so it must be theirs, and I don't like that, no, not... one... bit.
The ones without stripes. No stripes! Don't like 'em. But I'm here anyways. Not because I want to, but because I have to - my obsession with the brown fluid has become nothing less than a life mission, and its answers important enough to merit a larger 'a'. With my access to Dulalia restricted, I've had to enlist the help of criminals. I don't like it and they don't like me. Except for that other guy. With the big hands.
Lake Crimin, on the outskirts of said Empire, is a ten lele wide beast which orders its stripeless hordes to commit atrocities unimagined. The constant fog that hangs over the lake makes visibility difficult, and this is its greatest gift: the blindness of not seeing the horrors of its deepest waters and its blackest skies. This has also flummoxed exploration, and you'll find some maps with islands, some maps without, and some maps with a big burn mark where the Religious Right scorched the demonia away. Criminals and the stripeless aliens like it here. Normal folks do not. Well, except for the fishermen... but they imported themselves from Shepenor in -445 EC, actually preferring the taste of fish from the Qestarius and tired and sick of the grief they earned because of it.
--Morbus Iff 14:53, 12 Aug 2005 (EDT)