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The northern shores wait forever, their bone-white beaches combed by frigid waves, the shore slowly faltering as the grasses take hold. The plains stretch south, wide sweeping grasslands, broken by copses and strange circles of standing stones. The eltor roam the plains, grazing on the sweet grasses, hunted by the Inahir. Rumors abound that the Inahir will only respect those who can hunt these powerful animals. These peaceful people live quietly beneath the shadow of the barren peaks, far from the sea.