Fir Chilis is the name given to the dense string of forested land that fills much of Blossom Forest. There are two different populations, depending on where in the land you are. To the north lays the deciduous forest, full of maples, oaks, birches, and beeches. To the south lay a coniferous forest full of pines and firs. No matter where you are, the trees shelter you from the sun and the rain and the snow. Take care not to get lost in the woods however - you may never find your way out. There are other dangerous here too - predators waiting for their own prey. While the land is prosperous they do not pose too much of a threat, but whenever famine or drought hits, they will attack anything... even other Putnar.

Those looking to hunt will find the forests well stocked - there are white-tailed deer, turkeys, red squirrels, chipmunks, mermots, and moose.

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FROZEN MASS GRAVE
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Kershov shuddered awake with a harsh gasp—black unconsciousness to stark and complete neural arousal in a single jarring blink. It was as if someone had submerged him in subzero water. Every muscle clenched to the point of splitting. Ice spiked in his veins and crystals of snow cut the inside of his lungs. He gulped and gasped—sides heaving violently—until oxygen finally warmed within him and the shocked panic of crawling back toward the light faded into pinpoint focus. The frost-breathing phantom clamped his jaws shut and forced the tremors wracking his colossal frame to still. One thing at a time. Take inventory of the surroundings. Determine what happened. Gradually, Kershov felt able to stand without wobbling on his limbs like a newborn fawn. Talons scratched at the cold, hard earth, grounding the glacial Alpha to reality. He took a deep breath, drawing the scents of the land into his nares and sifting over them in his mind.

Mabbit . . . the smoky soldier was somewhere in these woods, but so were many, many other wolves. Whatever had erupted into the sky like a flaming rainbow seemed to have somehow drawn them all into its center, not unlike a fire collecting moths. Had Kershov been one of its victims? Had he been wandering ignorantly through a magical web without even realizing it?

Whatever the hell it had been, Ker wanted nothing more to do with it. He felt . . . off in a way that he could not accurately explain. An anxiety nested inside him, a fluttering that stirred in his breast and prickled in his extremities. As the massive dragga began steadfastly marching back to Uyaraut, he experienced this unnatural “otherness” creeping along his spine . . . spiking his hackles with the warning of being watched. But when Kershov turned his head to glare over his shoulder, he saw nothing. No eyes boring into his back, no circle of wolves prepared to ambush him. A short growl resonated in his chest, and the Ice King broke into a run. He needed to leave this forest, and he needed to leave it now.


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