Above a section of Vitubia containing verdant plains and sullen mountains, the unchanging winds blow as steadily as ever. But while its flowing breezes may remain constant, the world that meets it head on has shifted, shuffled and turned upside down and back.

In the far north, blasts of bitter-cold air throw themselves upon covered beings; men which wander among giants stagger and screech of places, people, and experiences from a degraded time beyond common memory, barely comprehensible to those who live long enough to hear them.

Further south the wind goes. Gradually, the conditions become more humane. After passing an area rumored to be the home of a 'miracle people', it rushes through and interweaves with branches and leaves, held up by thick trees.

One tree moves. Something that shouldn't be in his forest is running into it: a screeching and sobbing person that cannot be called from his looks as exactly human. Clouded in thoughts but his intent clear, it impales the intruder clean through his chest with one of its mighty branches. As he emits a final, terminal screech, his friend flees.

The tree stops, leaving the body to fester upon the scarred and newly red-stained branch. Was there a custom to disposing of it? Did he need to tell of this invasion of territory? The tree consulted itself for answers, but could not find any; for the only reply was monotone static and dark feelings, punctuated with short and hollow imitations - dim sounds, twisted visuals and garbled actions - of the world which it lives in, but no longer could experience. Giving up, the tree opted to leave the body on the branch. Surely, it will remember soon what to do with it.

Absconding from a forest of death, the remaining non-human, a biological product of his invading progenitors, returned to his village of residence. Shaken by it all, he vows to never wander far from his home again - someone else would take his job as a merchant. Soon enough, a young man, barely of an age appropriate for it, replaced him. Unknowing of the world beyond the confines of his village, he is given supplies, wares, even a tantalizing bit of gold, and set off down a westerly road which was rough and beaten.

Though his route is perilous and winding, he soon finds himself descending altitude. Eventually, he reaches his destination: a "border-village", as his elders called it. Beyond it, the road was watched by armed and trained soldiers, intent on letting no one pass - at least, that was the surface view of them. Regardless of this, he set up his stall and began bartering. The armed soldiers only watched.

Another man came to the border village. A second, older trader. With shock, the young man watched as he fearlessly approached the troopers and handed them gold. Like a set of curtains, they parted before him, and so the older man went on.

The wiser merchant, now past the checkpoint, traveled inland. His endpoint was a special one: the city known to its inhabitants only as the Capital. It was big, beautiful by his own standards, and slowly crumbling. It was the citadel of a once grand Republic of which its third iteration now claims to inherit. Although it clings onto its illustrious legacy, it can never reach the heights its podium once stood at. Arguably, it has even regressed. The merchant recalls the proverb that is passed around the more cynical people of the city: the Third Owl Republic is decaying with the corpse of its founder.

His goods, like many others, ultimately find themselves at a port on the coast. Dockworkers load them onto cargo ships which travel south, into a port that one could swear once handled a lot more ships long ago.

A grizzled customs worker carves the seal of a star onto the wooden crates containing them, and soon they are distributed even farther by traders: they go to the kingdoms of its east, to the various "corpos" and local governments of its south, and further beyond, to the polities emerging from an ancient wasteland, to the local governments and "corpos" of the southeast, to kingdoms and tribes barely known by a name stretching from the plains to the mountains to the cold, cold tundra where men(?) roamed with giants.

It is uniquely colored by war - both inter-species and intra-species - and shaped by the peace which follows them. Like a grand cycle, life here goes on and breaks down. It is an unending epilogue to the chronicles of events occurring centuries ago - an invasion unlike any other and the resulting (or perhaps only assisting?) collapse of human domination.

This is the Schizo Northwest.