“Dead forests below poisoned peaks.”

Several broad cones rise on a southern island, but the craters hold no lava. Each bowl is filled with a foul, shifting stew... tar black one week, brine green the next. Fumes roll down and have killed the forests for miles; trunks stand gray and brittle like old bones. The wind tastes bitter on the tongue.

A small village sits uncomfortably close. People whisper that witches live there, or worse, drawn by the Cauldrons or to blame for them.