Wydma

There's a story - a folktale, really, for most doubt its factual origins - of the tundras of the Ashfall Waste. They say at one time the Southern Icefield was larger, taking up a great expanse of Sornieth's southern hemisphere. But the instability of magical energy, driven by the Shade, began to tear apart the very climate itself. Soon the land broke apart, ice floes drifting in the sea, tearing apart families and sending dragons far from their native home.

One group of tundras found themselves living among the flame and ash, and beneath the eye of the Flamecaller, they could only do their best to adapt. Their pelts grew thinner, silkier, shedding the heavy insulation of their undercoat while retaining a length that would keep the sun's rays at bay. They developed a coloration that mirrored their environment: The orange of flame, the gold of the blazing sun, the browns of desert sand and stone.

But they were never happy - never content. They were treated with mistrust, a lost clan far from home that grew only more insular with each passing generation. They had lost their origins; they had no great love for the Flamecaller. And yet returning to a lost homeland seemed an impossible task. They no longer resembled their sub-arctic kin; they were no longer adapted for the biting cold.

They were left with but one choice: Learn to embrace life in the smoky shadow of the Flamecaller...or risk roaming once again, resigned to the life of a wanderer.

Little wonder then that so many individuals have begun to travel far and wide, seeking a place to call home.