Out in the middle of nowhere, in a location completely surrounded by seemingly never ending fog, sat a small island smack in the middle of the thick black water...

The sky was dark, and the clouds looked as if they would burst with rain at any moment...

This... is Trollstopia.... It's twelve days North of hopeless, and a few degrees South of freezing to death. It's located solidly on the meridian of misery...

My village...

In a word... sturdy. And it's been here for seven generations, but every single building is new.

We have fishing, hunting, and a charming view of the sunsets. The only problems are the pests. You see... most places have mice or mosquitos... but we have...

A group of Puffalos were grazing peacefully on a hillside, communicating with each other through various sounds as they chowed down happily on the brown grass at their feet.

     Just then... one of the Puffalos... a young male... broke away from the flock, looking for some better grass to eat...

The grass they were currently grazing on was slightly burnt and tasted extremely dry, so the Puffalo, being rather picky, went to a patch of green not far away, beginning to munch down on that instead...

Suddenly, something swooped down out of the sky, snatching up the Puffalo off of the ground with it's sharp taloned foot, the tiny critter being taken away with a loud shriek of terror...

Dragons...