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The Land was sinking.
Returning inch by inch to the salty waters from whence it had been called.
Insmire. Insmoor. Insweal. Those were its faces now. But it had not always been so exposed to wind and sun. Kelp and coral once grew where the Milkwood now creeped. An underwater volcano once erupted to form the crater where the Lake of Masks now pooled.
The Land was old. Ancient as the moon.
Elfhame it became.
All because Mab had called, and the Land had answered. It liked her husky voice.
And thus it had risen, from seabed to surface, to become accommodating to all the feathered and furry Folk of the Air. The Land learned to catch their light steps with moss—which they called slyfooting—and to sate their appetites with wild berries—which they turned to wine.
And while the land missed the creatures of the deep, it grew a soft and soily heart for the sons and daughters of Mab. The ones who called themselves High Kings and Queens, but the Land only knew them as kin.
