The Gnornlands, also known as The Sorrowsumps and The Lonley Marshes, is a stretch of coast approximately 60 miles long and 5 miles wide. It is a silent, cold, and rainy place - beaches of dark, gravelly sand backed by reddish dunes and seemingly endless lowland marsh. Settlements are few and far between, few souls finding much cheer or comfort in such a place.

The closest thing to a city - Upper Swale - is a collection of dismal stone huts ringed by a shanties and humpies of driftwood, fishing net, and the lost and lonely. As dismal as they seem, the Gnornians are a hardy folk: slow to smile, even slower to give in during tough times. Once a promise is made, it is seldom broken lest the Elder Marshgods - formless, damp, mosquito-ridden creatures of endless drear and few kind words - be summoned.

Gnorn is a tiresome place for those accustomed to hope and optimism, yet the air and earth is thick with a powerful magic - some call it threwd - that while difficult to harness, is intoxicating. Those who pursue the threwd seldom live long enough to taste it, but those who endure find themselves both mad with paranoia, and heavy with potential to both construct and destroy.

The most well known of these is The Swan Witch, a powerful post-human entity who lives at the northern end of the coast, as far from Upper Swale as possible. They are known for creating heady brews that bring to mind unknown landscapes and distressing thoughts. Whether they are malevolent or benevolent depends on your experience.

The Gnornish air is said to smell strongly of both acrid salt and the sweetest cinnamon. Though none have have ventured so far - the Gnorns fastidiously avoid of the shallow seas at their doorstep - it is said that just over the horizon is a land filled with spices, herbs, and exotic fruits. Upper Swale has no port so it is difficult to know if anyone from across the sea would even come forth to confirm the stories, let alone trade.