Gishmia is a frigid, lonely place. As glacial ices form to seed rivers of winter, earthquakes shake the tremendous mountain ranges. Due to most of the terrain being in high altitudes, the winds become so compelling they are capable of uprooting the strongest oaks. Scattered about the landscapes are stratovolcanoes yet to be named, some less active than others. In the north, there is forest; hospitable and green. In the south, there is ice; rivers of ice, lakes of ice, islands of ice, mountains of ice. In the east, there are biomes temperate and hospitable; tundras are laid out like quilts, taigas welcome you from the sea, evergreen trees puncture the sky, and fog gambols. In the west, there is wasteland; a wasteland known for its lack of resources, a wasteland known for its menacing roars of shaking earth and forceful winds, a wasteland known for its flat terrain though pyramidal peaks strike the fields of snow like spikes on a sheet of white. Although the wintry planet can be treacherous, bejeweled by its Yuletide demeanor, the society of this world is typically honest and faithful.