The people of the Ice had been in Ostaria as long as men had kept records. The small folk would hunt and fish in the frozen plains, store meat for Winter, and make allies of the beasts of the wild. North of the great ley-lines of magic the realm of Ostaria is as dark and barren for magic as it is for light during the long-dark. Make no mistake though, the North is a place of light and joy and life. Herds of seals and sea-lions, walruses, and caribou live amongst the wolves, foxes, and bears. Eagles, and even Griffons, roost in the high mountain plateaus — but the maps all show the land as empty. Over forty tribes of the small-folk range the lands; hundreds of bands of the feral Khoske; Hill giants, and even frost giants dwell at the cap of the world – but the maps show nothing. A sub-race of Winter Wolves live amongst the tribes — white fur and pale blue eyes — fleetest of foot of all their kin. But the maps are blank. Ostaria has been ignored by the realm of men. For many centuries sailors from Rin, Eastmarch, and Blackpool have sailed North to be confronted by the high cliff walls of icy fjords. With nothing to see but Puffins and Terns, the sailors map the inlets and go home. A brave few venture a day or two on the ice but turn back in the face of the white nothingness. To the halfling this part of the land is known as the fingers — and all sensible halflings know, the fingers is a good place for birds but nothing else. So to all the scholars and mages, cartographers and sages, there is nothing North of the Fingers. Scrying will not penetrate that far across the ley lines, but their is nothing to see up there anyhow. Of the few Sages who have heard of halflings, they are assumed extinct. Halflings don’t make it into books and history.