Bakkrin is a world in motion. Its climate is rarely still, shaped by restless volcanoes and the occasional ice age. Stability is fleeting; change is constant. The land and sky shift in rhythms both predictable and wild, and life has adapted to endure these extremes.
The forests of Bakkrin are ancient and deciduous, dense with towering trees whose canopies nearly blot out the sky. In their normal cycles, spring rains pour steadily, swelling rivers and soaking the soil. Summer brings consistent storms, enough to keep the forests lush and alive, while autumn gradually dries the air, and the leaves fall in waves. Winter lays the forest under heavy snow, quieting the land beneath its weight. During ice ages, these rhythms become more extreme: snow dominates half the year, then retreats during the drier months, melting into streams and rivers that reshape the forest floor. Life here endures, resilient against the duality of wet and frozen.
The plains are ever-changing and wide open, subject to weather both fierce and gentle. Some regions experience wildly varying cycles: destructive storm seasons sweep across the land, flattening crops and disrupting life as thoroughly as any winter might. Snow follows, thick and constant, yet settlers have brought hardly flora capable of surviving beneath feet of ice. Spring brings renewal, marked by frequent rainstorms and sudden bursts of growth that transform the plains into a lush sea of green. Other lands, particularly those more sheltered or temperate, display steadier, more predictable patterns, closer to the rhythm of Earth, though even they are not immune to the ice ages that blanket the land in snow for years at a time.
The mountains mirror the extremes of the plains, though less violently. Storms lash the ridges with wind and rain, and snow settles on peaks and valleys with a predictable rhythm. Spring brings melting streams, filling rivers that cascade down cliffs, feeding the land below. Vegetation clings stubbornly to cliffsides, growing in the cracks and crevices, shaped as much by weather as by stone. Travelers learn to read the subtle signs of mountain weather—the shift of clouds, the whisper of wind—for it is often more telling than sight alone.
The deserts are perhaps the most extreme. Half the year, the enclosed dunes are baked by relentless sun and carved by constant winds. Dust storms sweep across sand and stone, leaving little water and almost no vegetation. Then comes the rain: sudden, violent, and transformative. Flash floods surge through the basin, carving new channels and scouring the land clean. Saprse life endures in ockets, adapted to survive both drought and deluge, waiting patiently for one season to yield to the next.
Across Bakkrin, weather is a sculptor and a judge. Rivers swell and recede, marshes hum with life, and forests are thick with green and silent beneath snow. Storms and winds move with purpose, ash from volcanoes can blot out the light for months to years, and ice may come unannounced, reshaping entire regions. Even in lands where the cycles appear gentle, there is always a reminder that Bakkrin does not stay still.
To observe the weather is to witness a world alive, restless, and ever-changing. It shapes the land, shapes its inhabitants, and leaves its mark on everything that touches the earth. No region is safe from its influence, and no life is untouched by its rhythm.
Change is constant. Stability is fleeting.
