Of the Rivers of Sorrow

No good comes to those that travel along the Rivers of Sorrow.
These are the rivers that flow in the Nameless Forest, that dark and implacable horror to the south of Vòh, which grows with each passing year. These are the rivers that flow from the Mountains of Despire, which tower into the clouds at this Forest's centre, down to the sea. Most flow south, to the Sea of Råld, while some flow north, into the waters of the Corsair's Reach.
Many are the stories of men and women who wander into the Forest, and they are all sorrowful; for most do not return, and their fates shall never be known. The Nameless Forest keeps its secrets.
The Alfhr — at least, those that will have anything to do with the Mannhr — tell that once, some ten centuries ago, they found a man wandering in the Forest, near the shores of the Sea of Råld. He wore soiled, battered armour, and a dirty tabard. And this man was in a woeful way; for he had cut out his tongue, and plucked out his eyes; and he had then — somehow — cut off both of his hands. Fell signs and marks had been cut into his skin, that had grown infected with physical and spiritual corruption. He was riven with madness and delirium, and no amount of healing would bring back his mind. The Alfhr, in a rare show of kindness, bound his wounds, and allowed him to recuperate among them. They listened to his incoherent, wordless babbling, and they did not attempt to divine what he was saying. For the Alfhr respected this man's wish — for what man cuts out his own tongue, but that he has a secret that he must keep; and what man plucks out his eyes, but that he has seen so much that he wishes never to see again; and what man cuts off his hands, but one that wishes no longer that his hands be used for evil? Once this man was as fit as they could make him, they resolved to take him to the dwelling place of a human of their acquaintance, for his armour bore witness that once he was a warrior of some status, perhaps even a knight. But during the long journey to the fastness of this human, the sorrowful man disappeared, and was not seen again. None now know of the fate that befell him.
There is a hamlet located at the mouth of one of the Rivers of Sorrow, which is called Lightmouth. It is mostly abandoned now. But in its day it was a bustling place; the teeming fishing grounds offshore supplied much of the fresh fish that was sent north by coastal barges to the Free City of Vòh. Ships would put in for fresh water, for the river's waters were sweet and clear and pure. But for many years the inhabitants noticed that the Forest was encroaching, flowing, reaching towards them. Woodcutters came, to try to stem the onslaught, but many of those disappeared, devoured by the grim beasts that dwell among the roots and hollows of the land that the Forest claim. every plank cut from the wood cut from these trees betrayed every ship that it was used with, bursting asunder as though in a storm, but with no cloud in the sky. The water ceased to be sweet, or clear, or pure. With the waters polluted, the fish no longer teemed in the ocean near Lightmouth. And so, most people moved away, settling in Vòh, or on islands elsewhere along the Corsair's Reach. Today, Lightmouth has only a handful of people that still live there, and it is not known why.