The Skitterlakes

My grandfather owned a piece of land that he liked to call "hardscrabble farm", and was given to him for services rendered in the army of my homeland. He wasn't impressed, and would often say it was ground of no value with a rueful smile that didn't reach his eyes. For the longest time that was what the image of worthless land was in my mind. Dry, compacted soil. Unable to grow a single crop past the shins. Given away by unappreciative politicians.
Yet, at least it had something, deserving of merit or not. The weeds that choked the life from each attempted crop were still plant life. Snakes and biting insects made their homes in what little brush was left behind.
Within the Skitterlakes, such luxuries are asking a great deal.
A swamp, and even that is a generous term, that consumes near the whole of the northern horn of the continent of Avalisia. It would, in a better world, be considered the crown in the continents otherwise breathtaking landscapes. Instead, it is a sodden black mark that even the criminals of the region and the dregs of society refuse to make use of.
Imagine, if you will, a mire of saltwater and mud thick enough to claim boots or smother those that lose their balance with no aid within reach. The only breaks to this muddy trap are the irregularly proportions 'lakes' scattered throughout. They curl across the landscape, creating perfect traps for someone to fall into if they don't cast their light in the right direction to catch a shimmer off the surface of the brackish water. Pair this with a constant, biting saltwind screaming past your ears as it comes off the norther ocean. The wind doesn't provide any protection against the infamous stench of the area either, such is it's everpresent pall.
The only plant life is bramble like scrubs that are practically drowning themselves, and the petrified remains of trees long past. Nothing else grows, not even any kind of grass cover.
No kingdom or country has ever made any pretense of claiming the area, now or in eras past. If the place was ever different, like the petrified trees seem to imply, it was long before we started writing things down.
Or, perhaps we should consider the possibility that the trees floated into the shore, already petrified, and the Skitterlakes tried to smother them too.

Type

Bodden