Not the Freljord.

Brian had lived in the Freljord all his life, and to tell the truth he was kind of sick of it. All the snow and the storms and the stupid cold, it sucked. So he left.

It took him days of traveling through wind and ice and wind full of ice—which really hurt his face—but it was all worth it when the snow started bleeding away into some weird green stuff. Was that grass? Mom had talked about grass. He rolled in it a little bit and found it to be as soft as she claimed it was. Brian decided he liked the grass. It felt springy under his big feet as he plodded along under the branches of bigger things that were not grass, but trees. Mom had talked about those too.

He spent much of that time putting names to things he’d never seen, but had heard of from the stories of his elders. It was an exciting time, if rather uneventful. Brian enjoyed it immensely.

Time did not cease, and as the sun passed noon on the fifth day of his journey he saw something in the distance that grabbed his attention. Above the trees gathered thin clouds of smoke rising in a steady stream. He could smell the burning wood quite clearly. Brian sneezed. Like all pilgrim Ursine, especially the curious ones, he decided to investigate.