Islers don’t make a migratory loop like other nomadic followings; instead, they trek ceaselessly toward the setting sun. Its people summer in the Realm of the Mammoth Lords and—if their outlandish tales are to be believed—winter upon hollowed-out logs that they float across a massive glacial lake as salty as tears. The Broken Tusk’s elders dismiss these stories of a “world pond” as fairy-tales, but they can hardly deny the Islers’ evidence: relics, armor, and a fatty meat taken from “singing, club-shaped fish even bigger than mammoths.”