Huge herds of armanites roam the 377th layer of the Abyss, a place of thundering, constant, wasted motion. Nothing seems connected, everything is dust and duty, boredom, and then sudden death. Gallen- shu lives in the moment, like an army on the march, without planning beyond the next ambush, next betrayal, or next meal. Not a bad plan for a place where no one can see more than an arm's length through the dust, where caravans plan to be lost for half the journey.
The Plains of Gallenshu are a place of dust, harsh blue light, and little water, a place where all things decay. The thick, choking dust is everywhere and cuts sight like fog. Like fog, it varies from thin to thick, but is always present on the Plains. The ground itself is composed of flesh, bones, and blood, supposedly ground into dust by generations of hooves. The air is perpetually filled with this sticky dust, making breathing difficult without a dust cloth. When the winds blow, the dust can blind unprotected eyes.
Gallenshu was once the home of huge flocks of varrangoin. but the abyss bats have been in decline for long eons. Though there's not many that remember, the cities of the varrangoin still lie in ruins under the dust, still holding whatever treasures the varrangoin had to abandon. The cities are damnably hard to find, for the armanites don't care where the ruins lie and the varran- goin don't tell. Best way to find one is to be lucky; a cutter who sees a varrangoin scratching at the dirt can be sure there's a city at the spot, for the varrangoin have never forgotten the sites of their lost glory.