In middle Anaxas, the plains roll on as far as the eye can see, with waves of tall grass swaying in the wind that comes in over the Northern Tors. This land is criss-crossed with paths formed by roving wick caravans; you can see the wheel-tracks where generations of wicks have worn deep grooves into the earth. In places, wild bands of kensers and horses can be seen galloping through the wide open fields. Trees are sparse, and tend to be very short and twisted with age.
At a clearing in the grass, you see the clear remnants of an old campsite. An ancient pile of rocks seems to have housed many campfires; the ash and soot has mostly been washed away by the rain, but you see some charred bits of wood. A few roughly hewn logs are pulled close to the fire pit, and the whole area seems fairly cozy. It seems like a good spot for weary travelers to rest for the night.