The Bone Hills are exactly what they sound like, which is unfortunate for anyone who prefers landscapes without accusatory names. They rise and fall across a region that seems surprised to have topography at all. Even the wind moves carefully here, as if aware it is trespassing.
Despite several earnest attempts, no one has conclusively identified the “bones” in question. They are not quite mineral, not quite organic, and not particularly eager to disclose their biography. When struck, they produce a tone reminiscent of an empty church or a disappointed relative.
Fragments recovered from the Bone Hills are pale, brittle, and unsettlingly warm to the touch. Some are carved with shapes that resemble writing; others simply look exhausted. Objects found here carry the distinct impression of having survived something, followed immediately by the regret of having done so.
Travellers report a persistent hum beneath the ground—too steady to be natural, too irregular to be mechanical. Scholars insist this hum is a geological anomaly. Those same scholars also avoid visiting the Hills more than once, citing “professional boundaries.”
If the Bone Hills ever held a purpose, they aren’t advertising it. They sit quietly on the horizon, an unhelpful monument to whatever happened before rational people arrived.