Of the grand weir, only the name remains. Not even the oldest of tribe stories remember it as anything other but a grand waterfall, and yet, even there the name didn't match.
Nowadays not even the waterfall from those stories can be seen from down here. On the edge of Zuzan the grand cliffs hold the vast lakes above at bay. Their waters cascading over, above the clouds, never to reach the ground as anything but mist.
In the shade of the grand tower, ships, derelicts, ruins are crashed. Swept by the grand waterfalls and put to their final rest amidst the everlasting grey. They sprinkle the base as makeshift scarecrows, impaled onto the long dark spires of trees that rise ever upwards in search for sunlight that never reaches this far down.
