The Firziak Mountains have many charms, from the spectacular springtime displays of cherry blossoms to the shrines with their gilded statues of the Blind Falconer, who is considered an apostate elsewhere in the region.  Then, too, there are the hawks, whose cries echo in the gorges and whose silhouettes punctuate the storm-lashed skies.

The mountains are famous for none of these things, although all of them are mentioned to some degree in tourists’ guides and travelers’ journals.  Rather, the mountains are famous because of the tea.

It is not that the Firziaks produce excellent tea.  The quality of their tea is variable, and the world’s connoisseurs agree that Nhogeh has better oolongs and blacks, while the Footfall Islands are unmatched for ginseng.

But year after year, the tea-tourists come, some wearing the outlandish padded silks of the Celadon Kingdom, others huddled in wool cloaks striped brown and beige.  For the most part, they bring their own tea, although it truly does not matter.

For the peculiarity of the Firziak Mountains, duplicated nowhere else in the world, is that each crag, each peak and ridgeline, has its own flavor, which it imparts to whatever tea you drink there, whatever its type or quality.  Aficionados have been mapping the topography of tastes for the past centuries, from the hint of roseate honey common in one vale to the steady, startlingly mellow oaken note to be tasted near the mouths of certain caverns.

As for those native to the Firziaks, they smilingly accept the tourists’ money, hoarding it to buy their own coveted drink, entirely unaffected by the tea phenomenon, from the traders: coffee.

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