None know for certain from whence the island of Èrin was sprung, though I like the symbolism of Frank Mill’s modern account which says she was birthed from a song which the winds sung to the seas. Regardless, she was born and eventually she sprouted life. Great murky forests of oak and ash and birch and rowan covered the island, interspersed with wide open grassy plains on which horses rode like traveling kings, and dank misty bogs of ancient peat which would swallow up any careless creature who wandered too deep into its mire. Back then there were giants on these lands; literal Giants like the Irish Elk with his murderous horns spread out from horizon to horizon. This is how it was for a long time in Èrin, longer than any human mind could fathom, and for all this time the island was devoid of human life. But eventually that changed and the history of Èrin as we know it was begun.