The southern edge of Phirexes, where the swamps meet the Crocodile Coast. Here the mangrove trees grow in the brackish water, their roots forming an impenetrable maze that extends for miles along the shore. The mangroves whisper constantly—a susurrus of voices just below comprehension, thousands of speakers saying things that almost make sense.
Old Dengar say these are the voices of those who tried to escape by sea and drowned, their spirits caught in the roots, forever trying to warn others away. The queen says they're singing her praises, the gratitude of the saved echoing through the wood. Neither explanation is comforting.
The mangroves are the last barrier for anyone trying to flee Phirexes by water. Beyond them lies the Crocodile Coast with its monster-infested waters, but the mangroves themselves are danger enough. Their roots grab at boats, pulling them into dead-end channels. The whispers grow louder the deeper you go, until it sounds like screaming. Few who enter unprepared ever find their way out.
Smugglers who supply the refugees have learned the safe passages—routes that the mangroves seem to tolerate, perhaps because they too hate the queen. These smugglers are the only lifeline between the refugees and the outside world.