At the western edge of Wycendeula, where the Eceraen Mountains run out of land, the slopes break off into the sea in a wall of unstable cliff. This is Azkirk. The name is old, older than the satyrs who avoid the place, and in the tongue it comes from it means simply the bone.
There is a bone. A titan died here in the deep ages, or fell here, or was buried as the coast was still rising, and what remains is a single grey fragment the size of a longhouse jutting from the cliff face where the rock has worn back around it. It does not weather. Titan-bone never does. The sea has cut the headland back by yards over the centuries and left the fragment standing proud of the stone, sea-washed and unchanged, pointing out over the water.
The ground beneath it is poisoned. The contamination that seeps from exposed titan-bone, the same slow sickness that emptied the harvesting grounds at Tomgryir Eror, bleeds down through the soil and the runoff below the fragment. Nothing grazed there lasts a season. The local satyr call the headland marked and will not herd it, drink from it, or den within sight of it, and they are right to. They do not explain themselves, because the explanation is older than they are.
So Azkirk holds nothing a visitor would call a discovery: no structures, no artifacts, no settlement, only the bone, the bad ground, and a name that has outlived every people who used it. Cartographers keep marking it because ships still need the landmark. The cliff is the last hard point of Wycendeula's coast, and its constant calving makes the water below treacherous. Sailors who know the coast give it a wide berth, and give the meaning of the name no thought at all.