The rift banks feel like a workshop more than a wild shore. Khelvara, the mineral bamboo, stands grow in dense walls that hold the mud in place, their roots lacing the silt the way rope lashes a raft. Each stalk is sanded by silica crust until it rings when struck, so the guilds test sound as much as sight before they cut. Burrows dug by braskel, a broad tailed giant beaver, punch through those same banks, a reminder that even the best anchor gives way when a two hundred kilo rodent decides to dig. I walk the waterline with guild surveyors, noting every stalk that can hold a scaffold and every slide that will swallow a cart, because the river grants no second chances.

Watch how heat shapes every trade here. Orun Mael, the geothermal fern, fronds trap steam into a living roof, turning a cold mist into a warm tunnel where people and beasts can work without freezing. The fronds drip resin that seals khelvara joins, and their calcified roots feed braskel teeth until the enamel shines orange. Braskel drag root chunks into their halls, leave tooth marks deep as finger grooves, and those fragments become the first fuel of any new quay once hauled out and dried. Rek, the rift salamander, lurk under the same roots, waiting for a careless step, so dredge crews probe the shallows with poles before any child is allowed to fetch water. Even the poles are chosen with care; only khelvara thick enough to stand a braskel bite ever touches that mud.

Thalen guilds have built a whole economy on these minerals and hides. Khelvara poles become scaffolds for cliff houses, ferry landings, and the lattice towers that hold steam lamps above the fog. Braskel felt keeps dock workers dry when the mist turns acidic, and their musk binds the incense burned in temple vents. Rek mucus seals hulls, Orun Mael spores stop bleeding, and every byproduct has a buyer. Guild books track each stand, burrow, and dredge site beside the ecological maps in Stewardship of the Rift and the craft notes in Crafting Survival in the Mist, because one missed entry can mean a collapsed quay or a lost family to a lurking salamander.