The mainland of The Rooted Maw, containing the Salty Beaches, The Sweet, East Sour and West Sour, the Umami Forest, and The Bitter.
It remains a matter of constant debate whether the old gods were capable of error. If so, then this certainly was one. And if not, this must be the closest they came in all their eternity to a mistake. When the titans were sealed away into Tartarus they allowed one to remain and serve its sentence in the sea, ever chained to the rocky depths. This titan, the youngest of its kin, was Hunger. Its gnashing teeth had leveled mountains and cities, had devoured both rich and poor, and did all in its power to appease its insatiable appetite. The gods took pity on this Titan, barely anything more than a beast. After all, perhaps if it had only been fed well as a child it would be but an amiable giant. And so it was cast into the waters, held down by unbreaking chains but gifted with an eternal feast. And while it was still not enough to quench the everlasting ache in its gut. The feast was the closest this titan had ever known to joy. Of course, when the old gods were removed and the Titans rose again to take their place in the heavens, they paid no heed to their younger sibling, and neither did the fleeing old ones. From its bed of chains and salty water, Hunger watched the rise and fall of the Titans, and those who came after, as though basking in the rising and setting sun. If the old gods had simply thrown Hunger down to Tartarus, they would be laid to peaceful rest with their siblings, instead of watching their stories played out in ancient constellations so many times over that they knew the stars better than the sky itself. Being left upon the mortal plane left Hunger- although themself immortal- prone to rot. Even battered by the winds and salts of the sea it did not come quickly but, as it always is with rot, it slowly withered away the body of Hunger, leaving naught but sinew and bone. So it rests upon the seafloor, only its skull remaining above the waves. Its mouth hung agape, all but unscathed by the rot that had overtaken its entire body. After all, the old gods had decreed that Hunger may never cease to enjoy their feast. So now, even as generations of gods have risen and been laid to rest, the feast thrives. They know nothing of the world other than the tongue they trod upon, the roof of the mouth that hangs so far above, raining down saliva from time to time, but generally inconsequential. They craft tools of twisted strands of tastebud and forge metals of titan enamel harvested from the mountainous borders of their known world. It is a surprisingly peaceful existence. After all, they are only being eaten, not consumed.