There is still no sign of Saelith. Not the sound of her footsteps, nor the warmth of her voice. I followed her prints until they staggered, one step sinking deep into the black soil as if she lost her stride, but then a few paces further the shapes become... Wrong.

Feathers lie scattered, frozen within the skies forever locked in a motionless descent. Then, deeper still, I found a kilmei...

Saelith has gone. Not a foot print, nor signs of struggle within our homestead. There was only a thin trail of frost leading toward...

For several nights now, she has risen from our bed and wandered beyond the edges and outskirts of Ragne. She does not wake when I call her name. Her feet carry her as if sleepwalking, but always to the north, toward the quiet edge of the woods where the frost covers the trees. I followed once, but the cold grew thick in my lungs choking the air from my chest, and the dark pressed too close, obscuring my vision until I lost sight of her. When I returned, she was already back a

To anyone who finds this, If I don’t write these things down, I fear they’ll freeze inside my chest before I ever manage to tell her. Her name is Saelith. She laughs like warm swirling rivers and braids tiny bird bones into her hair for luck. She smells of cedar, smoke, and crushed spearmint, and every time she looks at me, I forget the shape of my own two hands. I had planned to give her a charm this turning of the seasons. Nothing supremely grand, just a piece of silver in

She no longer hums while she weaves. Her yellow eyes are fixed on her work with an unmoving stillness.

A fragment of parchment was recovered from the Ancestor's Altar. The paper is brittle, handwriting careful to be clear, but obviously strained by time. "The Ancestors no longer answers prayer. The bells frost over before they can ring. When struck or shaken they sway, but not a sound follows no matter how vigorous. Somehow, the chime lingers somewhere else beyond our senses. We held vigil through the night, thinking the quiet was perhaps a test sent upon us. But the frost gat

A letter was left behind on the table of a tavern called the Wayfayer's Rest, or just 'The Rest' to locals. Each letter was made with ink, which bristles with shards of frost that blur some of the writing of the unsigned paper. "I’ve locked the inn. I can still manage to light the hearth, but it does little good. It offers no warmth to these tired fingers. The guests sat closer and closer together as the frost crept in, speaking less with every hour. Laughter fell short and h

This letter was found in a cottage in a state of disarray on the edge of Ragne. The writer was vacant from the property when searched. "Mother, You told me the old stories were meant to keep little children from wandering too far into Blackwood Grove in winter. I believed you back then. But I saw it last night, by the graves beyond the silver birches. The frost had already taken the stones, turning the names dull and unreadable. I tried to brush it away, but my fingers burned

I wasn’t going to say anything, because I don’t want people thinking I’m drunk or grieving or soft in the head. But the ice is wrong. It crept up the alley behind the tannery last night. It did not happen overnight, as I watched it do it. It slid along the stones like creeping breath across a mirror. No sound. No wind. Just there, and then stretching further yet, as if reaching to snuff out the warmth from the fire. I thought I saw someone standing at the end of the lane. Tal

To whoever tends this shrine next, I leave this as record, do not put your faith in the old prayers. For three mornings now the grey frost has returned to the low fields before dawn. It does not sparkle. It lies flat, like ash pressed into the grass. Where it settles, the soil hardens and cracks as if drained of warmth entirely, though no true cold follows. The kilmei refused to cross it. Even when driven, they balked and cried until pulled away. One knelt frozen to place, st

The edges of the parchment is weathered, and the handwriting of the page is tidy but rushed. Found in Ragne. "Late Autumn, just before the First Frost I camped near the edge of Blackwood Grove tonight, foolish as that may sound now. The leaves here cling to their branches longer than they should. Vibrantly green one day, then suddenly glassy and brittle the next. A frost had begun to form. The locals warned me of the "Crooked Branch,” but spoke in circles as if they fear nam

"Lost: Three crates of dyes, bound for the Arcveltian capital of New Ashen. Each box is painted with the mark of a blue outstretched...

The page was filed in haste, with the ink of the penmanship uneven. “Three days past, I led the caravan along the southern bend toward...

Found near the forward rail of the Galehart Airship. The ink blurred by wind and the damp of the morning and the edges of the parchment...

Scraping the backpack that was weighing him down against the face of his assailant, Gabrin successfully bought himself a handful of precious seconds to...

A woman with soot streaked hands handed me a bowl of root stew. She didn’t ask where I came from. Just nodded at the tattered lantern...

A resident of the desert caves within the area of Somatis desert, adapted to surviving within this exceptionally harsh environment.

Explore the birds and the reptiles of the Sanctuary alongside a traveler with their pet ornatile, Syl.

“I’m tellin’ ya lads. Seniji Forest is not a good place to go. Well, nowhere in the Amber Empire is a good place to go, but Seniji...