A piece of parchment was found nailed to the mill door in Ragne. The paper has erratic handwriting throughout, and is signed with three paw prints at the bottom of the page. "To anyone looking for us, The mill is closed until further notice. The wheel still turns when the river swells, but it turns without sound now. It began the other day, we awoke to an errie silence in place of the sound of waters we had become used to as the backdrop of our day. We tried to work through t

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

A journal page was found caught by the wind, it had clearly been torn cleanly down the spine. Elegant, but shaky handwriting denotes the following message. "I thought the stories were just nerves about the season turning, or perhaps fear of famine that often returns this time of year. Then last night, when the mists rolled in just off the ridge, the frost on my window moved. It had not melted. Not fading. No. Moved. Patterns shifting like breath on glass, forming a shape I al

A note was found frozen to a gatepost, written in a hurried, cramped hand that had clearly been trembling. "The frost came early this year. Not the clean white kind, but the dark grey kind. The kind that clings in oppressive sheets instead of flakes. I thought it was just the cold settling in wrong, but then I saw it. Shapes. Not footprints. Not animal tracks. Just indentations. Like something leaned its full weight into the frozen earth and slid itself forward wthout lifting

It would be recorded that during these clashes between tribes, warriors were free to “Unleash the Beast,” leading to quick and often blood..

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...

"To whomever reads this, They weren’t empty words. I saw it myself. The mists do not cling as they once did in the Blackwood Grove. From...

The Weeping Hollow has long been empty- just fog, half buried stones, and the lingering echo of dreams never come to fruition. It lays on a winding path heading northwest from the Outlook just before the Sirencester Sea air salts the senses. No one went there unless they were trying to forget something- or rid their thoughts of someone.

The people of Little Ivywood claim to still hear whistling from the trees, and firmly ensure they’re children do not go out at night ...

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...

“I have the biggest story you’ve ever heard!” At least I can understand her a little better compared to her penmanship.

The night had unfolded like a grand tapestry, each act of the Obsidian Circus weaving its own unique thread into the fabric of the...

Day 1 I’ve been here awhile, but it’s the first day I actually had some paper and a quill. Ashhold is a hell hole. The food here is...