Excerpts from the Sixth Moon of Frostfall

A Wanderer upon the Ice Cliffs of Rhewdyrn

This is no single tale, but a thousand pieces of one. Each page is a shard, set beside others, until a world begins to take shape.

To piece together the Codex, see here.

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The wind bites harder here than any insult I’ve ever endured, and I’ve offended at least three tavern keepers this month. Rhewdyrn stretches in endless white. It is a miserable place full of rivers so solid a drunken mule could cross them—assuming the mule survives the wind.

I have met few fellow travelers. Those I did encounter spoke only in hushed tones of the Frostborn, a people older than the mountains themselves. They wear masks of bone and speak in riddles, which is charming until you realize you can’t tell if they’re joking or plotting your death. I saw them at dusk, moving across the ice like shadows.

When I’m not pissing myself with fear, there are moments of beauty. At night, the aurora flares over frozen peaks. I dared to descend into a canyon, and found a hall of ice, its walls carved with figures frozen mid-motion: warriors, dancers, beasts. Lovely, really, if you enjoy the idea of being trapped forever staring at your own inevitable death.

I slept nearby, shivering, and dreamed of voices calling me to join them. Hard pass. I prayed to the Unfalling Star above to keep me safe and sane. He’s not failed me yet.

Rhewdyrn is terrible but also beautiful. Each day I write so that these wonders are not lost. If I vanish into the snowdrifts, let these words serve as a guide… or at least as an entertaining cautionary tale for some poor fool who thinks adventuring is romantic.

There’s a reedy man, Eldin Farrow, in Innsburg who offered me money to help his party navigate the Wyldelands. What lies near the Red Keep that would interest any royal scholar? Perhaps treasure. It piques the interest of my rapidly dwindling coin purse.

As long as we avoid that river…

-Kael, son of Rhael

Wanderer from Ceorhame