Albaneve Summits

My father was a soldier, but I am far from that. Who am I kidding, being stationed here alongside those broad-shouldered, valiant, violent men? Their eyes show no light. The obsidian pits simply swallow me whole, reflecting my own weakness back at me, mixed with disdain.
They don't possess kindness... their only known emotion is radiating anger, an inner heat that eats them up and warms their husks while blazing through snow and ice.

When my father passed, the heart of this outpost was ripped away. And so was mine.
They know me. They know I'll run and hide at the first sign of trouble. It's in the way they scoff at me, in the way they snarl my name. That's why they force lookout duty upon me... even that frightens me.

Perhaps it's not so bad. Father always said "Cowards live longer."

Flying rings around their peaks — Far, far away
Subtle shapes and shadows, framed by the morning sun

Flaring wings to powdered beaks — Hide, hide away
Retreat from warmth and light, when midday's rays shall come

Whirl up with a flashing gust — At dusk, again they rise
Emerge anew from darker clouds, fly higher with the flurry

Tiny specks of silver dust — Near, near our very eyes
They've come so close, oh Flame protect us from their descending fury

I sharpened the knives, patched the hole in my pants, and most importantly, re-attached the little jingly-bells to my hat! The stage looks alright, too. I don't think that the throwing distance will be a big issue. Everything's ready for the performance.

I wish I'd had more time to practice, but what's the worst that could happen? I've done this number countless times, so I'm sure it'll be alright.

We're celebrating Lord Vorgoth's successful securing of the summits! All glory to the Guard of the North!

Get your tickets now before they sell out! Check out the show in the upper grand hall on the 20th of Midyear, 496 D.A.— refreshments are not included!!

I've got something new for you, boss.
One of the new slaves, that Oscar guy — I think he's planning an escape from the quarry! I saw him slip a piece of marble into his shoe a few days back to smuggle it past your guards. I thought he just wanted to trade it in, you know, for some herbal tea or a clean shave. But I awoke last night to the sound of stone banging against metal shackles. He's trying to rid himself of your chains!

That's all I can tell you. Surely, it's worth a reward, right? Please, will you let me go now? Haven't I done enough for you?

Hey Pablo
I hear you've been assigned to "rat extermination" duty. That went poorly for you!

If you're not feeling up for it, why not join me instead? I took some pelts from storage and thought about strolling down to that Ancient Obelisk tomorrow. I'll call it a scouting mission. Maybe you can talk to the commander, and he'll let you join, too. We can always deal with the rats later, no?

Another day, another screech! I can't finish my calculations when these horrid vultures keep passing by! Why must our lighthouse align so closely to their migration route? If Lord Vorgoth hadn't ordered the quarry to be shut down, surely they would've nested elsewhere... but I'd be wise never to voice that thought out loud. Not if I want to keep my tongue, at least.

Even with these winged distractions, my work is almost complete. Soon, we'll be able to light our signal flames and burn our mark into the wintry sky. I call them "Balefires". They'll be a useful warning system when the great beast makes its return, but I am concerned. The passing vultures seem enraged by it... I better finish my project before they return.

We got caught in a snowstorm on our way to the obelisk. I pushed through the howling winds, possessed by my goal, but when I turned back to drag my new assistant along, her rosy face vanished behind specks of white.

"Fran!" I yelled. Her response echoed, sounding miles away. Then, a horrible screech shook me to my core. I rushed towards her, piercing the veil of snow. When I finally spotted her again, she was cowering beneath a vulture that hid inside the whirling winds.
I found my freezing fingers wrapped around a stone and tossed it with all my might. The vulture tumbled down, disoriented, and I stomped it until I felt its skull give in. Then, I froze.
I think Fran spoke to me as she took a bone sample, frantically brushing her hand across its wing, but I heard nothing. I looked at her face and saw her rosy cheeks gushing blood, ripped apart by claws. "She will never be the same," I thought. "And neither will I."

— Loraine Crim, Yearfall, 508 D.A.

When we found solace from the snowstorm here, we were simply glad to have shelter. The outcrops left and right looked like stone formations through the blurring winds. Only just now did I realize that we weren't surrounded by stone, but ribs.

Real, giant, well-preserved, ivory ribs — lying amidst a set of 6 limbs. We've decided to settle and take samples, mostly because Fran is thrilled to research the skeleton. She calls it "Ony" because "the letters look like a tailed animal with 6 limbs, bowing down to drink."
She's smiling ear to ear while brushing dust off the cartilage, but I can hardly look at her. The gashes on her face are still fresh, and I fear they're my fault. I might as well have scarred her face myself. Maybe letting her stay will allow me to repent.

— Loraine Crim, Yearfall, 508 D.A.

If the data samples didn't match, I'd pass this theory off as a bad joke. But they do.

The structure of these giant bones is similar to that of the Whitewing Vulture sample we took during that snowstorm. There's a historical relation here, the same ancestral blood. Not just the skeletons here, but in the Kindlewastes, too.
It's all pointing towards dragons.

All this distracts my obelisk research, but I hope to return to deciphering those soon. Only if the dragons don't get me first, that is.

— Loraine Crim, Yearfall, 508 D.A.

In my final days, I am brought low by the weight my kin has placed on my shoulders. I see now that my wish for unity within our family was foolish. Out of all my 7 children, none came to my deathbed — so I declare that none shall enjoy the fruits of my labor!

I wish for my most prized possession, a piece of artwork, to be passed down to my children. However, the piece will be torn apart and divided by 8. The pieces will be shared among my 7 children, thus rendering the priceless artwork useless.
Finally, I wish to be buried with the final piece, atop the hill near the low end of the fort. Let the earth embrace me the way my children never would.

Your submission of the Cyclops head will greatly benefit us, and your dedication was duly noted, Sergeant. We've ordered the head to be transported to the laboratory nearby.

We've noticed your ask for additional gold payments, since two members of your troop were, as you described, "ripped apart by the Cyclops, leaving only entrails behind, damn it!!"

We will consider your request with utmost diligence.
Don't contact us, we will contact you.

With regards,
Office of Lieutenant Arlington, First Overseer of the Expansion Program

I work day and night at the construction of the Bora Outpost. Yet we're still here living in this modest hut. All this hard work, for what?

I hid some polished granite blocks under the stairs at the outpost. When night falls, I'll bring them home and start working on renovating for our child. We've earned this.

I’ve never seen anything so dark, yet mesmerizing. It feels as if it’s whispering to me, begging me to claim it. I have to possess the Obsidian Blocks, it’s a craving I can’t ignore.
But where to keep them safe? Perhaps above the lava pools — who would dare risk their life to reach it? Only a fool would try.

Whether I get caught or not, taking these blocks is bound to be my path to darkness — but at least I’ll have what I desire.

New day, new me!
My expedition into the Albaneve Summits is starting well! The air on this side of the mountains is refreshing, and I can travel without burdens after leaving my band and lute behind. I even found this abandoned watch tower and got my hands on some old armor and warm undergarments! These will prepare me well for the journey ahead... and the armor makes me look just like a northling!

I'll act like a lost soldier if a patrol catches me. That way, maybe my blood won't be spilled, and I'll live another day! Inspiring stuff... maybe I'll take up a pen and write that down... I'm no longer a songwriter, but old habits die hard!

I ran into a patrol, just as I feared! However, luck was on my side once more. I convinced the troop that I was from the lumber department by showing them the calluses I have on my hands from years of playing the lute. They bought it!
"Recruit Loft", they call me. I didn't bother giving a fake name. I figured they wouldn't know me for my musical past, anyhow. Is music even allowed in the far reaches of the North? Who knows.

I've been tasked to repair the tower, but I snuck away from work to find this beautiful view. When I yell "echo!", the mountains reflect my call with soft reverberation. It's truly awe-inspiring. I simply must see more of the mountains. Perhaps I'll ask my superior to station me elsewhere.

Ah, it feels proper to plant my boots back on solid ground! Masquerading as a soldier was an interesting intermission, but dancing with the winds as a glider connoisseur was most thrilling, I believe!

Still, deep down, I remain a humble minstrel — a slave to the melody that bleeds from my aching heart! Yes, I declare: T'was the urge to create that brought me back — so says my newly discovered fear of vultures. They haunt not only the heights 'round my former outpost, but my dreams, as well... no matter!

I've returned to the love of my life: music! And thus, my mistress demands I try my luck at the Lord’s court! I hear the fellow’s got good taste and a sharp tongue for those who offend it. I may either join his banquet, or range of hunting trophies — but worry does not suit me. Besides, danger to a daring bastard is like a raindrop on a rose.
It simply sweetens the eve.
- "Lucky" Chester Loft

It's the first day of yearfall, 502 D.A. and I've finally reached the castle, and whilst preparing for my little soliloquy, I could not help but let my mind wander!

How shall I ever memorize my lines whilst dreaming beneath such magnificent architecture? I thought the statues of our Lord that line the town entrance fed my hungry eyes, but it seems they were merely an appetizer! The stonework here holds space for scenery, I say:

These columns reach toward the dome like prayers on a rainy night, coating the citadel in an awe-inspiring serenity. Imagine a gray chapel atop a cliff, moss creeping through the century-old brick. Thunder and lightning haunt not only the sanctuary, but the rivulet choking its precipice.
Stone arcs spring from side to side, frogs leaping across the rippling stream. They span 'round the pilasters like the skeleton of an umbrella, sheltering us sheep from the howling winds.

I must not forget myself! My audience is drawing near — I hope the Lord will savor my voice! If not, I might hang from one such arc soon enough... Focus, Chester! Grim thoughts ought not to be in a blond and pretty head like yours!

— "Lucky" Chester Loft

We're proud to announce that we will host the annual gliding contest on Day 40 of Midyear, 502 D.A. again!

As last time, the goal is to jump off the large wooden platform outside the sleeping quarters and glide in a slight curve towards the landing platform on the right-hand side.
Don't miss those upstreams, or you won't reach the platform! The best glider gets a reward at the end!
If you're up for the challenge, write your name below!

Kip Dipper
Ryan the Ragged
"Lucky" Chester Loft
Abraham Walz

We all jumped off the starting platform in Iron Heart. Me, Ryan, that new Chester guy, and Abraham.
Ryan didn't get far; he plummeted to the ground like a wet grain sack. Go figure. Abraham and I made it here just fine, eyes on the prize. But when I turned around to check on Chester, I became glued to something else.

Chester's glider must have ripped. He was tossing and turning in the air, tumbling between the gusts of wind, rising and falling aimlessly.
He's one lucky bastard, however. Got grabbed by an ice vulture mid-flight, probably mistaking him for some prey! It took him away to the far end of the mountain reaches.

That's a 50% survival chance for the annual gliding contest. Better than last year, at least.
— Kip Dipper

Hey Steph, I couldn't meet you at our spot, so I'm leaving this note. Grindmill duty's got me in a chokehold, you know?
Sorry to bring up work, but do you know a man named "Loft"? We found him wandering around in the snow. He said he was from a lumber team and that he got lost. He's fixing the roof on the tower now, but he seems... distracted.
I requested a list from Everfrore Keep for all lumberers currently employed, but they're swamped with paperwork again.
Remember John? He works there now. Dead inside, I assume.

No matter. Do you like the beer I left you? It's got a "kick", huh? It's my new secret ingredient. I've got more in our hidden brewery. Don't worry, no one's caught on yet. Should we invite the new lad for a drink? - Kent

Greetings from the grindmill. I hope my letter finds you well. I am writing to you to follow up on a previous request I sent regarding the list of all currently conscripted recruits in the lumber department. Please acknowledge receipt of my letter. We might have found one of your lads.**

**Note: Excuse the formalities. Did you know that Steph has returned from her excursion? Let me know how things are at Everfrore Keep, old chap. How's office life?
If you're ever free, drop by. We've got a sweet little spot here — don't tell the major — for brewing special beer. It's sort of... covert, you understand. Can you still drink more than I? I doubt it. Prove me wrong!
- Best, General Kent

Please wait patiently in line. Note that citizens without an appointment cannot submit requests. Thank you kindly for understanding.

We will be back shortly to hear your requests.

I can't keep up. I quit! I QUIT!

Approval form B12, not form 812
Follow-up needed, signature left blank, everything is past due
New Gateway Outpost D's building design isn't rule-conform. No one cares, they just build whatever
Why does everyone need burial certificates? Truly, why
There are at least 12 official requests every day
7 from Alba, 4 from Bora, 2 from Celeste
How can Outpost A even send 7 Requests
And TWO OF THEM are for not having enough socks?! MAKE YOUR OWN SOCKS and cease your whining, why is that even a bureaucratic issue?

This desk job will be the death of me. It doesn't matter what they pay me! Im leaving! And I'm THROWING THE LOST & FOUND CHEST from the balcony, too!

Benny took my hat
It's not phair that hee took my hat
Hee put it in one of the little goat houses with the stinky goats
I like the goats, but they are stinky, mom
I don't want my hat to smell like a goat!

Please make me a neaw hat mommy?

We're not in the barracks anymore. This is the real deal. The new frontline, fresh and freezing! Time to put on a tough face, or else my new mate Connor will pick on me.

Everyone around me is a proper soldier, braving the cold for the motherland. How exciting!!
Right now, I'm only chopping wood and shooing away rats, but that's gonna change, believe me! I overheard the others talk about some gigantic winged beast while sitting near the ballistae...

They won't tell me what it is, but I'll soon see for myself. And when I do, I'll pierce its eye with a single shot! That's sure to impress Connor!
— George

I was carrying ammunition to the ballista with Connor when Howling Peak suddenly roared. Squinting towards the rising smoke, I saw something hiding inside, causing the vapor to swirl... When it broke from the veil of gray, I froze. Screams erupted.

Amidst the chaos, a familiar voice called out. "George, get it together! I'll light the balefire, and you shoot!" Connor grabbed a torch and sped towards the bridge. The sky was darkened by wings. His silhouette was tinged in shadow as he vanished into black.

With shaking hands, I fired a bolt. Then two. Three — all missed. Unbothered, the winged beast spewed a hot, foul cloud from its mouth that melted our walls. It caught Connor on his way up. That's the last thing I saw before I fainted.

I want to go home, but they won't let me. We ain't in the barracks anymore. This is the real deal.

— George

Timid little lambs, you should know not to question Lord Vorgoth and his hallowed mission. The gods of the wind have heard your concerns, and they answer with swift violence.

He who spews doubt will be judged by the skies
He who shows fear will be carried away by the Northwinds
He who puts down his arms will be pierced by a heavenly bolt, as Raphael was

Praise the snow! Blessed be Lord Vorgoth, the Guard of the North and Ruler of Rimgard!

Our last pair of socks was on Milton's feet when he got attacked by that snow sabertooth. Since then, he's lost his feet. And our socks.

I've sent a report to Everfrore Keep — again — but I doubt they'll send more stock.
There might be some in the hidden chest behind the gong on the roof, but jumping across to the planks and squeezing through that hidden door is such a pain...
I'll just tell the others we're all out. It's not like Milton needs them, anyway.

What do we do with all these prisoners!?

I got an idea: We're running awfully low on food and fuel for the fire. Sounds like a solvable problem, no?

Just once, I wanna sit around and take a hearty bite of my sandwich without the mountain ominously roaring in the background. The ground shook so badly that I even dropped my food.
I mean, excuse me? I'm trying to eat here? Do you really have to huff and puff all the time?

I thought this place would be far enough away from the winged beast, but somehow it still finds a way to bother me.
The worst thing is that I dropped my sandwich on the overseer's head. Now I'm on bath scrubbing duty for the next two months. And my sandwich is gone. This is the worst.

Who is scared of flying horrors?
Winged beasts, up in the sky!

Who is scared of flying horrors?
Behind clouds, they're hiding high!

Who is scared of flying horrors?
Is it you, or is it me?

Those who fear will sleep in sorrow
And the brave will sleep in peace!

The mountains are its cradle, the winds its lullaby
Howling Peak its womb, so eat your pumpkin pie

An egg inside will hatch and seek the child that doesn't eat
Finish what your parents cooked or you'll be its tasty treat

A desperate howl will call for you, the echoes know your name
So hurry up and eat your plate, or your death will be in vain

I can't have my goats wander off with these one-eyed beasts nearby.

I don't know where their goddamn cave is, but I sure hope they stay there. Can't stand to lose another goat... meat supply is runnin' awfully low, and I won't go back to eating rats!

The new order says that we gotta keep an eye on this bridge. A Cyclops cave was found nearby, so we have to "protect the trade route!"

I'm not worried. A Cyclops' brain is the size of a pea. Sure, their strength is formidable — but I got 4 lads here, and they're each broad as a brick house. Better yet: they're not very bright either, so they're easy to push around!
In conclusion: This will be a breeze. Unless my guys start a riot... Now that I think about it, I haven't paid them in a while.

Oh well. If their tiny, smooth brains can't figure out that I've stashed their payment in a chest right below their noses, then it's their fault.

On the first day, the great Lord Vorgoth set his sights on the Albaneve Summits.
He said, "Such peaks befit the greatness of our nation. Such valleys will bear the fruits of our Elixir Wells."

On the second day, the Lord marched toward the horizon, carving a path through the treacherous beauty of the wild mountains for his kin.

On the third day, shadows awaited him at Howling Peak. The dragons had awoken to keep our King from making his rightful claim!
Lord Vorgoth raised his hand against the winged beasts and roared, "You're no match for the red eagle, and you shall die to our valor and steel!"

On the fourth day, he split the skull of the mother dragon, leaving his axe between her eyes as she fell from the skies. Thus, the summits were liberated from evil, and the kingdom rejoiced.

I can't get the "Myth Of The Dragon Slayer" out of my head.

You see, I know it's all crap, right? Granddad was among the first to settle the mountains, after all. He said Vorgoth never set foot here, or if he did, we "ought not to discuss it", as he put it. Maybe there's a less glamorous legend below the one we're told? The dragons were long gone when we arrived, too.
Is everything a lie? But then, what did I see atop that dragon's head by the basin? I could swear I saw something sparkle in the vulture's nest there, and the damn things seemed protective over it!!
So, is there a shiny weapon or not? Could it all be a coincidence?

I'm dying to know, but I'm not messing with those vultures!

CROMVILLE Institute of Imperial Defense
Memorandum for General Rasmus

Letter of Recommendation for C-25-1019-DA (DARYA ARKANOV).

It is with great pleasure that we recommend student D. ARKANOV for the upcoming expedition to the Night Doors on the Albaneve Summits front.
She's proven her loyalty and leadership capabilities on numerous field trips, and finished top of her class in "Imperial History" and "Ancients: Anatomy of the Adversary".
She's even expressed an interest in the arcane magic of the Ancients outside of the classroom. Her (tolerated) doctrinal deviations may serve you well in your research.

Therefore, we believe D. ARKANOV will be a useful addition to your squad. We remain available for any questions or requests.

Blessed be Lord Vorgoth, the Guard of the North and Ruler of Rimgard
J. Lincoln, Headmaster

Opening the door to the Night Sanctum was easy enough. They don't directly teach you about arcane trickery at the Cromville Institute, but the forbidden library section is never guarded... and why have a forbidden section, if not to allow curious students to make it the focus of their evening elective?

I'm surprised not to have found Ancient weaponry here, but our adversary is slick. If my studies have taught me anything, their weapon must be hidden behind a different night door.

They're gambling on wasting our time with riddles until we expire, drawing out the conflict... But I'd wager they didn't expect a graduate with a penchant for cracking codes.

So bet it all on red.

Darya

These Night Sanctums are nothing like I thought... and maybe worse, nothing like the institute or generals said they would be.

I fear I shouldn't be here, but the sensation is strangely new. It's different from lingering in the forbidden library, sneaking out of the institute past bedtime, or gambling my allowance at the parlor.
I'm besmirching something pure by being here, as though my presence disturbs the serenity of the night itself.

And even worse, I'm failing. Failing to see something my superiors want me to find. I hear their orders echo in my head, commanding me to dig further... to find a threat. A weapon. A justification for more preliminary strikes, or desecration. And I just don't know if that thing even exists.

What if we miscalculated our odds and misread our opponent? What if all of this is wrong?

Darya

How can the night sky stay calm when it faces a sea of liars?

I feel like I'm seeing the stars for the first time. As if a dark, velvet blanket has been lifted from my eyes, allowing me to bear witness.

There was never an ancient weapon here.
We were always intruders.
What else do they not want me to know?

All these years, wasted by blindness
Sneaking past the rules of the physical world, not realizing my mind was captured just the same
I considered myself cunning while betting blindly on the cards I was handed... but it's a fool's game to share the table with liars and cheats.

I have to disappear
I have to stop this madness, this indoctrination
And I can't leave any clues or witnesses
They always spell trouble
I know that much at least

Darya

Hey Davis, I hope you're well. I have an urgent request.

Do you know the hermit from the mountain behind the ravine who comes by sometimes? The strange old fellow, dressed in pelts, that trades amethysts for supplies?
He came by again but didn't ask for herbs, spices, or vegetables. The man was pleading for medicine, but we were all out. Even the bag of amethysts he clutched in his wrinkly hands couldn't change that.

Once we receive new stock, could you put some tinctures aside for him? Our soldiers take priority, but the old chap was desperate, so let's reserve some when we see him again.
Or rather, if we see him again. Such a journey cannot be easy on his old bones.

Another day goes by. The snow tranquilizes the world outside, and my heart feels heavier with every beat. Each new night competes with the last to be the coldest. I wish you were by my side to warm me.

Amelie, your chair broke today. I tried to fix it, but my old back protested. Still, I couldn't throw it out, either. It just lies there, shambles of the past with no use but to bring pain at the remembrance. What a rotten day.
If you were here, you'd cheer me up. I would find you in the garden by the purple flowers you favored, your hair swaying in the breeze like the petals. You would turn around, and the light in your eyes would fill my dull, slowing heart with brightness.

I yearn to remember you only as that lilac whirlwind. To see you when I look at the winter blossoms, not the broken remains of a rickety chair.
But it's hard because you're all around. In the good, and the bad.
Still, If I could run away with you again, I would. I would always choose you, my little amethyst.

You are in every breath I take, in each tear I cry, and in all my waking dreams.

We were supposed to welcome the messenger two nights ago, but he's not arrived yet.
Are we still taking bets on the decree he's got for us? I'm guessing it's instructions on punishing delinquents. Perhaps the exact measurements of what diameter the sharpened sticks used for prodding prisoners ought to have.

Well, we might never find out. I've got this feeling that the harsh winds of the summits were too much for what I imagine to be a scrawny little courier. Maybe the lads from the Veilwater Basin just don't have it in them. They're way too captured by Lord Vorgoth, that ol' lunatic, to prepare for any danger or hardship beyond the "Ancient Enemy"...

Keep that between us, alright? If the overseers read this, they'll put my head on a spike. A perfectly measured, evenly sharpened one at that!

On behalf of His Highness, Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North and Ruler of Rimgard
His Lordship hereby declares by executive order:

All stationed units of the Expansion Program must refrain from referring to Lord Vorgoth in distasteful or creatively unbecoming ways.

All stationed units of the Expansion Program ought to report gossip and common scolds so they may be brought to justice by a scold's bridle, or, upon repeated offense, a stay in the dungeons of variable length according to the overseer's best judgment.
Additional punishment, most appropriately dealt with a sharpened wooden spear of appropriate diameter and length, may be carried out at will —

(The rest of the decree is too tattered and ripped to decipher.)

Anybody would find it hard to rest inside such a rickety tent at night. The wind howls without mercy, unconvinced by my pleas for peace and quiet. Still, I drag myself to the quarry every morn' to haul the rocks about.

My exhaustion finally got the better of me when I was operating the pulley, lifting a marble block. I couldn't keep my concentration and slipped into a momentary slumber, letting the marble chunk drop to the ground.
A loud thud ripped me from my sleep and drew my attention to the now partially pulverized rock. In my half-dreaming state, the shimmering powder at my feet mezmerized me, but I quickly withdrew from that feeling as I was coming to my senses.

I was excused from the quarry to get some rest, but I've been spending my off hours grinding rocks to dust. I find it strangely calming to gaze at the different resulting shades of gray.

This tomb is dedicated to all who passed without a family to bury them.

Lost souls of unknown names, untold stories, unsigned wills.
Elders who've turned to dust, leaving only ash where there should be splendor and wisdom.
Wanderers with no friends to sing their praises or dry their tears.
Children whose breaths were taken away before their laughter could light up the sky.

We sear their initials into our minds, branding ourselves in their stead. We carry their burden on our backs, battered and beaten. We remember those who are lost, reliving the sorrows of the past — the reverberating pain of a healing wound — to burst open anew, relapse, and drown in gloom every blue moon.

The memories are painful, but we carry them in our hearts evermore, for no pain burns brighter than fading to black.

Many hands, outstretched

Grasping, clutching, clawing

At meaning, at remembrance

At everything, at nothingness

I'm worried about Junior.

I've worked so hard to create a good life for him — one that shields him from war and death... yet, whether it's childish defiance or a wish to follow his father's footsteps, Junior refuses to feel comforted by our quaint existence.
He won't let go of this dream of becoming a soldier... a nightmare in disguise, I'm afraid. If he could just settle down and take over the salon instead, I'm certain he'd live a better, or at least, longer life!

I sympathize with Marsha's apprehension. Really, I do. It's in her nature to be cautious; she's a "Hophare" at heart — always a mere breath away from skittering off, dashing to safety and comfort.

Well, regarding animals, I'm more of a Whitewing Vulture... I'm bound to the skies! It's my calling to glide above these freezing valleys!

How can Marsha not feel intrigued by the upstreams outside our cabin? By the landing site just beyond the winds?
Just how high up would they take me, I wonder? Perhaps far enough to reach the giant skeleton by the ridge? ...How steep would the fall be, dared I make a mistake?

Alas, there's no point in pondering it. I don't want to break my little snow rabbit's heart. Or my bones.

As far as I can remember, it's always been just the three of us. Andrew, Harriot, and I — and the fish, of course. Our little roost near the ice hole has been our home, and we never strayed far from it.

The sun was setting, and Harriot was storing her newest trophy — a typical evening. As we were packing up, Andrew decided to stay behind to "fish" alone... but I saw that glint in his eye, that look towards the back of the cave. An explorative urge had struck him. Maybe he hoped for clearer waters, a catch of his own? Who knows...

Ever since then, he's changed. Last I saw him, he had glossy eyes and a raspy cough. It made the fish elude him more than usual. Despite this, Harriot reeled in a big one — A slippery Crimsonback, almost too heavy for her frail arms to lift.
Andrew ripped the fish out of her hands and, without hesitation, slid it off the hook and into his gullet. When Harriot protested, he swiftly silenced her with a push, nearly knocking her off our deck and into the water.

We left early that day, without Andrew. Harriot sought to return and "make things right" between them, but I fear our friend is beyond help... something crept inside him as he wandered the bowels of this cave. I have to keep it out. For good.

I'm starving
They want me to rot

Never sharing
Always pretending to care

My stomach is rumbling, and I cannot rest
Can't catch my breath... something sits inside my lungs, choking me

I need fresh fish
Fresh blood
But they won't ever share — She deserved it
And if you don't open up
Nils
I will come for you too
And I will get you like I got Harriot

The winged beast is formidable, 'tis true.

Its wings overshadow our morn', sending biting gusts of wind toward the valleys with every descent. Its deafening roar ripples through the stone, shaking our foundations and faith. It rules over the skies as if by birthright — a chosen champion, sprung from the mountain's heart.

Yet, it can be brought low — It can be beaten.

I've seen the scourge at dawn: Letting fire rain down on the horizon like tears of the sun.
These balls of flame are devastating on impact... but I believe that, with the right timing, they can be parried and sent back towards the maw of the beast!

Our numbers are decimated, and morale is low.

The warriors amongst us may hide behind their swords and shields, and the mages could call upon the power of the elements... but us archers, what can we do? The beast makes our arrows look like mere toothpicks!

There may be ways to whittle it down, however. I've been working on more stun arrows... they've the potential to force that wretched animal to the ground momentarily, allowing the others to strike! Maybe there's a way to make similar ammunition for our ballistas...?

Until I figure that out, these stun arrows will have to do. When the creature comes back, we'll be ready!

These vultures have taught me one thing, at least. They seem afraid of storms — Flash and thunder frighten them!

There must be a way to use this to my advantage... not only against these skyfaring vermin, but perhaps even the grand winged beast that haunts the Howling Peak!

Could channeled lightning be the answer to our prayers? More research is required... but I have hope!
Until I can look into this further, I'll surely find myself pitying every fair-weather day...