Your toes are cold but the stew is warm.
The hot cider soothes your soul!

You and your companions are held up in gawd-forsaken of town of Ivangaurd, nestled in the Ghakis Mountains, just above the Dark Woods.

Your fingers hurt, your lips are chapped, and you are far from home. By the gawds you miss home.

And then as fate would have it, into the inn walks… a man, who nearly has to squeeze through the door. He is bald of pate, and sorrowful of eye, his flesh pallid and blue. It must be a trick of the light, but as he walks, his massive goedendag in hand, you would swear his bulk expands, his crown never-not scraping the pine beams of the ceiling, the once warm room, chilling without warning…