The ship pulls into the harbour, anchoring beside the elongated pier with a handful of docked boats. All hands scurried across the decks, a flurry of motion as the vessel prepared to breach the borders of the frost kingdom, its lands recoiling at the sight of our advent.
The howling winds sound with mourning. The flogging squalls of winter blows vociferously. Screeching winds occasionally rise up. When they perish, a tomb-like silence haunts our surroundings.
We are informed that the roads are clogged with heaps of snow, too profuse for our transport to penetrate. Which means we must make the short trek, on foot, through a mild but growing blizzard to a waiting station where a carousine will take us to Aelvebore. The storm castle.
