As the clock tower in the town hall tolls the noon hour, the mayor of Heldren quietly opens the door to her quaint house on the other side of the square. Ionnia Teppen addresses her small band she had summoned, "Thank each of you for coming on such short notice. There's something terribly wrong with the land here, and now with the shape that mercenary came in, I don't know who else to turn to help. I can't say if there's a reason for such a variety of folk in my town at the moment, but I hope it's a helpful coincidence. Nobody in this town has had any experience with anything more than a simple forest hunt in nearly a century, let alone something as devastating as a winter storm in our wood. If you would follow me, please, there's a recent survivor from the forest I would like you to talk to before going into danger." Her voice seemed even, but that was a thin facade for a woman overwhelmed with the thoughts of how to save her village of a hundred and seventy.

The mayor walks down the eastern road of square, easier than ever before as the tales of snow and ice kept people from leaving their houses. Instead of what should be a bustling day for the village became a frightful shell. A short hundred-meter stroll takes you to a small house, barely more than an incredibly neat and maintained hut. The garden surrounding it was equally neat and trim, today handled by her dwarvish neighbor. Argus was seen scissors in hand, and thankfully no leeches to be seen. "Mrs. Willowbark is tending to the carriage guard inside," he gestures to the house with a pair of shears. Through the beaded curtain the elvish apothecary used as the door to the house, you see the spritely redhead tending to an Ulfen man covered from his toes to his nose in frostbite, and sharp wounds crossing his body.

“Would that I could go with you,” the wounded warrior says to the group “My ancestors would ridicule my lack of valor for fleeing rather than fighting to the end. But I faced enemies that even the greatest warriors in the Linnorm Kingdoms have faltered against, though I think I slew at least one of them before they dragged Lady Argentea away.” He takes a swig from a drink that smells of cayenne and ginger. "Fey creatures, sworn to the White Witches of Irrisen, those who stole our lands from us during the Winter War. Tiny sprites no taller than the length of a man’s forearm. But don’t be fooled by their small stature. Legends say they have taken a sliver of ice into their hearts, and their touch bears the harsh bite of winter. You can fight them with cold iron and burning flame. Both burn them, and both are weapons they fear.”” The man before you is in no shape to be moving any time soon, much to the northern warrior's chagrin.