It’s been a long journey. Too long. And too cold. A lesson in oxymorons; who would have thought that wind and ice could burn?
Rhaegar, C’Tuma, and I arrived in Graystone yesterday. It certainly isn’t the most inviting of cities. Leave it to the Dwarves to find comfort in the harsh wilderness of the mountains. But it’s certainly better than from whence we came. The Hesharii seem to be occupied in the South for now, gods bless those poor souls.
Our funds were nearly gone by the time we arrived, but we managed to find a nice inn at a relatively low cost—at least, once I’d talked the innkeeper down a bit. Apparently this town isn’t too friendly to non-humans. I’ve never been so happy to draw myself a steaming hot bath; at least for the night, I could forget the cold.
Unfortunately, the whinings of my empty coin purse call much louder than the caress of a warm bed. And so we venture back into the cold today. The imperial legion stationed here is stretched too thin; they can barely muster a town guard. It seems, though, that this means work opportunities are plentiful. We talked to the commander, one Cornelius Ventor, and from him learned that there’s a possible Orc encampment at a place called Cragmere, northeast of the city. So we’re making preparations to investigate the encampment and report back—and hopefully make some coin in the process.
We’ve also heard rumors of hauntings nearby. Supposedly the dead walk the caverns of Icehall Cave. Baseless superstition, if you ask me, but of course C’Tuma is all intrigued.
And as if I needed another reason to hate the North, now we learn of terrible beasts that plague this place: shrykes. Even Rhaegar blanched at the mention of them—apparently he encountered them back on Asaheim—and I’ve rarely seen Boss-Man so much as bat an eye at danger.
So it’s barely a day in the North and we’re already up against Orcs and ghosts and shrykes. I knew there was a reason I left in the first place.