Daventrian Chronicles, I

as recorded by Thybald Vaestergard, Scribe, 800th year of the Fourth Age

The mountain pass had been naturally denying any passage for a few days now due to the heavy snowfall. Temperatures had been dropping steadily resulting in the wood stockpiles quickly reducing in size. Work on the temporary palisades had to be ceased, while the fight against the elements now had overtaken the priority of building fortifications around the fledgeling city’s perimeter. Before the snowfall started and even during the first hours when small, featherlight flakes hesitantly made their way to the earth, only to melt straight away on contact with the relatively warm earth, ending their frail, short-lived lifecycle, a busy scene of horses pulling carts, builders erecting wooden palisades and folk mulling about was playing in front of the mayor’s eyes. Now, at the exact same location, no warm bodied soul was to be seen. Everyone was holed up inside the buildings that were finished; the inn housed much of the inhabitants as well as a few makeshift huts scattered around the big fireplace in what should become the town centre one day. The scent of burning wood mixed with wet pine and roasted pig filled the air. Further down you could hear the lamenting of little children. No doubt because of the freezing conditions the settlers had to endure. By the Gods, let this never ending white menace come to an end. The mayor could only wish.