Spoiler (click to show/hide):
The Frost Marches are considered by most to be the very edge of the world. The only true frontier left in the broken world of Savarra.
Small wonder why. Mountainous, cold, unforgiving. The lands far to the north of old Belhar were not the welcoming, rolling plains or idyllic forests that humanity grew to the zenith of their power, before spreading outwards in every direction to conquer and subsume. Every direction by north, or at least so far north as to be considered part of the Marches. A few proud lords of the old order had claimed dominion of bits and pieces over the centuries, the so-called Marcher Lords who like as not never projected enough power over their fiefdoms to truly claim them as their own. The Marches were as isolated from civilization as any region could be.
So it was little wonder why an elven ranger might make her way toward them. In the aftermath of the Godswar, a conflict that brought the Belharan Empire low and much of Savarra with it, much of the continent had become inhospitable in a much different way. Warlords fought over the scraps of a behemoth that once spanned from coast to coast, and the constant flaring of this conflict and left few places untouched. In the Marches, none of that would matter. All you'd need to do was deal with nature itself, and that was something you could handle much easier than waves of loot-hungry bandits seeking to plunder and rape their way through everything unlucky enough to not be behind what few ancient walls remained.
Or so you thought.
It was autumn by the time your journey led you into the territories that sat on the very border of civilization itself. Rains were expected as the world cooled for the year and nothing that you hadn't prepared for. However, as you came within sight of the Frostfangs, gentle rains turned to gentle snows, then harder snows, and howling winds. What had begun as a balmy farewell to fall swiftly became a blizzard the likes of which one would expect at the height of winter, you were many, many months away from that.
Your survival abilities were such that managing through the opening salvo of the storm was easy enough, but you knew you'd need to find somewhere to shelter if you wanted to make it to the few frontier towns that dotted the Marches with all your fingers and toes intact. You manage to find succor in a small cave, cut into the foothills of the mountainous terrain, and after three days of poor weather, salvation seems to find you first.
"Velun's Fur!"
You can hear the voice over the howling winds just barely. The source, up near the mouth of the cave, seems to be a fur-cloaked figure, though it's hard to make out much of them with how badly the snow seems to stick to their clothing.
"I thought I smelled smoke... Living Gods, are you alright in there? This is no place to weather a storm!"
