Dear Little Sister,
I am sick to death of cold. Over the past few months that I have been traveling the world, I have been looking forward to finally reaching the year-round heat of the southlands. A few days ago I arrived in the farthest reaches of Avistan, the seat of the crubmled empire of Taldor, a land of sun-warmed plains and hot ocean breezes. The aching bones and twisted muscles of my lamed leg were finally starting to warm up and regain some of their old flexibility in the southern heat when I followed a call to free a captive noblewoman. Which led me into a frozen forest as bitter as one of our own winters at home. So instead of drinking too-sweet wine in hot winds and lying on a ground glowing with warmth, I find myself trudging through the snow and ice in pursuit of bandits again. Only this time the bandits are accompanied by a necromancer and frost-twisted fey. Have I been hallucinating and am actually just a few miles from home on the Irrisen border? I wonder sometimes. There are certainly enough other Ulfen here to make that joking theory feel plausible.
I’ll write with more when I can feel my hands again.