Cainhurst: Blood Letter

The world falls still at the edge of the North. A harsh, unyielding wind of everlasting gale stretches far across frozen wastes. Wintery sovereignty claws at your neck. Suffocating, agonizing. For why dost thou continue to persevere in such treacherous terrain? For what dost thy kind seeketh? Is it to be of power, of glory, or the prominence that comes at the cost of oneself? This world lies in harsh abandonment, a delightful fruit of opportunity sits at the cusp of your teeth. Be sure to tread lightly, to embrace the eternal cold, but take care to not let it consume. It will take more than you can afford. Much, much more. I, no, we pray for thine safety. May the ones that lurk beneath the sea have mercy upon thy small, fragile soul.