Kroo Margeder took a deep breath and plunged into the Ravin’ River. The Autumn Storms were nearing their end which meant Winter Itself was nearing the Outlands, and that meant it was time for Kroo’s annual ritual of fording the Ravin’ River. He’d been doing this thing for near on two decades, ever since he’d been an energetic youth and infatuated with Lémare Novingtramer, a lass of surpassing beauty and endless laughter, the kind that made the forest shiver and sparkle.

Well Lémare had left the Outlands long ago, departed Assol entirely in fact to find what she wanted to find. She had known from a young age that the Outlands could not contain her, and Kroo denied this, denied the knowledge that he was part of those Outlands and that she would eventually outgrow them, outgrow him. He would not face it.

Word was her life had since taken a number of dramatic turns, so many that she were like to be nigh unrecognizable to Kroo should he ever be afforded the sight of her again. Her letters had become less frequent, more vague, until they ceased altogether. His remained unanswered. He really should be makin’ hisself forget her. Trouble was the more powerful memories fused themselves with your identity when you’re of an age to care so deeply about such things.

And the end o’ the Autumn Storms always brought that lass up to the surface of his thoughts no matter how distant she remained in the present. The raging icy waters of the river shocked Kroo’s mind and wiped the emotions away, tore them into shards. The Endless Shivers were upon him!

With so much rainfall this time of year the river was a swirlin’ churnin’ cauldron of chaos, and Kroo Margeder lost himself in the Ravin’ River. Winter Itself would be brutal this year, all the soothies were sayin’ it, and all the merchants in Gilba Gilba were stockin’ up fierce. But it was brutal every year. The cycle would never end and everyone would make it to the Spring Song, just as they did last year and just as they would next year.

The icy froth froze Kroo’s brain and he let himself be sucked into the rapids where nothing mattered except the immediacy of the sensation. Lémare had left at the onset of Winter Itself, in the midst of the worst Autumn Storm the Outlands had seen. It was fitting that such weather had accompanied the most traumatic moment of Kroo’s life. His annual plunge into these lethal waters helped him remember and helped him forget.