Blom awoke in the thick of night, the mere candle in the darkness a blur of orange. A sound had sounded outside, or perhaps inside his head. In either case, he heard it, and he awoke. He gathered his gown or whatever he wore to sleep and shuffled down the hallway of the upstairs in the Ragged Maiden, taking care to avoid the squeaky boards that shrieked like a Shreemer when stepped on.

The Endless Shivers were flingin’ themselves unmercifully upon the frozen Gilba Gilba. Wine ’n ale deliveries were suspended for the season (Heemee had taken up another business during Winter Itself; what it was nobody knew) and the Ravin’ River was indeed slowed to an icy halt, a fact that employed a dozen or so sentinels upon the town’s side. Nobody wanted nothin’ from the Madman’s Mountains to cross the river and infiltrate the town. Ice bein’ what it was, any old mountain spirit could make havoc upon the residents.

The common room o’ the Ragged Maiden was quiet; a quiet man read quietly in the quiet corner, his hood pulled over his face and a t’backer pipe protrudin’ from his mouth. He acknowledged Blom with a small tip ‘o the head but then went back to his studies. Wind knocked insistently outside, just a dull thud-thud-THUDDDDDD.

“Not much goin’ on of late,” muttered Blom to the room. But still, why had he awoken? Eh. Not a concern. He padded over to the door, makin’ sure it was lodged shut nice and nice. It was. He opened it a crack and indeed the whistlin’ from the Endless Shivers shot through the common room and rattled the glassware off behind the counter area.

Blom peered into the darkness. Nobody else about but that wasn’t a certainty given the dark. Lamplighters of the town couldn’t keep the lamps lit in this weather and the tall, ornate posts often froze. Any attempt to light ‘em was not worth the effort. Spring Thaws couldn’t come soon enough but that brought with them a host of their own seasonal difficulties.

The moon was obscured. Blom liked peerin’ out into this shivery night. Reminded him of the Island Realm, down in the South O’ Things, when he was out on his vessel and gazing into the black ocean from the prow. Cloudy nights on the sea granted a black so pitch it was like starin’ into the Endless Shivers from a porch in a quiet Outland town.