Nestled in the mountain region, shrouded by the towering peaks and the whispering pines, lies the quaint town of Frostfall. This small winter wonderland is a place where time seems to stand still.
Frostfall's cobblestone streets wind their way through the town, each path adorned with a shimmering blanket of fresh snow. The town is a huddle of charming stone cottages, each roof heavy with winter's bounty, their chimneys puffing gentle plumes of smoke that curl up into the crisp, azure sky. The scent of burning firewood hangs in the air, mingling with the invigorating aroma of pine and the distant, tantalizing whiffs of warm, hearty meals being prepared.
At the heart of Frostfall stands a grand castle. Its tall, stone walls are weathered by time and the harsh mountain winters, but the castle remains a majestic sight. Its battlements, covered in a dusting of frost, catch the winter sun and glisten like a knight's armor, evoking tales of valor and chivalry.
The town square is a hub of activity, even in the biting cold of winter. Hardy townsfolk, bundled in furs and wool, go about their daily tasks, their breath fogging in the cold air. The blacksmith's forge glows, a beacon of warmth in the chill, as the rhythmic clanging of hammer on metal rings out, crafting weapons and armor fit for the bravest knights.
Frostfall may be small, but it is a town steeped in tradition and history. Tales of epic battles and noble knights are woven into its very fabric, shared by the crackling fire in the tavern, passed down from generation to generation. The town, with its snowy streets, stone cottages, and grand castle, is a living storybook, a place where the chivalry of old continues to thrive amidst the mountain's winter splendor.
The traveling group went into the small town, they trudged through the narrow, snow-laden paths, their breaths turning into frosty plumes in the crisp air. The faint sound of their boots crunching into the fresh snowfall echoed, muffled by the natural insulation of the winter wonderland surrounding them. Above them, the sky was a clear, brittle blue, the sun a distant, cold diamond that did little to warm but brilliantly lit the world in a pale, frosty light.
The air was sharp and clean, biting at their faces, making their eyes water and cheeks flush a rosy pink. It was the kind of cold that seeped into one's bones, a constant reminder of the unforgiving winter, yet oddly invigorating, filling their lungs with a freshness that only high altitude and untouched snow could offer.
Frostfall was a symphony of white, from the whitewashed cottages with their roofs heavy with snow to the icicles hanging like crystal ornaments from the eaves. Smoke curled lazily from stone chimneys, blending with the misty breath of the mountain, creating an ethereal, dream-like atmosphere. The scent of burning firewood was a comforting undercurrent, mingling with the crisp mountain air and the subtle sweetness of pine.
As they passed through the town, the smell of fresh bread from the local bakery wafted in the air, teasing their senses and making their mouths water. The faint sounds of life—children's laughter, the distant bark of a dog, the soft chink of a blacksmith's hammer—added a warm hum to the otherwise silent winter landscape.
As the group entered the trade market of Frostfall, the quiet tranquility of the snowy town gave way to a lively buzz of activity. Market day in Frostfall was a weekly event, a time when the mountain folk shook off the icy grip of winter and brought the town to vibrant life.
The market was held on a large, cleared square, its cobblestones scrubbed clean of snow. Stalls of various sizes and make-shift tents filled the space, their owners busy with transactions, negotiations and animated conversations. The air was punctuated with the clink of coins, the murmur of haggling, and the occasional laughter echoing against the mountain's icy façade.
Among the stalls, a myriad of goods from the mountains and beyond were displayed. Freshly caught fish from the frozen lakes glittered like silver under the cold sunlight. Bundles of cured meats, wheels of hardy mountain cheese, and baskets laden with root vegetables covered tables, while sacks of grain, nuts, and dried fruits sat in corners. Craftsmen hawked their wares, from intricately woven winter cloaks to beautifully carved wooden trinkets, all bearing the unique touch of Frostfall's craft.
In the middle of the wide variety of market stalls a rather large stall – well it was actually a shop, lurked. Beastly Boutique was the shop's name and in front of the shop stood a large stall exhibiting the products from the boutique shop. Dire cubs' products were stalled outside, such as Frostfang Direwolf Fur Coat, Ice Basilisk Scale Shield and Elk Antler Sledge's were only a few that appeared.
The group had moved with their carriages and bears, they had to dismount from their horses as it was according to the town's law. The group had a few troubles getting past the town guards as the bears could do some damage, but after a couple minutes of persuasion the group entered. Every where they went they attracted attention.
As the group passed, their silver steel armor gleaming under the morning sun, the townsfolk couldn't help but pause in their tracks.
An elder fishmonger, his hands gnarled from years of work, squinted at the knights as they passed by. "Look at the size of those bears!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with fear. "They're not ordinary bears, I'm sure of that. But where do they hail from? And who could command such creatures?"
A baker, flour still dusting his hands, shrugged as he joined the crowd. "I've seen many a knight in my time, but none like these, with their high collar line furs and cloaks," he mused aloud. "And that sigil on their armor... an Icy Crowned Stag I believe... I wonder which house they belong to."