Dear page in book,

A lot has happened since I last put ink to paper – most notably, it’s been several weeks since I’ve left the safety and comfort of the Brackenfield Inn and started my journey south toward Archen. I imagine it wouldn’t take a regular adventurer anywhere near as long to make the trek but, admittedly, I get side tracked a lot and camp more often than I need to. I’m getting very proficient at building fires! Not so good at making a shelter so I spend most nights in inns along the way.

This is the first time I’ve been out of Wintervale so I take my time to explore as I make my way, although much of what I’ve been seeing lately are the same snow and trees I could have seen from my window in the tower. I guess I don’t know what I should be expecting; Father told me the world is more or less the same wherever you go, though I have the feeling he was just saying that so wanderlust didn’t overtake me.

Speaking of Father – I’ve had a lot of time to read his journal. There are a lot of things I never knew about the man. He was… very complicated. The book I hold must be one of the later journals in the series as he makes many references to events supposedly documented previously yet I can’t find any entries regarding them in these pages. Most of what I read comes across as cryptic but one common value is held across the most of his writings: repentance. He never explicitly says what it is that he’s done but I can only assume it was something very, very bad.

I can’t even imagine.

Something I read in this book refers to a nearby town by the name of Odinfell, which is where I’m heading now. Apparently something happened here many years ago and my Father might have been involved so I figured I’d make it a point to investigate. The townspeople in a neighboring village were hesitant to say what happened but they indicated that – whatever it was – wiped it off the face of Salvar. It could be something or it could be nothing. I guess I get to find out first hand.

I head out for Odinfell first thing in the morning.
Time to get some sleep.
~

The sun had risen above the hills of snow several hours ago which marked the start of Sorin’s day. After a scarce breakfast at the inn consisting of dried bits of meat and wet oats, he set off for his destination of Odinfell. He was able to travel the most of the way on an easterly path until he came to a junction that had obviously not been walked in many, many years. After confirming several nearby landmarks to what had been scribbled on his map, as well as deciphering a worn down sign that was barely legible, Sorin was certain he had come to the crossroads heading the road due north that would lead him to the mysterious town of Odinfell.

He paused a moment to look over the nonexistent path through the snow that led into a barebones forest saturated with dead trees. As barren as the woods were, Sorin was unable to see through to the other side, leaving him unable to confirm whether he would truly find the town he was looking for on the opposite end. Regardless, what choice did he have? He had come this far with the intent of investigating the meaning behind his Father’s journal entry, would he really turn back with no answer to his questions? No, of course not – he was young and foolish enough to forge on. With a little reluctance, he stepped forward off the path and into the knee deep snow, trudging his own way into the lifeless forest before him.

The forest was as dead as it looked. The only blemishes in the snow, for as far as he could see, were the ones left behind him in the wake of his footsteps. Nothing filled his ears but the crunch of snow beneath him and the occasional groaning of a faded tree slowly unsettling to the buckling cold. Speaking of the cold – Sorin couldn’t tell if it was just his imagination but the temperature in the air seemed to drop dramatically the further he made his way into the woods. Even his heavy layers of clothing, which were specifically meant to deal with the harsh wintry environment of Wintervale, seemed to offer little resistance to the biting chill seeping in.

Quaking uncontrollably from the cold, Sorin continued to slowly progress forward while trying to push his thoughts away from terrible thought of freezing on the spot. Suddenly, without any inclination that suggested he was at the end of the line, he stepped out of the woods and into a clearing – and within that clearing was a town that was most certainly abandoned. This was Odinfell.

Odinfell had tragedy written all over it. The derelict buildings that were previously the homes, inns, and shops of its denizens, looked as if they had been subjected to a thousand fires. They were dilapidated, charred beyond definition and ready to crumble at a moment’s notice and yet they stood. For years, Sorin imagined, this is exactly how they stood – frozen in time. He seemed to forget about the paralyzing cold plaguing him as he journeyed forward into the town that remained but soon stopped as he came upon a sight that would have send many running: a decrepit skeleton of one who had passed on.

The majority of the skeleton was picked clean, whether by carrion or by fire, yet there were still areas where decayed flesh held loosely to the bone. This was nothing new to Sorin. He had seen things much worse in comparison; it was not something that would deter him from heading forth. He had the feeling that this wouldn’t be the first body he would find lingering among the roads of Odinfell if the condition of what was presented before him was any indication.