Far, far, far to the north, mosses and lichens encroach on scattered firs and floes of ice swirl and crack with the currents. Here the sun disappears for months at a time, and when it does decide to shine it is never for long. The creatures that make this frigid climate their home have since acclimated to these difficulties: they burrow in the winter, and emerge only when the storms stop pounding on their nests.

Thus there are the usual denizens, such as the shrews and foxes that stalk through the shrubs. Wolves occasionally roam this way, though not to stay, and the polar bears find the stability of dry land preferable at times to the ice fields. Seals rest on the beaches, and the attentive whale-watcher will spot all manners of flukes breaking the surface.

This is not a safe region for hobbyists, though. Pelt hunters return to their lodges from long expeditions into these plains and hills regaling tales of man-like beasts covered in fur, spindly imps wearing stolen skin, shapeshifters vanishing in and out of the snow, and dark shapes lurking in the waters. And worse than any yeti or wendigo is the eternal blizzard that sweeps across the arctic north, always moving and never dying.

The legends of the first people of this land say the blizzard is caused by a colossus made of ice, so cold the very air around him freezes. Historians say it may be a weapon, a relic of a long forgotten war. Either way, it no doubt has something to do with the strangeness that surrounds the northern pole, and like so many other places in this world, that is no place for humans to venture.