The cold of the harsh winter has crept into Pheraxis like one of the many fingers of the Lich Army. Land lays stark white or barren gray. Silence deafens as snow piles upon homesteads and houses, manors and hovels. While further south Old Crone Winter hasn't yet dug her icy talons nearly deep enough to warrant worry, the year's harvest wasn't the best. Tensions rise and tempers flare like tinder before an open flame.