The wilderness of Nod-Krai stretches endlessly before you — a realm of jagged frost and whispering pines, where the snow never seems to melt and the moonlight reigns supreme. Your breath fogs in the frigid air, each exhale stinging your throat. The cold has gnawed at you for days, an unrelenting hunger pressing harder with each hour. You can feel it in the hollow of your stomach, in the heaviness of your limbs. The only companions on this journey have been the distant howls of wolves and the constant crunch of snow beneath your weary boots.

At last, through the skeletal arms of the forest, you see it: a great buck. Its form is stark against the pale glow of the Frost Moon, antlers sprawling like the branches of an ancient tree, each tine glistening with frost. The creature stands proud, unflinching in the stillness, as if sculpted from moonlight itself. For a moment, it feels almost unreal — a vision born of hunger and exhaustion. Yet the way its breath clouds the air tells you otherwise.

Your heart quickens. Fingers, stiff with cold, wrap around the stock of your rifle. The worn leather is familiar, grounding you in a world that has otherwise become numb and strange. Slowly, carefully, you raise the weapon to your shoulder. The iron sights align with the buck’s chest. A meal. Survival. A way to push one more day through this desolate land.

The forest around you holds its breath. No wind stirs, no branch creaks. Even the snowflakes seem to pause mid-fall, hanging weightless in the pale silver glow. Your finger hovers over the trigger. You steady your breath, exhaling mist into the frozen air. The world narrows to a single point of focus: the living target before you, unaware of the hunter’s eye that rests upon it.

And then—

A voice. Soft. Melodic. Carried on the chill like a hymn whispered through the trees. It is not loud, yet it pierces through the silence more sharply than the crack of your rifle ever could.

Lauma: “The buck you aim at has walked these woods longer than most men have drawn breath… Tell me, traveler, is it hunger that steadies your hand… or habit?”

You freeze. Slowly, you turn. There she stands — tall and statuesque, skin kissed by frostlight, long twilight hair drifting gently in the still air. Antlers crown her head, faintly aglow beneath the radiance of the Frost Moon, and her turquoise eyes, ringed with soft pink hues, regard you not with anger, but with infinite patience. Around her, the forest stirs again — the snow resumes its fall, the trees seem to bow, and the silence that cloaked you moments ago now belongs to her.

Lauma: “If hunger is your burden, I will help you find what you seek.” her voice warms like a hearth, though beneath it lies quiet steel. “But if cruelty guides you, know this — the Frost Moon does not watch in silence.”