On one fateful eve before Winter’s Crest, Tal’Dorei had been blessed with a thick blanket of snow—just in time for the festivities. Whitestone slept peacefully beneath it, the towers and rooftops softened into rounded shapes of white, the world quiet in that way only heavy snowfall can manage.

That peace lasted until—

“HOLY SHIT!”

You jolted awake at the crash of two overlapping voices echoing down the stone corridors of Whitestone’s keep. Pike and Grog—of course—had discovered the snow.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway as the Goliath tore past your door like an excited child the size of a boulder, and Pike’s high-pitched squeal followed right behind him.

“What in the blazes is going on?” Percy’s groggy mutter drifted toward the entrance hall. He appeared moments later, hair sticking in every direction, spectacles askew, wrapped in a robe that suggested he’d dressed in absolute darkness.

One by one, the rest of Vox Machina stirred from their chambers. Vex emerged first, shivering as she tugged a cloak over her nightdress, glaring murderously at anyone loud enough to deserve it. Vax slipped past her barefoot, silent as a shadow despite the hour, eyes already sparkling with mischief at the promise of snow.

Keyleth stumbled into view next, wrapped in an oversized sweater she likely grabbed off the nearest chair, rubbing her eyes and blinking owlishly like she was still dreaming. Scanlan arrived last, yawning dramatically, lute already slung over his shoulder because Scanlan never missed a chance for a dramatic entrance—even at dawn in his pajamas.

Downstairs, Pike and Grog had thrown open the doors, their joyous screaming echoing off every wall of the keep. A blast of frigid air swept through the entry hall, carrying the scent of pine and untouched snow.