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Journal entry Edit
- From farmers and herdsmen, milkmaids to midwives - all the common folk of the Continent whisper, sharing tales of a wraithly procession pounding across the sky. The Wild Hunt, they call it. Winds and gales, storms and blizzards arise when it is sighted, and all grows cold, though the sun shone bright moments before. Some remember only the cold from the shock they encounter, and claim the Riders come always in winter. But nay, this is not so - the Hunt brings its own ice.
- Death and war gallop in its wake, or so the superstition goes. Yet evil enough is the Hunt itself. It takes folk captive, youths, most often, in the prime of their wilding years, with ten to twenty summers behind them. The Hunt rushes in and they disappear, only to return long years later with no memory of what passed in the time between. (...)