Beware the coming frost. The ice elves, hidden in their caves high atop the mountain, grow closer day by day. The first coming flakes of snow were in April were just...odd, considering the temperature days before and clear skies. When George went missing, it was concerning, but the oaf always loved to fall off the horse and vanish into the trees, didn't he? But when the snow continued, and then Michael, stern and serious, also disappeared deep into the woods...it was more than just portents at that point. The snow became heavier and heavier, the roads blockaded with deep drifts...then the laughing. That gentle, excited chorus of giggles and gasps that fell over the village. A hoard of locusts descending upon us.

The attacks have grown bolder, now - and whats worse, torches don't seem to frighten 'em no more. Their pallid skin, bright yellow eyes...so many of them. So, so many. They took Richard kicking and screaming for help into the woods. They came back the next day...one of them still had Richard's scarf wrapped around 'er neck.

Seemed to recognize his kids. Soothe them as they grabbed the youngest first, even as he screamed himself hoarse, tears freezing to his cheeks. I just sat there and watched. Won't have that privilege long, I reckon. So I tell you...beware the coming frost. What should just be queer weather is anything but. It's too late for us, here...but please. Keep your wits about you. You may be able to stop this before it becomes too late.