Helmsfrost Saga

[A very, very strange story about very strange people. You have been warned!]

You are hiding in the basement of some lonely chateau by the cliffside. The Twists are knocking at the door, clawing and whispering. They speak sweet words with sweet voices, but you know better than to let them inside.

...

It has been three years since you have found the Great City. It has had many names over the past eons. Mikkelgard. Lightsfall. The Arm of Torcskog. Helmsfrost. The spires of tall castles scrape the sky, while ominous hints of foul Magick hint at foul secrets dredged up from the deepest bowels of Hel.

...

With nothing else to do but to wait to die, you pick up a book from the floor. The dust makes you cough as you brush it off of the cover. Speckles of blood are found in your spittle. But you don't mind. For the book is a pretty thing, covered in finely wrought gold, jewels, and metals you could not even recognize. Upon it, are written four words, beautifully embellished with brass and silver.

The Saga of Helmsfrost.

You open the first page.