*Snowflakes drift in heavy spirals as you guide the weary caravan toward the final stretch. The walls of Pakkaheim shimmer far off—so close your hearts ache with relief.Baxter, pale and shaking, clutches the remnants of the witch’s wreath from his neck. “She’s not finished,” he whispers. “The witch—the Winter Mother—she said the bend would be my grave… and yours.”A horn sounds. A deep, porcine bellow echoes between the cliffs. The Sarvasika have taken their final stand.*

The session begins with the caravan halting before the narrow pass.