It's well past the worst depths of winter, even here on the north edge of the Worldwound- the temperature ekes its way above freezing occasionally, the days are only short and not miserably short, last night's snowstorm wasn't quite a blizzard. It is, nonetheless, fairly surprising when the patrol on their way to Fort #11 spots three figures in the distance trudging towards them from the north.
Osirian Connie meets Blai at the Worldwound
demand-curve
"Every week?" Two teleports a month by twelve months by however many forts... she's not wondering any more why nobody else could hold the northern border.