Collected by Pindle Quickquill, with permission granted, details redacted, and several questions politely unanswered.
When the Other-Realm Folk first realized they were not leaving Mistlefrost City—no matter how hard they stared at the sky or argued with the Arks—they did not seek daylight.
They sought cover.
Rules here were different. Some were unwritten. Some were magical. Some were enforced by people with very sharp opinions. So they did what they knew how to do best: they built places that were not meant to be seen.
Thus, the speakeasies began.
Cellars became gathering halls. Back rooms learned passwords. Music drifted through walls that officially did not exist. Drink flowed where permits did not. Deals were made quietly, because quiet meant survival.
Many hated this. With reason. Fear travels faster than rumor, and the city was still learning how fragile it could be.
Presiding over much of this shadowed order was Victor “Cold-Hand” Sterling.
Victor was not loud. He was not flashy. He did not need to be. A man built like a doorframe that decided whether you passed through or not, he spoke gently and listened far more than was comfortable. His hands were always cold—hence the name—which made shaking them memorable and refusing them unwise.
Victor understood exile. He understood being unwelcome. That made him dangerous in a city that ran on both.
Deep gnomes dealt with him when they dealt with no one else. Displaced mortals trusted him because he never pretended to be better than them. Violence was rare under his watch—not because he forbade it, but because he made it unnecessary. Chaos draws attention. Attention draws consequences.
(I asked him once how he kept order. He smiled, adjusted his cuffs, and said, “People like knowing where they stand.” I did not press further. I am very good at not pressing further.)
This account exists because Victor allowed it.
He reviewed the draft. He removed names. He crossed out locations. He replaced certain explanations with the phrase “not for the book.” I was instructed to record the shape of things, not their vulnerabilities.
Victor Sterling vanished from public memory decades ago, as men like him often do. Whether he left, fell, or simply stepped deeper into the city’s bones is not agreed upon—and I was advised not to speculate.
What remains is the structure he sanctioned: a shadow-network that does not rot, does not rage, and does not forget.
Which, I am told, is exactly the point.
(End of entry. Note: Victor said this was “fair.” I believe him. I also believe there is more.)