Personal observations by Pindle Quickquill, who keeps being told to “stop writing things down,” is often turned away at the door, and continues anyway.
This is why Mistlefrost City feels the way it does.
It hums, even when it’s quiet.
Not loudly—nothing so rude—but the way a violin does when no one is touching it, just waiting for the bow. I was once told this was “not a question that needed answering,” which usually means it very much does.
Music drifts through frost-coated alleys because it always has. People needed warmth before they needed permission. Once a song finds a wall it likes, it stays. I was not allowed to write down who plays after midnight. Fair enough. I can still hear them.
Hidden doors sit behind respectable storefronts because respectability is a costume, and some folk wear it better than others. The doors aren’t hidden from those who need them. They are hidden from me, specifically, and quite often. I take this as a compliment.
Deals are made over crystal glasses because ink is permanent and memory is flexible. Also, drinks help. I’ve tested this theory extensively. I was asked—politely—to leave before certain toasts were finished.
Loyalty is valued above law here because laws can change overnight. Loyalty takes longer and hurts more when it breaks. This was explained to me once, very carefully, and then I was escorted outside before I could ask a second question.
Family is placed above all else because when you arrive in a world that wasn’t meant for you, you make family where you can. Blood helps. Shared danger helps more. Names, however, were considered unnecessary for the record.
Some residents resent this history.
I understand them. Shadows can be uncomfortable when you don’t know who cast them—or when you are specifically told not to look too closely at them.
Others benefit from it quietly.
They tend not to talk to me. Or they talk around me. Or they smile and change the subject. A shame. I bring excellent snacks.
Kender, as usual, find it endlessly interesting.
Not because it’s dark or dangerous—though it is both—but because it’s human. Messy. Improvised. Full of people doing the best they can with what they tripped into. Even when they ask you not to write it down.
History, after all, is just a long series of accidents people learned to live with.
And sometimes—
if they’re clever, or stubborn, or lucky enough—
they even thrive.
(Final note: Several individuals reviewed this section. Several sentences were removed. I have forgotten which ones. On purpose.)