A generation ago the sun died over the Kingdom of Vorgath, plunging the realm into an endless dark. Winter sustains the living but feeds the restless dead who stir in the shadow-haunted forests beyond the estates. Feudal lords hoard fire, food, and iron behind their walls, extorting brutal tithes from the freezing peasantry — while in the wilds, something vast and patient wakes beneath the ice.
The restless dead of Vorgath, animated by the unnatural cold itself — they rise from battlefield, barrow, and frozen lake alike, drawn to warmth and life. With each passing year they grow more numerous, more organized, and more bold.
Something vast, ancient, and patient beneath the Frostreach Tundra's ice — not dead, not alive, but waiting. It has been stirring since the sun died, and those who walk too far onto the glare-ice hear whispers that are not the wind.