Opening post by Ser Aldric Mallery · #1
The frost of ’88 left no proper tally. I was a young squire in Lord Ravenswood’s household. I picked through rubble for our winter bread. Damp earth. Burnt crops. Those smells remain when men call the winter only a bad season. A missing record can be heavier than a lost banner.
No clerk’s mark tells how many families searched those fields. No hand recorded the empty granary or the names of those who never reached spring. I remember the work. That is not the same as proof. The dead lose their place twice when ink fails them.
Read old battle rolls carefully. Silence is not peace. A blank winter can make a lord seem cruel or a village seem absent. The frost changed what we had. The missing account changed what later generations could blame.