Look, a man on the road through the snowy and dangerous crags of the Candemar Range has needs, no matter who he is. A bard with songs on his lips and a surreptitious spell flickering at his fingertips, a wizard on a quest for the fabled city of the yeti, even a knight with no more mystery to his name than a fervent desire to reach the rolling hills of the Halflands by the first, chill touches of winter. All, mind you, are still men, and the company of naught but a pack-goat and the wind wears on one mightily.

Which is why, of course, the discriminating traveler stops at the snug, wooden shacks dotting the entrance to the range, each one a one-stop store for all manner of essential traveling requirements, from saddlebags with a slightly sturdier build to handily magicked-up bottles of unending wine, from maps of the treacherous passes to the enviable services of a local guide and companion.

Granted, said companions range wildly and widely, from the legendary Cessa Oakheart and her distinctly orcish blend of reliable mountain guiding and raucous rampages of lust and charm - ("parties of two or more cheerily accepted," no less, stands on the placard outside her shanty) to Alys Middlebrook, the diminutive elven adventurer said to only take one traveler through the pass a year, and that being a trip said by all to be memorable indeed.

Stories dot this part of the world, after all, and it's the storied combination of traveler and guide keep them budding anew, like flowers after frost, in the mountains.

There is, of course, one tale rumored to be more... interesting than most.

And what, perhaps, is that story, of a mountain guide and her trusty adventurer through the famed passes of Candemar? That, of course, is our story.

Kinks: Cheery, friendly rough sex, butt-stuffing, torchlit torridness, and all manner of sloppy and cheery festivities.

Limits: Excessive frostbite, children in the mountains, and gnomes.

DPP Profile