You may ask what made the inhabitants of the Bay different from other people? What made them so special that they survive the hostile world of the Freeze while others starve, or fall on one another in madness? The answer is simple, nothing. There is nothing about the people of the Bay in general that sets them apart. But they did have one force acting in their favour, the presence of a man named Barton Butter.
Barton Butter was a simple man from the fishing village of Butterwatch, founded by his grandfather Hollis. He often served as a mediator of disputes, but rarely voiced any opinions himself. When the Freeze began, and tales of demonic shaldu and undead thralls arrived in the Bay, Barton was among those advocating calm rather than panic. Though private, he was quite pious, and believed that order had to be defended in the face of encroaching chaos.
The Freeze began slowly; for several years the weather was unseasonably cool, but no one thought much of it. The wild and barbaric varkers grew in numbers and boldness, raiding the countryside with increasing frequency. Year by year the spring came a little later, and the winter a little sooner, until one year the Freeze began in earnest. In the height of summer, before the harvest had even begun, a violent blizzard overtook the Bay. It was sudden and strange, and the few who still held tight to their religion prayed to Voland, but there was no reply.
Scattered bands of refugees came from further inland, telling of people who had begun to transform into hideous creatures with fur and horns that breathed waves of ice. Others told of the great city of Fairdon where the dead had risen and consumed everything in their path. Some spoke of turning the refugees away and others spoke of building a great fleet and fleeing across the sea, but with all the fear and uncertainly people began to argue as food grew scarce and tempers frayed. Worsening the situation, a prominent priest from Dunstable proclaimed that the dark god Bishal was claiming the earth in ice and that the final reckoning was upon them.
Through all this Barton Butter tried to do as he had done in the past, he tried to reason with his friends and neighbours, he tried to mediate disputes and organize a fair rationing of what food and supplies they had, but his voice was being drowned out by the cries of anger and panic. Then news came that the varker lich Koshac had grown tired of the ruins of Fairdon and had turned his attention to the Bay, and Barton saw that something had to be done. He tried to appeal to the Baron, but he would not listen. He appealed to the Vidame and the Graf, the Alder and the Governor, but they would not listen either. He appealed to the Deacon of the Order, and the Seer of the Kindred, and the Headmaster of the Academy, but wherever he went his pleas seemed to fall on deaf ears
Barton was despondent. Talk and diplomacy and reason were all he knew and had gotten him nowhere, white the undead army of Koshac was bearing down upon them. But though the leaders had not listened, and the people of the Bay were falling into chaos, all was not lost. In his travels around the Bay, Barton had spoken to many people, and news of his appeals spread, and a small few had decided to take up his cause. And so, in a dim and dingy tavern in Dunstable, on the winter solstice of the first year of the Freeze, a small band of brave souls found Barton Butter, drowning his sorrows in mead.
Wednesday: Part 2
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