Winter after winter, the slate gray clouds roll by in a heavy film across the vast, empty horizon of Starkfield, bringing with them a sharp frost. The cold spills from the sky in sheets of ice and powdery whiteness, blanketing everything in unforgiving wet snow. The spruce trees can barely be considered “evergreens” as with each winter they grow considerably more somber, blending in with the monochromatic landscape. Perhaps even the trees feel the seasonal depression sink stiffly into their roots, chilling them, dulling their color. Dilapidated huts watch faithfully over generations coming, going, and eventually returning. Many leave for a short time, seeking brilliant adventures in the golden sun, but find the undeniable, incomprehensible pull back the nostalgic ties to a secluded town and its bitter winters.