Ribosian Tundra

The frozen expanse where Unstoffe’s fabricated tale locates his father’s demise—a treeless plain stretching under a bleak sky the color of old iron. The wind scours the ground, sculpting the permafrost into ridges that catch the thin light like shattered glass. Patches of snow cling to the edges of rock outcroppings, their sharp edges visible beneath the white drape, while the rest of the land lies bare and reflective. There is no shelter, no landmark other than the unending horizon; only the memory of a dead miner’s last step, one foot frozen mid-stride, a single piece of scringe stone still clutched in a stiffened pocket. The cold is not the theatrical bite of Ribosian winter—it is the slow creeping chill of permanent loss, the kind that lingers long after any teller has finished the lie.