Return of the Winter King

We had peace for a season.

After the defeat of the Winter King, we had been left alone for months. Although Freehaven remained our headquarters, we had restored the chapel at the old Heron Hall. We renamed it the Chapel of St Griffith, after the last defender of Heron Hall. Our priests took care of the chapel and of St Kessog's Church. Meanwhile, some of the Warden's manned Wyvernwatch Tower, vigilant for the return of any of our enemies. We learned that Lander's Edge was being rebuilt.

I have been making regular visits to St Griffith. I was there when it happened. It started as a glorious fall day - the sun was shining but the air was crisp and clean. The nearby settlements were harvesting their fields. Merriment abounded. Suddenly a fell wind swept from the north. The temperature plummeted until our breath seemed to freeze in our throats. The sky turned gray and snow began to fall. It was not the light, fluffy snow of a pleasant winter's day. It was damp and icy and clung to one's body like the grip of death. The wind increased to a gale, blowing the snow about until it formed an icy, white veil that obscured all vision.

But we could hear, even over the howl of the wind. The screams echoed clearly across the plains. I called to the Wardens to form up. Mounting our horses, we rode out of the gates of the Chapel. Then a gale force wind shoved us back into the chapel grounds. Try as we might we could not get past our gates.

As we tried to decide what to do, we heard footsteps crunching through the snow. Through the veil of the wintry blast, a figure in a white cloak carrying a large bundle approached. It approached and dropped the bundle at my feet. It was a man, frozen solid.

The figure removed his hood. His face was as white as a corpse and his eyes were pale blue, like ice.

"I come from the Winter King," he stated. "My lord claims this land as his own. He shall give you to the next full moon to vacate. Do not try to hold out. Your crops are destroyed and your people dead. You cannot prevail."

With that, the figure turned and walked back into the blizzard.

The next morning the sun rose, revealing a canvas of white snow covering the land. We rode out to access the damage. We found village after village blanketed in snow. Digging through the banks, we recovered corpse after corpse. The entire population had been frozen solid. The crops, too, had been turned to ice. No nutrition remained.

Dejected, we rode back to St Griffith's. We knew not what to do.

OOC Notes
This does not represent a particular battlegame. Instead, it's a little story that expresses my dissatisfaction with our park's current direction. Why do people feel like they need to follow the crowd rather than just be themselves and forge their own direction?