🌨️ Mini-Lore: Why the Corridor Is Frozen

No two winters in Quillville are the same.

This year, the frost came early—creeping under the floorboards, cracking the stone, and whispering in three languages the Archivists refused to identify. Entire shelves iced over in minutes. Ink froze mid-drip. Footprints appeared that led nowhere and belonged to no one.

The seal on the Corridor door formed on its own.

A wooden beam that the Archivists didn’t install.
Icicles that drip upward when no one is watching.
A heartbeat under the snowdrifts. The Corridor isn’t locked. It’s protecting you.

When you hear the …drip… drip… drip… with a pause… then more drip-drip—with a faint breath behind it—

“Do not follow the sound. Dripping water means something is moving beneath the ice.”

So if you encounter…a drip… then a scrape… and hear indistinct whispers…stop listening. Plug your ears.

“And, if you hear three drips in a row, leave immediately.
That means it's heard you.”

The frost on the door isn’t from the weather. Something inside is breathing.

Door Warning: “Knock not on frozen doors.
Those who answer do not use their hands.”

Some Corridor pieces have been retired for… behavioral reasons.
→ Visit the Dead Content Bin (enter only if you insist)