Knut writes with dire news of the north, and our latest arrivals only spell misery for what may be afoot at Saldistead. Fear lingers in their eyes, but none wish to speak of what's happened. They barely speak at all. Children without parents. Wolves scared and shaking. Ragna is too burdened with a great, unknowable sadness to rise and speak with them, and I fear that as a former priestess of Wolf she's the only one capable. For now, they linger at our fires and eat our food. Knut will send rations when he's able, but we're all uncomfortable. My wife is miserable. Sejm tells me that Wurm calls us north; I have not heard this call. I haven't heard Wurm since the snow was deep enough to cover my boots. As soon as the refugees have settled, I expect we'll be traveling before spring after all. I fear what we may find.