Radelmyr turned from the fire and rubbed warmth into his hands, then crossed to the wooden bookstand where the huge journal lived, place held by a long deep blue grosgrain ribbon. Journal of the Lives, they had called it, and had had this title engraved upon its thick leather spine. The grizzled face on the cover nodded to him in recognition, and the dull brass clasp unlatched itself as he approached. Idly he flipped back a few pages, a bony finger holding the edges of the brittle parchment with reverence. He scratched a pointed ear as he reread passages long ago memorized.

His own firm handwriting documented the arrivals, decades of residual effect of the ever increasing storms. The first, of course, had only been documented after the fact - little did any of them know that it was anything but an anomolous act of the Gods. He had penned a few lines in his daily log, noting the changes from large to small. The impacts had not been grandiose to begin. A tree shed its leaves one day, and the next was in bud, then in bloom.