The self-proclaimed queen of the inhabitants of Kyndyn, Strigar fled to what was then a looming fortress and thriving military center of the cold northern lands beyond the source of the river Folly. The city of Kyndyn had a history based on the herding of sheep, the cultivation of hardy varieties of wheat and rye, and an assortment of mines providing valuable iron and copper ore. A typical city and a typical medium-sized empire had arisen through the cold wind and hard snow.
However, even as Strigar made her first steps through the gate of the thickly-walled city, the cold winter wind seemed to blow colder and the lone, thin, bereft woman entered the city from which no person would ever leave again. She took work in a shady inn, cleaning rooms, waiting tables and being spit on by various tenants. Soon, though, before the residents could even come to a realization of what was happening, a cold torpor began to enter the veins of those who came into contact with her. Exponentially the disease spread from person to person--a vague sense of disillusionment and a lack of desire to induce change. People went about their daily business, but with a cold mechanistic manner characteristic not of the keen, constantly-shifting wind off the mountains, but of the deep-seated cold of an ancient grave.
Strigar, however, did not waste any time and began slowly moving up the ranks of the local society, earning the dissipating trust of the royal family. Although her emotional plague was spreading quickly, it was not so quick as to, perhaps, have been stopped by a particularly strong force of arms against her. Finally removing the king from his throne, she took it herself, effectively eliminating any opposition to her rule. And so the inhabitants of Kyndyn continued with their daily lives--hardly living, just existing under the power of a harsh mistress.
She brings with her not a lack of hope, but the opposite of hope--a listless despair. The despair grew so strong, and fed itself so much that no person living in Kyndyn at the time ever died again, nor were any children born. The people live constantly as they are, every day a repeat of the last, every minute locked in itself, never looking forward to the next. Their contact with the outside world was blocked off on both sides, and the pass of Folly remains eternally closed. The typical ghost stories and folk legends told to frighten children tell how the river Folly turns any who drink directly out of it into a zombie.