Field Entry — Archivist’s Log, Whitefang Pass The air in Whitefang Pass hums differently. It isn’t the hum of engines or market chatter, but something quieter — like the mountain itself is catching its breath. I arrived here just after dawn, boots damp from the climb, and the first thing I noticed was the scent of oil, smoke, and dumplings. Not an unpleasant mix — more like the perfume of a place that refuses to stay still.