Far to the north, past the cold, vast plains and tangles ancient forests, past even the brooding Deadfire Mountains, lies a real of ice and bitter cold. Barren and stark, few have ventured in to this icy realm. Hunting here is scarce and the wind seems to howl with the voices of demons. Yet there are rumors of a citadel in the heart of the ice field, rising above the wind-swept whiteness and glittering in the pale sunlight. Some say that the citadel was built of block of ice by giants. Others claim that some wild magic caused the structure to grow from the very ice. Yet others state in low voices that it is not ice that shines so, but a fortress of diamonds, built in ages past to guard the most powerful of magics in the world.
The accepted mode of getting otherwise unobtainable information is to go visit the cranky old hermit living in the mountains. It's just the sensible thing to do. So, naturally, everyone takes their monthly excursion to the hermit's hovel to consult him on everything, from lock-jaw to lovesickness, necromancers to nasal viruses.
Now, if everyone's always visiting the poor old hermit, there's going to be an enormous queue... "Wellcome to the Hermitt's Hovele, Please Take Ye a Number and Have Ye a Seate" reads the sign outside the packed dwelling.
Imagine the poor hermit, having retreated into the mountains to escape this precise situation...