Out of the ashes and the destruction of the Great Hall, the greatest symbol of our home, of Adharca Cathair, shall we find new strength...

Slab by slab.

Frame by frame.

Girder by Girder.

Grand Facade by Grand Facade.

Every villager that could build, built. Day and night, at least thirty villagers worked on rebuilding. First the rubble, caused by the sorcery of Kogris the Wicked, had to be cleared. The few bodies lost in the destruction were found, and buried in the Sacred Fields, marked in cairns. Then, the layout... the villagers knew the demands of the Elders, and the Chieftain. They knew the demands of their own hearts.

The Great Hall had been a symbol...

...the symbol had been torn down.

Now, after days, months, and weeks of strain, of hard labor and effort, villagers - who would normally be blacksmiths, warriors, hunters - spent most of their time rebuilding. Time with their families, to sleep, to eat? Aye. But the work was their life. As many clansmen delivered the natural resources needed, including the Chieftain and Elders themselves, the villagers toiled.

Until finally... it rose.



Standing before his clan, the Chieftain, Ahearn Mac Jarlath, formerly of the Pict-Killers, the Snowhawks, and now, leader of the Elkhorn. His eyes were proud. His stance, confident. His Clan. His Kin. The work had paid off and his words spoke true.

"Now... with the rise of Frostfall Keep... we have rebuilt, and our strength has solidifed. Adharca Cathair nears completion, but now... we focus our goals outwards..."

The Hall was a Keep as much of a Hall... a fortress in a Cimmerian Village. An odd thing, but a symbol the villagers could be proud of.

The War Drums began to beat. Vengeance on Clan Cael was next. And after that? The Chieftain leaned on the top of the Keep, his eyes gazing in the direction of the Border Kingdoms.

War was brewing.