Caer-Dineval lies nestled against Lac Dinneshere. A collection of small stone buildings, gray and weathered. The fortress, the "caer," looms above the town as a jagged silhouette casting long shadows over the frozen harbor below. Cracked battlements and patches of frost-covered moss adorn the fortress.
In the village proper, narrow lanes wind between squat cottages, their roofs weighed down by thick layers of snow, while faint trails of smoke from chimneys curl upward. The harbor lies still, its frozen surface dotted with abandoned fishing skiffs encased in ice.

The air is bitterly cold, carrying the biting scent of snow and the faint, briny tang of the lake beneath its frozen crust. The town is unusually quiet, the absence of ferry traffic or bustling taverns leaving only the occasional creak of ice shifting or the distant, mournful call of a bird circling the lake. In the streets, muted voices of townsfolk occasionally echo from behind closed doors, laced with frustration and desperation. The smell of burning peat and damp wood hangs in the air

The Climb stands perched on the northern edge of the bluff on which the Caer is built, offering a breathtaking view of the frozen lake and the desolate docks below. The tavern itself is a sturdy, two-story structure of dark timber and stone. Its large windows provide sweeping views of the icy expanse, though the chill from the wind is tempered by the warmth of the hearth that crackles within. The interior is simple but comforting, with rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs that have seen many seasons of use. A thick, woolen rug covers the floor, and sconces with flickering candles line the walls, casting a soft, golden glow. The air is fragrant with the scent of Roark’s famous chowder, a hearty meal that steams in large pots behind the bar. The shelves are sparse, a few mugs and bowls stacked high alongside mismatched plates, but there is an evident lack of the usual casks of ale and bottles of spirits that once made this place a lively gathering spot. Now, the fire is the only source of warmth, and the chatter of patrons is muted, as the absence of alcohol has left the tavern feeling a bit more somber than it used to be.

Roark, the tavern’s rugged middle-aged proprietor, is a man who wears the weight of the harsh winter and his dwindling business on his broad shoulders. His face is weathered, with a beard peppered with gray and eyes that reflect the steely determination of a man who refuses to give up despite the odds. He’s often found standing behind the bar, stirring a pot of chowder or adjusting the hearth, his movements practical but weary.