The snowy slopes of Kelvin's Cairn rise over the lakeside town of Caer-Konig, their sheer size and stark whiteness dominating the horizon. The town itself is a patchwork of weathered wooden houses arranged in uneven terraces. The frozen harbor stretches out like a shattered mirror, its broken docks jutting at awkward angles through the ice. Above the highest row of houses, the ruins of the old caer peek through the snow. The frigid air bites at the lungs, carrying the faint scent of frozen pine and the acrid tang of wood smoke from the hearths of the few occupied homes.

Frozenfar Expeditions is a modest yet well-organized establishment located at the northeastern edge of town. The shopfront is a weathered wooden structure, with a large display window showcasing a variety of adventuring gear for rent or sale: gleaming swords, coiled ropes, rugged cloaks, and sturdy boots — all well-maintained, if a bit worn from frequent use. The doorframe is adorned with dried herbs and a few animal pelts, a nod to the owners time in the wild. Inside, the shop is neat and functional, with walls lined with shelves filled with everything an adventurer might need: hunting traps, climbing tools, fire-starting kits, and well-worn backpacks.

The faint scent of pine and leather fills the air, and the low hum of firelight from a small stove in the corner adds warmth to the otherwise utilitarian space. At the back of the shop, there’s a counter where the human proprietor, Atenas Swift, often sits, wrapped in a thick fur-lined coat, his joints aching but his eyes still sharp. The shop’s low ceilings and sturdy oak beams give it a sense of stability, much like the man who runs it. Jarthra Farzassh, a grizzled dwarf guide assists in running the shop and caring for the dogs.

Attached to the shop is a simple wooden shed, locked with a heavy padlock. Just beyond the shed is a well-maintained kennel, home to a dozen healthy, muscular sled dogs that Atenas treats like family.

Nestled near the edge of frozen Lac Dinneshire, the tavern is a squat, weathered building, built from dark stone and timber, with lichens clinging to its walls. It smells of aged wood. The roof is steeply pitched, heavy with layers of snow and ice, and a curling wisp of smoke rises from the chimney, signaling warmth inside. The faded sign hanging above the door creaks in the wind, barely readable but bearing the name “Hook, Line, and Sinker” in worn dwarven script.

As you step inside, the heat from a roaring fire greets you, though the air still carries a hint of cold from the thick stone walls. The dim light of flickering lanterns hangs low, casting warm amber tones across the room, which smells of smoked fish, roasting meat, and the musty scent of old stone. The wooden floors are scarred from years of hard use, and the low, rough-hewn beams above are carved with runic patterns that tell stories of past glories — most likely long before the town’s downturn.

The room is cozy, with mismatched tables and chairs made from local oak and driftwood. Some of the tables are wobbly, needing the occasional shove to keep them level. The chairs are comfortable enough, though many show signs of wear. A large hearth dominates one wall, its stones blackened with age. Above it, a pair of crossed fishing rods hang, along with a small wooden plaque that reads “Better Days Will Return” — a hopeful sentiment, though it seems to have faded with the town’s prosperity.

At the far end of the room is a bar made of thick, polished wood, the surface gleaming with age and frequent polishing. Behind the bar, a row of kegs is stacked neatly, though only a few are tapped at the moment. A small sign hangs over the counter: “Free Ale, for those who need it.” In front of the bar, a large table stands by the door, piled with a few mismatched mugs and jugs of ale. Eglendar Korr the tavern’s rotund proprietor, is usually found sitting nearby, offering free half-pints with a hearty laugh, his hair frosted with snowflakes from the frigid air outside.

Glen himself is a stout half-elf with a broad, welcoming face. His weathered apron is patched with fishing netting. He has an easy familiarity with everyone who enters, speaking in a deep, gravelly voice with the occasional chuckle that’s as much a part of the tavern as the flickering flames.

There are a few patrons at any given time, mostly older fishermen and townsfolk with weary eyes, their conversation low but steady as they share stories of better days. The once-bustling tavern now stands quieter, with fewer travelers arriving due to the longer winters and frozen lake that have made the town less accessible. Still, the warmth of the hearth, the free ale, and Glen’s boisterous kindness keep the spirit of the town alive, if only just.

The Northern Light is a quaint, cozy inn located near the far eastern edge of the town. The exterior is nice, but clearly missing its centerpiece which appears to have been some kind of lantern.

The building itself is constructed of granite blocks. The windows are large, their panes trimmed with dark wood, and small empty flower boxes hang below them. A hand-carved sign featuring a simple lantern image hangs crookedly on a hook above the door, the paint now faded and chipped from years of exposure to the elements. Inside, the common room is warm and cozy, with a crackling fire in the hearth that gives the room a soft, flickering light. The scent of stew and baked bread constantly fills the air, and the worn wooden furniture, though humble, has a welcoming feel. The walls are adorned with old tapestries, some faded but still colorful, depicting scenes of the town’s past, while small lanterns hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow.