Dravakholm
The Iron Root Beneath the Waves
Set deep within the storm-lashed embrace of the Gulf of Spears, where dark waters churn beneath basalt cliffs and the sea wind never sleeps, lies the capital of the Kaldurreach: Dravakholm. It is a city of stone, iron, and seawater, carved not to defy the storm but to stand within it, rooted as deep as the oaths of its people.
Dravakholm is built into the natural cliffs that surround the gulf, a tiered bastion of narrow terraces, black-forged longhalls, and torchlit tunnels that descend into the rock like veins. Great iron chains anchor ship piers against the tide, and harpoons the size of trees are embedded into the cliff faces — relics of ancient sea beasts and old wars. Each level of the city is connected by stairwells carved from stone slick with salt and moss, and by wind-bridges bound in iron and leather, swinging with every gale. Above the highest terrace sits Stormrest Hall, the seat of the Stormthane. It is said to be half-built, half-grown — a fortress of dark timber and whale-rib arches, crowned by a roof of black iron tiles that sing when the wind lashes them. Beneath it burns the Oathfire, a sacred flame fed only by the wood of shattered raiding ships and the bones of oathbreakers. Here, jarls gather, and the Stormthane speaks.
The Gulf of Spears below is sacred in its own right. Upon returning from a raid or voyage, longship captains sail their prows to the jagged ring of coastal rock and hammer a spear into the stone — each stake a testament to victories claimed, goods taken, or foes outwitted. The rocks bristle with them, some rusted, others freshly blooded, and each one bears a name rune or stormmark carved in bone or brass. Despite its grim aesthetic, Dravakholm is not a place of gloom. The city hums with life — skalds recite verses of old glories from balconies overlooking the waves, traders hawk furs and amber from creaking stall-boats, and stormbinders perform rites on cliffside platforms, reading the wind with flares and gull-bone staves. Below, the harbor's forges ring with the sound of iron being shaped for oarlocks, helms, and blades. Visitors, few though they are, find no comfort in Dravakholm. Hospitality is offered, but only to those who bear no insult and no cowardice in their voice. Still, it is known among the Clans and the Great Houses: no stronger heart beats in the cold north than the one beneath the cliffs of the Gulf of Spears.
Here, the wind carries names. Here, the sea remembers every oath.
“Every spear staked in the Gulf tells a tale. But only the sea decides which ones are worth singing.” — Skald Bregga Stonesmoke, speaking at the Feast of Tides
