The Veil of Moar
Where Stone Remembers and Thunder Sleeps
Nestled between the silent mists of Sgàilfen to the east and the wolf-haunted marches to the west lies the Veil of Moar, the ancestral homeland of Clan Arthfael. This is not a land that welcomes the traveler — it watches them. With its bare ridgelines, frost-hardened valleys, and cairn-crowned passes, the Veil bears the quiet gravity of ancient places: not forgotten, but simply too enduring to change.
The land is named for the Vale of Moar, a deep glacial trough believed to be one of the oldest inhabited regions in the north. Legends say that the first Arthfael chieftains were crowned beneath its hanging stones, and that High Druid Cennedig the Stoneborn — the clan’s current spiritual leader — was born there during a landslide, untouched by the ruin around him. The Veil of Moar is composed of bald granite hills, narrow glens, and high, storm-tossed lochs. Snow comes early and melts late. Trees are rare and stunted, their roots twisted deep into shale. Instead, the land yields up iron, coal, slate, and flint — the bones of the world, shaped into walls, axes, and altars. Villages are carved into cliff faces, stone-ringed and soot-streaked, their chimneys breathing like sleeping giants.
Where Sgàilfen hides, the Veil endures. Where Faolán roves, Arthfael fortifies. Watchtowers of stacked stone mark the boundaries of every valley. Warnings are chiseled into rocks and painted in tar. Though Clan Arthfael seldom raids, they never yield ground lightly, and they remember each trespass with a solemnity that stretches across generations. The people here are as weathered as their land — broad of shoulder, sparse of word, and rich in silence. They hold to rituals passed down in stone, not ink, and celebrate the turning of seasons with rites sung beneath dolmens and thunderstones. Bears are sacred to them, not as beasts of war, but as emblems of survival — quiet, solitary, and unshaken. The Veil of Moar is also a place of deep spiritual resonance. Great dolmen fields, carved runestones, and burial barrows dot the highlands, some so old that even the druids do not know their names. In times of crisis, Arthfael elders still cast bones and soot upon stone altars, seeking signs in the cracks that form overnight. The land speaks slowly, but it is never truly silent.
To outsiders, the Veil is forbidding, even desolate. But to Clan Arthfael, it is a cradle of identity — not a place they rule, but a legacy they preserve.
“We are not guardians of the land. We are the land made flesh, and that flesh endures.” — High Druid Cennedig the Stoneborn
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