Hrothvale Camp

Hrothvale Camp gathers around an old black keep whose stones are older than most clan names. Hide walls, snowworks, sled lines, smoke holes, and temporary corrals make it look impermanent until the banners rise and the Storm Table speaks with one mouth. Then the camp becomes a realm with teeth. Wind combs frost from the walls. Cookfires sting the air with seal fat, wet wool, and pine smoke. War-road captains count sled teams while shrine keepers name the missing. Hrothvale's beauty is stark; its dread is the knowledge that every temporary shelter can become a command post. The cost of such unity is counted in villages ordered to send stores, in hostages warmed by fires they did not choose, and in soldiers who know the camp may save the realm while condemning their own blood routes to hunger.