⚔ Aᴅᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀᴇ ⚔

This frost giant den, known among northern sailors as Glacienheim, lies buried within a grounded iceberg drifting at the southern edge of the Sea of Moving Ice. It is not a ruin nor cave in the traditional sense, but a sprawling warren of naturally hollowed ice tunnels and harshly-hewn chambers reinforced with frozen timber, whalebone, and stone hauled from the sea’s floor. The frost giants have transformed the interior into a formidable lodge of ice and violence—trophies of slain whales, white dragons, and rival giants hang frozen in alcoves, while great hearths belch steam from enchanted coals that refuse to melt the walls. A permanent chill clings to every surface; the slick, uneven floors are strewn with gnawed bones and frost-slick furs. Roars echo through the icy corridors as the giants feast, train, or sleep in shifts. Though inhospitable to most, the strong are sometimes welcomed—traders, envoys, or bold adventurers willing to offer tribute or survive a trial of strength.

The iceberg lair glistens under a pale northern sun, its outer ridges jagged like frozen fangs. Shimmering blue light filters through translucent walls, casting ghostly hues on thick furs, hanging carcasses, and whalebone rafters. The air is sharp and still, save for booming laughter and distant growls that reverberate through the tunnels like thunder trapped in glass.