The Great Hall of the Ancients

Within the main building at the heart of the North Pole, is the Great Hall of the Ancient Ones, where time lies sleeping in the timbers and the whisper of ages stirs upon the hearth-smoke. Beneath vaulted beams and the hanging glory of golden chandeliers, long banquet tables stretch like rivers of fellowship into the shadowed distance, inviting all who bear the heart to sit where heroes once feasted and the wise once spoke.

Along the paneled walls of age-darkened oak, the handiwork of forgotten craftsmen endures—carvings deep and proud, telling tales in silence: beasts of old, kings in repose, and battles sung only in the wind’s lament. Crimson velvet thrones flank the feast-board, as though awaiting the return of wanderers from road and realm, their arms weary, their spirits eager for mirth.

A powerful hearth stands at the far end of the hall where ancient fire burns, sending flickering light across the stones and awakening memories from their rest. The aroma of vellum mixed with spice fills the space like magic while revealing images of opened scrolls and repeated stories.

All around, the hues of hearth and harvest—deep earth, soft gold, and the pale gleam of storied parchment—wrap round the guests like a cloak from elder days. Here, in warmth and wonder, laughter mingles with legend, and the light of lore still lives.