Kelheim

Kelheim lies where sea and sky collide in a relentless contest of wind, spray, and roaring tide. Wedged between the sheer cliffs of an icy fjord, a weathered hunting lodge stands firm against waves that crash endlessly against its stone foundations. Cold air knifes through the ravine, carrying the tang of salt and the sharp scent of ozone, as if the storm itself breathes down the pass. Above it, the Maelstrom coils like a colossal hurricane suspended in place — its spiraling wall of cloud and lightning forming an impassable barrier through the Astral Sea. Yet within its eye, the lodge remains still and timeless, its timber frame hardened by centuries of tempest. Here, untouched by wayward realms or planar wars, the Thunderer keeps a sanctuary for those whose lives were shaped by the sea’s unforgiving rhythm.

As patron of sailors, raiders, and skalds, Taranis honors any soul bold enough to meet the ocean on its own terms, granting them a place at his table once death has claimed their voyage. The lodge’s walls—damp with sea salt—are draped in tapestries depicting storms survived, oaths sworn, and battles fought beneath driving rain. Long benches crowd a massive oaken table that bears the scars of countless feasts, its surface carved with runes worn smooth by millennia of revelers. At its head sits the Thunderer himself, broad-shouldered and wrapped in dark furs, Wonungar resting across his knee like a slumbering storm. He listens to the sagas of the newly dead with a steady, unblinking calm, his voice rumbling through the hall as he calls for food, drink, and ballads sung loud enough to rattle the rafters.