Valsgard

Valsgard rises as a vast longhouse of dark timber and gold-banded beams, its roof blazing like a pyre against the dim sweep of the Astral Sea. Blizzards howl across the tundra that surrounds it, but within its doors the warmth rolls out in steady waves. The scent of roasting boar mingles with spiced mead, and the hall resounds with laughter and the rumble of friendly combat. Candles drift like wandering stars above the feasting tables, their pale glow mirrored in the unblinking eyes of the Allfather’s ravens perched along the rafters. These watchful familiars record every boast and brawl for their master, ensuring each deed becomes part of the hall’s living chronicle. Here, the worthy dead rise not as idle shades, but as heroes restored to their prime and welcomed into eternity with camaraderie and honor.

At the hall’s central bonfire—a pillar of flame fed by wood from the World Tree’s fallen branches—Grimnir watches over his chosen with solemn pride, his lone eye gleaming like an ember stirred by the rising heat. He listens as heroes recount their finest moments, guiding discourse through riddles, parables, and well-placed questions that cut to truths they once overlooked in life. Between feasts, he walks the outer galleries where heroes reclaim knowledge lost to the ages, or hone their insight into the threads of fate under his patient tutelage. By his wisdom, every spirit is shaped toward the best version of itself. Lingering doubts melt away, and fear is tempered into resolve — for in Valsgard, the fire never dwindles, the mead never runs dry, and the Allfather’s lessons wait for any soul willing to seek them.