You remember the First Great Flood, don’t you? Everyone in Innis Gallia does — even those who pretend to forget. We lived in Ardbog then, the rain came without mercy, day after day, until the rivers swelled past their banks and the bog began to swallow itself whole. The ground turned soft and treacherous, roots tore free from the earth like veins ripped from flesh, and homes — gods, whole homes — drifted away in the current like broken toys.

I remember the sound most of all. The groan of the oaks as they gave way. The low, endless roar of water pulling everything under. That was the day we left. What was left of us, anyway — the scattered remains of the Iron Oak clan, clutching what few belongings we could carry. It was Neri the Wanderer who led us then, lantern held high against the storm. Some say he followed a voice through the rain. Others say he simply refused to die where he stood. We didn’t look back. The oaks we’d called kin were already gone beneath the mud. What we carried out was our name… and the will not to drown with the rest.

We wandered for a time, half a clan without a home, until we reached Armanhac. Gods, what a sight that city was — all stone and smoke and trade, the noise of a hundred tongues arguing over coin and pride. After Ardbog’s silence, it felt like standing in the heart of a forge. The air was thick with life, heat, and danger.

Yet, somehow, it was there the Iron Oak grew roots again. We found allies — the Praetorian Guard, Blossom and Blade, Storm's Refuge, the druids, Dragon’s Den. And friends too — Setana, Skadimiir, Harald, Lagertha. Each one changed us a little, tempered us in a new way. From the Praetorians we learned discipline; from Raistlan, patience; from the raiders of Armanhac, laughter and reckless courage. We shared fires, fought off a few demons that crept too close to the walls, drank more than was wise, and sang until dawn painted the towers red.

Armanhac changed me most of all. I found my voice there — not for command, but for song. Turns out a sharp tongue and a good rhythm can turn enemies into drinking partners faster than any sword can. I started writing ballads and foolish little tunes — sometimes to keep spirits high, sometimes just to make Auron smile through the long watches. My favorite’s still “The Raider of Armanhac,” though the others — “Blizzard Stone Blues,” “The Knight and the Libertine,” and that scandalous one, “G-Spot Market” — have their charm. I like to think the city still hums with them, even if no one remembers who first sang the words.

But cities grow loud when you stay too long. The laughter starts to echo against the stone. When the noise became heavier than the silence we’d left behind, we packed our things and took the road south. That’s how we came to Wiht — land of wind and quiet fields, where the air tastes older somehow.

Auron built our hall here from oak and stone, strong and plain, like everything we’ve ever loved. When storms rise, it creaks like an old ship, but it holds. Skadimiir, our witch friend, lives just beyond the rise — her lights flicker through the mist at night like the stars we lost in Ardbog. With her so near, the land doesn’t feel so strange anymore.

She pauses, staring into the fire, the faintest smile on her lips.

The Iron Oak is a small clan, but we stand. The flood took our home once, and the world could do it again tomorrow — drown our fields, break our walls, wash our names from every record. But it won’t matter.

Because the Iron Oak bends.

Her eyes lift, steady and sure.

It never breaks.