Molotov

Dagrun's section of the domain, the Celestial Palace proper, is perhaps the most well-known feature of Grimhallir. The souls of her most treasured dead are taken here -often bartered for (or if rumor would have it, stolen) from the god of the dead. It is the grandest hall in all creation, or so her courtiers claim, with gardens and courtyards found near every hall or outside nearby wings. While taste is obviously taken into account, there is no homogenous theme beyond that of a constant masquerade ball - one might find themselves in a wing filled with art from a long-dead race, only to turn a corner and find that they have transitioned into a ballroom whose bards play songs in an alien language pleasing to only those who hail from that plane. Food and drink of all sizes are in great abundance, and even the secret rooms and passages host those who festivities tend towards the...intimate.

Of course, there is a dark side to all this, although She-Who-Smiles would label it more a commandment. Each room and every party is accessible only by those who have earned tokens of favor, a gilded rose, a currency of sorts among the Celestial Palace. These are sometimes handed down by the mistress or her brother Hrafn themselves, but more often by their lieutenants, who control their circulation tightly. And so does the secondary aspect of Dagrun make itself known: factions have risen and fallen in pursuit over the gilded rose, and competition for these marks of esteem is fierce. Often times, many escape to the rookeries and abandoned passageways to plot their schemes, which leads the visitor to the realm of Hrafn...

Every lively mansion has its cobwebbed cupboards, every joyful playground its abandoned toys. As the dead of the Celestial Palace, and those there yet to die, dance to the hallowed tune of She-Who-Smiles, they are watched from above --- with morbid curiosity, and a tinge of brotherly concern. The Raven Prince's network spreads far and wide, through the cracks in the painted ceiling, the bricked-up entrances long forgotten, the half-ruined towers now converted by strange birds of prey into grand, tangled nests. In the Rookeries, or perhaps the Rookery --- visitors to the Hall of Masks rarely remember the architectural plans all too well --- one might spot the hooded Treasurer.

Hrafn's patronage, be in the form of a bold new idea, a handful of precious cacao beans, or a gilded rose, is not one wisely squandered. Although he may seem mad at times, he is no Kaminsod --- obsessive yes, but rational too, do not forget. An investment that yields no profits is a poor one, even for a God, and Hrafn chooses his ventures carefully.