The town of Darel'horth was a quaint little place: located in a forest-clearing north of Stormglen, the wood surrounding the town were the thick and primal sort that were found often in Gilneas. They bore that same black, antique grace that was very much mirrored by the buildings of the township: done in that old, sentimental style, thoroughly gothic yet not adorned with overmuch ornamentry - or much of it at all, truly.
There were sixty buildings fully restored in the township, and dozens more thoroughly damaged at its outskirts. A small wall was in the process of being built, wrought of the sable-wood of the Blackwald. Small dirt roads were paved along the township, and at its apex stood the Irminsul tree: A grand oak stripped of all leaves and branches, a life-pillar, recalling primitive phallic symbolism. In front of the tree stood the three buildings which held a degree of granduer: the church, the town hall, and the Inn. The latter two buildings flanked the sides of the former one.
The church - or perhaps the Cathedral, stood as a microcosm of that which dwelled so solemnly within the city of Gilneas, resembling it in style and yet not in stature! There was all sorts of signs carved into its wooden-stone, bearing marks of an older age. The Town Hall itself was replete with various paintings - ones that were thoroughly of the romantic nationalist tradition.
Old, mythic scenes were predicted, a saga of the past of Gilneas'. A small fire burned, and a simplistic chandolier, lit with Kerosene, hung solemnly from the high, nordic ceiling. The light was thoroughly dim - despite all the accumulated lamps, the place was still thoroughly dim. Ferenold stood beside the raging hearth, hands folded evenly behind his back.