Kaldastrond sat quietly at the edge of the world, a Viking village in the vikings era, nestled where towering cliffs met a cold, deep fjord, surrounded on all sides by brooding pine forests that whispered in the wind. Sharp peaks loomed above, their snow-covered crowns gleaming beneath shifting northern skies, while the dark woods pressed close, thick with moss and secrets.

The village clung to a narrow stretch of shoreline, its longhouses built from timber hewn from the very forest that enclosed them. Roofs of sod and bark bore tufts of grass and wildflowers, blending into the land as if grown from it. Smoke drifted lazily from stone chimneys, mingling with the scent of pine resin and salt air.

The villagers knew the moods of the sea and the silence of the trees. Pinewood fires burned in every hall. Hunters vanished into the woods for days, returning with deer hides, berries, and tales of distant glades where the air felt older. Children learned to track not just prey, but the way shadows fell in the forest and how to read the wind through the trees.

The fjord was their lifeline, longships moored in calm waters, ready for trade, fishing, or war, but the forest was their spine. It gave them shelter, tools, game, and stories. At dusk, firelight flickered through windows.