Under the pale glow of the northern sun, the year was 1000, Leif Erikson's fleet sliced through the cold Atlantic waters, finally reaching the shores of a land untouched by European hands, North America. It was a rugged coastline, its cliffs crowned with dense forests, a stark contrast to the icy fjords of Norway. As the ships anchored, the crew set to work disembarking and establishing a temporary camp. Wooden structures rose rapidly from the ground, their familiar shapes contrasting sharply with the foreign terrain. A Viking Settler watched as his fellow Norsemen worked tirelessly, their axes ringing out as they felled trees and built longhouses. The settler smiled a bit, perching his Danish long axe on the ground.

"..."

The settler breathed in the scent of pine coming from the smoke from the campfires, a foreign yet calming smell. He sighed and began to mumble and recite poems he had memorized, repeating them whenever he got something wrong as he leaned back and sighed in mid-reciting.