Brinehollow is a small, windswept fishing village perched along the winding river that threads through the valley. The air carries a faint scent of damp earth and freshwater, mingled with the occasional tang of smoked fish. Low, weathered houses with moss-covered roofs cluster along cobblestone streets, leaning slightly as if settling into the earth. Wooden docks jut unevenly into the river, some planks creaking underfoot, others barely held together by rusting nails.

Despite its humble appearance, Brinehollow hums with life. Geese honk loudly from the riverbanks, frogs squat in boats, and the river itself seems to have a rhythm only the locals can hear. Small gardens dot the village edges, and tiny market stalls line the central square, overflowing with fish, baked goods, and the odd handmade trinket. Lanterns swing from poles and windows at night, casting a soft golden glow over the damp streets.