The wind howls across the fjord, carrying the sting of salt and the creak of timber from the longship tied at the pier. Your village hums with life: warriors clash wooden shields in training, their shouts echoing against the cliffs, while sparks from the blacksmith's forge light the dusk like fireflies. The seeress, draped in furs, lingers at the edge of the square, her pale eyes fixed on you as though she already knows the path you will take. Near the harbor, traders haggle over dried fish and bolts of cloth, their words sharp as blades.

It feels as though the whole village waits, watching to see what you will do. Perhaps you step down to the shore, where the clang of steel calls to your blood. Or you drift toward the forge, where labor and silver are earned through sweat. You might follow the seeress into her hut, to glimpse the threads of fate in smoke and rune. Or maybe your steps lead you to the harbor, where bargains are struck and fortunes built.

One way or another, the day has come to carve the first mark of your saga.