The wind howled down from the ice-wreathed cliffs of Ullrsfjordr, biting sharp as wolf teeth, but the harbor below pulsed with life.
The great fjord had become more than just a cradle of northern might; it was now the beating heart of an empire cast upon waves.
Dark-hulled knarrs, wide and deep-bellied for cargo, bobbed against the docks, their dragon-prowed cousins, lean, swift drakkar, weaving around them like predators among whales.
Smoke curled up from forge-halls and smokehouses, where long strips of dried fish, jerky, and cured fat were bundled and hauled aboard in barrels.
The rhythmic creak of wood and slap of rope against mast carried across the water, mingling with the shouted calls of sailors.
Norse, Gaelic, and a smattering of foreign tongues picked up from trade across the isles and ice ways.
One knarr was bound east, heavy with crates of forged spearheads, linen, iron nails, mead, and salted cod.
