The valley of Eldraheim rested deep between the shoulders of ancient mountains, a hidden fold where time held still. No paths marred its slopes, no bridges crossed its waters; only wind and rain had carved it over forgotten ages. The peaks climbed in layers of green and slate, their tops dissolving into mist. Distant ranges faded into blue and violet, blurring until the eye gave up the chase.

Below, the land eased into emerald hills, grass thick and bowing under ceaseless weather. Streams gathered from high corries into a silver river that fed the lake. The water lay dark as polished obsidian, reflecting a sky of bruised clouds and fleeting light—deeper, truer than the one above.

A lone boat waited at the shore, tied to a half-drowned post amid reeds. Its faded green hull bore the patina of long neglect: rain-streaked wood, rope stiffened by damp. No oars lay inside. Ripples spread from the wind’s touch, the only motion save the quiet lap against stone.

At the base of the nearer hill stood fourteen houses in a silent row. Low walls of dark mountain stone, conical roofs peaked like watchful hoods. Small, deep-set windows glowed with warm amber light—hearth-fires burning steady—casting thin gold bars across wet grass. Slender smoke rose from each chimney, pale against the heavier grey, curling briefly before the wind shredded it. Within those walls the inhabitants remained, sheltered from the chill, gathered close around flickering flames. They kept warm, voices low, telling stories of old—of wanderers who once crossed the high passes, of lights seen on the peaks in forgotten winters, of promises made beneath clearer skies. No shadows crossed the panes to the outside world; the tales stayed inside, woven into the warmth like threads in a blanket against the storm.

Rain fell in fine, persistent mist, beading on every surface, darkening stone. It whispered over the lake, stippling the water into silver points. The wind sighed through the valley, stirring grass into slow waves that broke against the walls. It carried scents of pine, wet earth, and cold distance.

Eldraheim felt vast and unpeopled from without, yet alive within. The glowing windows, the waiting boat, the steady smoke—all spoke of lives continuing quietly, of memory and hearth-fire holding back the dark. It was a landscape suspended, ancient and attentive, where mountains kept silent watch and rain fell like a quiet song for the stories being told beneath the roofs.