THE WORLD

The world of Fylgja stands in the year 800 AD — though no one here counts years that way. They count winters. This is the ninth winter after the great Battle of Hordaland, and the war has not ended. It has become the air people breathe.

This is the dawn of the Viking Age. Ships have reached perfection — they can sail anywhere: to raid, to trade, to colonize. The old world is dying, but the new one has not yet been born.

The south has taken the White God. The north remains wild, where Sami noids beat their drums. Between them lies the land of jarls, clans, and free bondsmen — where every man is his own law if he has enough men and steel.

The world of Fylgja is the North. Fjords cut into cliffs like knives. Farmsteads scatter across slopes. Shrines stand in groves where sacrifices hang. Burial mounds rise over the dead. Trading towns cling to the coast, smelling of fish, tar, and silver.

The South has taken the White God. There the cross and the sword walk together. Kings are baptized for power, and shrines burn to prove faith.

The North is wild. There live the Sami noids — shamans with drums who speak to spirits in a language the Norse do not understand.

Between South and North lies the Middle Land — the land of jarls, clans, and free bondsmen. Here blood-feud is a duty, not a choice. Here the old gods still hold — for now.