Tucked against the low hills and pine-choked forests of eastern Jesthaen, Volvedorm feels like the last flicker of civilization before the wilderness swallows the land. The air here is always cool and damp, carrying the scent of pine resin, wet soil, and woodsmoke from hearths that never seem to go out. The village itself is little more than a cluster of timber cottages, slanted rooftops, and muddy lanes, surrounded by rough wooden palisades meant more to keep out wolves than soldiers.

At the heart of Volvedorm stands the Market Green, a wide patch of trampled earth where traders from Hilltop stop to barter iron, grain, and glassware.

The largest building is the Fellbranch Inn, a squat, sturdy structure of dark oak and riverstone, with a flickering sign that creaks in the wind. Across from it is the Mayor’s Hall, smaller but better kept, its shutters painted green and gold.

Locals here are wary but kind, their faces lined by long winters and hard work.