Neverharbor is an obscure Vidoran village that lies deep within a broad inlet at the mouth of a cold, steady river. Fresh water meets the sea here and slows it. Salmon linger longer than they do along the open coast.
The inlet curves inward and shields the village from the worst of the ocean. Tides still shape the water, but without the violence of the outer sea. Boats ride at anchor with little risk. Nets are worked in water that smells of silt and river grass beneath the salt. In the early morning, mist often clings to the surface. River and sea blur together until the sun burns the haze away.
The village sits on a narrow coastal plain. The ground is flat enough to build on, but never wide enough to feel open. Smokehouses, sheds, and modest homes cluster near the water. They stand close out of habit rather than need. Beyond them, the land rises into low foothills. Scrub, wind-bent trees, and rough grazing cover the slopes. The hills block coastal winds and give the village a sense of enclosure.
The river sets the pace of life in Neverharbor.
During the salmon runs, fish push upstream in dense numbers. The water darkens and churns. Boats work the inlet while others set weirs farther inland. The village fills with sound. Hulls slap water. Knives strike wood. Gulls scream overhead. The air carries fish, wet rope, wood smoke, and clean river water. The smell lingers even near the foothills.
When the runs are poor, the inlet feels larger. Boats sit idle along the shore. The river looks ordinary again. People walk its banks more often then. They watch currents and measure water height. They listen for signs that offer little more than hope.
Neverharbor’s distance from larger ports is softened by the river. Traders sometimes pole shallow craft inland. News arrives by water more often than by road. Even so, the village remains peripheral. It is passed through more often than it is sought out. This suits the people who live here. They measure success in winter stores and full smokehouses, not coin.
Neverharbor endures because it is sheltered.
The inlet protects it from the sea.
The hills protect it from the land.
The river provides enough, most years, to make staying feel like choice rather than refusal.