1st Fall, 510 A.V. The summer storms were unpredictable on these seas, the shores rocky and ragged where anything could wash ashore. As summer passed into autumn, a certain vessel was run up against rocks, tearing out her belly, tossing her crew out into the dangerous dark seas. Some were boiled by lightning licking the water. Some were shredded against sharp rocks, crushed between the tortured planks that groaned and snapped, but not loud enough to be heard over Zulrav's rage. Some were eaten by sharks and other sea creatures, come hungrily swimming at the scent of fresh blood. The dawn broke clear and beautiful, of course, and all the calmer in contrast to the night's violence. One sailor, luckier than the rest, lay on his stomach in a patch of sand among the rocks, driftwood, and cormorant bones. The sea, gentle but insistent, lapped against his body, nudging his body to and fro, and finally slapping gently against his face. There was little to remember from the previous night but fear and horror, and finally the welcome darkness of oblivion where even the lightning could not find him. And now -- new hope? No hope? The storm had surely blown them off course, but how far? Storm Bay's shores were very sparsely populated, and Fall became much like Winter rather early this far north. This bit of beach, if one could call it that, rose steeply into rocky hills, very sparsely wooded, it would seem, and with scraggly bits of chaparral eking out a life peeking out from between tumbled boulders, the land giving way to the erosion of Laviku's waters. Gulls cried and circled over the water and further up from the tide. But first things first -- awake and sing, you who sleep in the surf! Sing for grief and for joy! You live yet, praise Kihala! |