Tides of Rythe

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Foaming white spume flecked the air. The cliffs were white and grey where the gulls nested. They flew out to sea flapping madly against the harsh wind until they were caught in its snare and snatched high into the air, only to plummet into the surf below and struggle up with fish. The long grass — no tree was brave enough to grow here — was blown flat against the rocky earth from which it sprouted. Rocks gave in to the elements and crashed below, splashes obscured by the smashing waves and endless wind.

The ocean vented its frustration at the land. Eventually, the sea would win.

Elsewhere, high summer was beginning to make itself felt. The lush fields in the more southerly Sturman lands would be parched and cracked under the baking sun. Here, in the distant north, summer was only a thought and a wish.

Bitter cold taunted bones and the sharp, wet wind stung flesh. There was nothing here for men. Just solace. Perhaps repentance. Few would choose to make such a place their home.

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