In the Flatlands, they say the southern wind has a face. The face changes day to day, and appears different to all who see it. When the face leers through the window, and the wind batters the door, the men know to raise their spears, and the women to hold their children close. To those who journey south, it is a familiar sight, though not a welcome one. For the face is the face of the myriad dead men.
I live not in the Flatlands, but on the pink and frothy shores of Erḃan, where the fish throw themselves from the sea so they may dance and sparkle in the setting sun, where the grey crabs leave their unknowable etchings in the soft and yellow sands. Many a foreign ship touches upon the coasts, and the sailors who cross from there to here are of the grim and stolid sort. They usually have little to say, but when the turtledrums thud in the night, many a bizarre and fantastical tale emanates from their thin, grey lips.
They tell of the demon with three mouths, of the ancient pillar which knows all things, of the headless man who gives his cloak to weary travelers. They tell of great shadows which stalk the land, and of beautiful songs that haunt the moonless nights. I ask them why they are so eager to return to that alien land, and they simply smile and return to their long, bird-prowed ships built of white wood.
short lil thing i just wrote for fun