“The light doesn’t stop the storm. It stops the loss.”
“The sea doesn’t give gifts. It trades—usually for blood.”
“Salt stings because it cleans. The sea doesn’t hate you—it just refuses to lie.”
“Everything has a price. In Heathdun, the storm sets it first.”
“If it holds in a storm, it holds for anything. If it doesn’t—don’t stand under it.”
A feathered nightmare with a widow’s patience—she doesn’t hunt for sport, she hunts to keep her nest warm and full.
A knee-high terror with quick hands and quicker exits—he doesn’t win fights, he wins messes.
A lean, sharp-eyed road-butcher who can smell a full pantry from half a mile away—and who never leaves a witness with both hands intact.
A corpse-fat brute with a cookpot halo of iron who drags a dinner bell through the mud—ringing it only when the screaming starts.
A mud-crowned titaness of hunger and spite who treats settlements like pantries and people like noisy livestock.
Sea-Facing Cliffwarden Checkpoint sits hard against the wind on a narrow coastal shelf, where pale stone and weathered timber meet the endless churn of the surf.
Ventworks Pressure Gallery is a cramped, iron-limbed maintenance corridor suspended above a roaring furnace line—more machine than hallway.