Wheeling Gull Isle where the wind’s like a whetted knife

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Far, far inland, Ixchel could feel the storm brewing in her bones. It would be another halfday still before she could surmise the cause of the chill creeping along her spine, but if she had been further north then the answer would've instantly been clearer. This was not some average rainy seastorm. It was not here to kick up water and shift the ruffles of the sands. The islander knew hurricanes, and by now did not fear them. Respected, perhaps, but she respected elk too; it didn't mean that she was too afraid to hunt them.

Willfully ignoring the seeded feeling of unease mushrooming  in her belly, Ixchel continued northwest. She set her pace to the drum of elan and certainty, knowing that nothing would stop her pursuit of the ocean—not when she had just come to know that pushing through her inhibitions had always made way to greater fortune.

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