Seaside Moors although I'm itty-bitty, sittin' pretty

here upon the storm flattened butte that announced the moor’s beginning, sobeille felt strangely exposed.

it was cold here, the moors comprised of dark blues and sallow tan — like a bruise spilled over sickly tapestry. but the wind was strong and the scents many. sobeille found herself lost among the sunken roads and deep pitches of tidewater.

later she called for chani, but the wind stole her voice away. she followed her tracks until they were near a high arch of wind-spat grass. what you be t’inking chani? she half-yelled into the howling roar, turning her gaze to examine the whole of chani’s thoughts.