It was a dog’s day. The seas were high, brightened by a white morning sun into a glaring sheet of bluish silver, a sea rolling with the promise of a hard day at sail. The ocean was a boundless plain made of shifting hills and valleys. Where it met the horizon was dressed in a haze, and so the ocean seemed to go on forever. These formless lands were only interrupted by the odd rocky burr rising grey and stark from the sea on their starboard side. They were an unusual sight, unlike any other landmark, for those grey stacks, some reaching a hundred feet high, were all that remained of a strong line of mountains shattered by an earthquake that for a hundred leagues broke them down and swallowed them below a roaring tide. On one side of the world the tide rushed out, never to return. On the other side, the tide rushed in.
All those lands were the Obotema now.
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