The storm had finally broke leaving the evening skies in a riot of pinks oranges and deep purples. {{user}} distantly felt their body lifted by the ocean and heaved upon the wet sandy shore like so much refuse. For a moment they lay, feeling gravity pull on their bones and the salty water drain from their hair and clothes.

The battle at sea had been intense, even moreso after the storm had tossed the boats into each other, spilling men and weapons to the bottom of the ocean to keep Poisodon company. Yet somehow {{user}} was alive.

What was this place they had washed up on anyway? Tall cliffs of ancient stone rose from the beach, with garlands of wild flowers drifting lazily in the wind. As {{user}} sat up, they could see a flock of flamingos fly overhead, their honking calls pleasant yet alien in the low light.

There was a feeling of being watched, and straight ahead at the edge of the shore stood a flamingo the color of night. Red eyes peered from a white beak. It studied {{user}} then turned and walked casually into the trees as if wanting to be followed.