There is a house. A lighthouse, to be precise. It is the last remaining lonesome light on a long, lonesome stretch of coast which embraces the dark continent. The other lights fell prey to winds and rains and high crashing waves; one by one they toppled into the cold waters below and now lay in sleeping ruins in shallow shore graves. This light is the last and perches precariously on a high crumbling cliff. Below, the black, ever-storming ocean claws hungrily at the shore and snarls as it dashes itself against the rocks. It is these jagged monoliths which the light must protect the white-sailed ships from, fragile wooden structures as the rigs are. Otherwise, the great ships will rend their hulls against the rocks and plunge to the bottom of the sea.
The years of midnight storms and midday tempests have worn the light’s stone base and slowly the structure has fallen into disrepair. The white paint, now rusted, peels in long strips. The metal stairs are slowly dissolving from the harsh salt wind and they creak and groan with the slightest provocation. Were one to dare summit this slippery, brittle path, they would be greeted only with a very long drop and a very short stop. Despite this treacherous path, the beacon remains lit, seeming to need no fuel or repair. Each night it casts its light out across the howling ocean, cutting a path through the storm clouds to warn wayward ships of the shore’s dangers.
As the wind blasts high and low along the coast at all hours of the day and night, very little lives upon the lighthouse’s cliff. The grass is dry and brittle to the touch, and grows a very light gold which glows red and orange in the light of a bright Sunrise. Beneath the wind the field of grass sways, fluttering like land-bound waves. The stunted, malformed coastal pine trees dig their strong roots deep into the soil and bare their thick-barked backs to the wind like hunched old men. It is very quiet, save for the scraping of branches, the cry of the wind, and the crash of the waves.
Beyond the light, far off in the distance, is the dim horizon. The trading ships appear over this line, sometimes, or disappear beyond it, with their creamy sails vanishing last. The storm clouds billow up, much like great swelling sails themselves, and the thunder in their depths is much like the wind cracking against the canvas. The days on this lonely stretch of coast against the dark continent are bleak and gray, and the nights pitch black and chaotic, save for the thin beam of light. When the Moon rises it is very small and very far away and very cold and silver.