The town stacked itself against the cliffs, the small houses seemed to topple over each other as they climbed the stark grey heights. The small sliver of land where the village had first begun sat flush against the sea, which would rear up and crash against the cobbled roofs, leaving dregs of salt water and seaweed dripping from every ledge. The townspeople called this place Swelland, the place of the rising tears. Every month when the Moon drunk with her fullness they would lock their window shutters tight, drag their beds to the centre of their rooms and embark on another fruitless attempt to stay as warm and dry as possible.
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