Rush Rush. With power to drown a giant. Rush.
Careen on the teeth. White stone. Knives raised to the sky in defiance, daring the Morrigan to burst her raven breast on the razor tip.
Spray. Rise into the wind to be carried. Fly. And moisten the backs of the sleeping hills of Dearg. Wet like sweat. Like stinging tears for a world lost. A world of prowess and violence. Deep songs of dread sung now only in the dark under-earth or in the hearts of children at night.
The Red Isle breathes. Blood colored lichen pulses, heaves, with the rising and falling wind. A sighing of tide and weather that gives the place a restless atmosphere. An uneasy place where neither seals nor sea-fowl like to stop.
It rises out of the dark northern seas. A heap of sandstone carved by waves in elaborate whorls and dressed in vermillion flora. It ascends the height of twenty men to a plateau at the center of which is a darkened pit. A sinkhole that repels light and nature. A hole in this world. A wound. A reminder of what went before.
The hole is tantalizingly out of reach of the waves. So they rush rush. Smash! Into the toothy shore. Hoping to fly over the rim and run into that abyss and drop by drop fill it up again.