Stormstop Isles

The sea breaks itself against the Stormstop Isles, a jagged chain of green and gray that rises from the Mudwater like the backs of sleeping giants. Stilted villages cling to their shores, wooden bones groaning under the weight of salt and tide. Nets hang drying in the wind, gulls circle overhead, and the smell of brine never leaves the air. Here, the sea is both lifeline and predator. Some days it is calm, carrying boats between the isles like leaves on a stream. Other days it rages without warning, a wall of storm and foam that can swallow ships whole. The locals shrug at such moods of the water, “That’s the Mudwater,” they say, as if it explains everything. Unlike the mainland, the Isles are quiet. No faceless horrors, no crawling beasts from the dark. Yet peace here comes at a price. Every net cast, every hut raised above the tide, every soul who dares call this place home owes their safety to the Brethren. Pirates prowl these waters, but those who fly the Brethren’s mark are left untouched. Out here, beyond the reach of lords and laws, freedom can be found, or at least bought.