Cracking the Windtraps

[Unseelie]

A fifty meter windtrap could feed a moderately sized family. Water their crops, quench their thirst, for years, so long as it was maintained. Small villages, on the edges of the great deserts, appeared as ancient shipyards from the sky, sails spread against the wind, catching the sparse moisture from the bitter winds. Farther out, where the dunes shifted and the roads led to ruins, the windtraps were warped and dried, stiff with sand and dirt blown across their membranes.

In the deep desert, nestled between outcroppings of wind-torn granite, a small forest of twisted and torn sheets leaned away from the prevalent wind, and in the center, a single pristine sail.

In 613, Lord Blys, the last remaining overlord of Sherwood had brought his family and his retainers to Crete. With the riches they'd pulled from Bretonia's markets, they bought and traded and wormed their way into the Corsairs. With the very last shreds, they constructed windtrap after windtrap, modern and effective, mechanized, more than they could have needed. They planted gardens and apple groves, built forges and blasted their way into the rocks. The Estate of Blys had fallen, of course, but the line was not extinct. Catalina a Jovem wandered the waste above the vaults, toward a little house under a single sail, which she'd stayed at, during her summers as a child.




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