Cracking the Windtraps

[Unseelie]

To ressurect a settlement that'd been dead for decades and rotting for far longer, one could expect an aweful lot of work. Her Gran had lived here, and lived rather well, off of only one windtrap, lonely in the ruins. She hadn't ever been a particularly work loving induvidual, and only a pilot of passing skill, but Catalina threw herself into the repairs, the painting, the climbs and the hikes. It was an unasked for motivation which drove her to repair a house, and then another, down lines, without any intention of inviting others to live in her Gran's Mausoleum, and such it was, a port of boatless sails towering above rows of houses, only one lived in.

At night, the wind whispered through the sails and the shutters rattled. There was something wrong with the lines of the town, something slightly alien, something definatly not Cretan. These people were bretonians, once. She was Bretonian, in a way.

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