Roero

She was cruel like the ocean. Always unsure.

She watched the ships slide forward with the tide, closing her eyes to focus on the sound of the rushing water and shouting men. She let her anger drift away with the waves, breathing in the salty air, calming her frayed nerves.

It was always like this by the sea. Nothing soothed her the way water did.
There was something about the dry wood and stone of the town that choked her, made it hard to think, hard to hold a thought in her skull with any coherency. It was nearly impossible to separate the land from the sea in the blackness. The lights on the boats from the lights in the buildings,
the torches in the rigging from the torches in the slums. All was a confusion of points of light, flowing around each other, disembodied in the void.
Behind her eyes burned the disconnection, the [i][i]grasp[/i]ing[/i], reaching feeling.

She needed to immerse herself. It was only when she was surrounded by the crashing sound of the spray against the cliffs, the nostril-filling briny scent of salt at the docks, or the damp, echoing cool of the caves along the coast, that she could focus her mind to the task at hand.