The sea was always a welcoming sight for Finnur. He sat, now, in the sunset, on a large gray rock cropping out over the green-blue waves. His mind was clear, intent on dividing the scene before him into two categories: what was water, and what was sky. Dusk was always the easiest time to do this, because the sea was mostly blue, only reflecting the sky's fiery, angry colors. He glanced up, and the sky attacked his eyes, the oranges and reds mixing into piercing arrows that penetrated through his eyes to cause a throbbing pain in the back of his head. So he looked down from the evil sun and to the deep, dark ocean. It looked safe, happy. He knew if he slipped below is cool surface, he would be safe.
But it was hard for Finnur, for he enjoyed his state of in-between. The land fluctuated, was never entirely just tranquil, or just angry. It moved, danced with moods caused by those who affected it, those who live on and beneath it.
But even the calmest of seas can be angered, once provoked.
