Marian Hawke, knee deep in salt water, glared out at the ebony sea before her as if it had personally offended her. Her eyes, still glistening with wetness from the tears that stained her cheeks, were as bright and hard as diamonds, flickering with a rage, and a self loathing that she could barely contain and the sea had become the barer of her wrath. Stone after stone, of varying sizes—though they seemed to become larger the longer she stayed and lashed out—were hurled at the seemingly calm surface, paired with shrieks and roars that were far more fearsome than that of any beast.
