All seems quiet upon the coast before the monster, the shattered shells grinding and whispering, the waves gentle, the sand a sepulcher.
Solace of a sort, if you can believe it. The tide rolls in softly, with the same steady and predictable insistence, as if nothing is amiss.
There's only one thing out of place...
Miles away is a wall of lightning laced gray. A horizon darkened by it, consumed by it. The clouds are grim, roiling towers.
There's a heaviness in the air, too, a charge of sorts. Palm trees rustle restless in wild breezes and the smell of rain drowns everything.
Here we go again.