A cold autumn wind blows, down the slopes of the Cascades, gently ruffling the pines that carpet the foothills like a snug blanket for the season’s chill. Gentle at first, but gaining strength as the wind is pulled through the glacial valleys and hills marking the landscape, towards the maw of a pressure system passing to the north. This wind races towards the sea, the faint scent of pine and snow chills the denizens of the Sound ever so slightly as they remember the bitterness of the night before, the cold of the air, the wind, and their hearts from the 120+ minutes spent standing or sitting, watching their own so-called ta’veren, ones whom destiny has chosen to take center stage.
It wasn’t the ending, but it was an ending
