Soundtrack The Monks of Brink groan continuously. In my first days here I observed how they produce such deep, resonant vibrations. They spend a full minute to inhale before they harden their guts and purse their lips in unison. The resultant rattle of their chests and throats issues and rebounds throughout the high and lonely halls of dying Brink. As twelve begin, another twelve are halfway to expelling the last of their air, while another dozen suck in as deeply as they can in preparation to continue the impassive drone. This, the unremittant background to my confinement. If the Leviathan is indeed to come, their groans shall echo resolutely even as we churn in its great belly. I have seen it. I came to them in a fever. They told me none others from the skiff survived. It was only me. No matter the goodwill evaporated in the wake of portentful dreaming, I am grateful to these men and women, even indebted, for returning to me my health. They treated me with grace, more so than I…
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