There were very few places like the village of Cawdown-Upon-Hythe.
It was one of those little settlements that had sprung up around mostly-flooded marshlands.
Located right at the northernmost landpoint, just shy of being it's own island.
Although the area in general was counted as one place, each resident was practically a prisoner.
You see, the tides in Cawdon are renowned for being somewhat vicious and abrupt.
One minute you can almost see the weeds that are presumed to lurk on the marsh floor,
the next you're being swept out to them before you can even gasp for air.
Quite spectacular to see, less so when you're stranded on a stranger's garden.
The residents grow used to spontaneous guests and the flurry of panic that ensues.
Rations are spread about through an intricate series of baskets carried by thick ropes and pulleys.
They are the lifeline and main support for the voluntarily stranded community.
Acting as a food source, long distance communication system, pharmacy and much more.
Winter was the worst for the isolated cluster as the snow would freeze the pulleys and break them.
Some went for days without food or news, often being found dead in the spring.
This winter was the worst anyone had known for over a hundred years.
It was only made worse when the marshlands froze over for the very first time.
Some residents woke to the sound of someone knocking on their doors.
A sound that they had never heard before, nobody ever visited in person, it was always by letter.
They met their neighbours for the first time in their lives and roamed about their home.
Come spring the marshlands were still frozen solid and not a soul was to be found.
Dining tables were laid for a feast, beds were unmade and pillows tossed against walls.
Some scraps of paper gave clues as to what had happened and painted a grim tale.
As can be expected, feuds had been held for generations via letter, harsh words carefully written out.
With the marsh frozen they could finally sort things out in person.
It was one of those little settlements that had sprung up around mostly-flooded marshlands.
Located right at the northernmost landpoint, just shy of being it's own island.
Although the area in general was counted as one place, each resident was practically a prisoner.
You see, the tides in Cawdon are renowned for being somewhat vicious and abrupt.
One minute you can almost see the weeds that are presumed to lurk on the marsh floor,
the next you're being swept out to them before you can even gasp for air.
Quite spectacular to see, less so when you're stranded on a stranger's garden.
The residents grow used to spontaneous guests and the flurry of panic that ensues.
Rations are spread about through an intricate series of baskets carried by thick ropes and pulleys.
They are the lifeline and main support for the voluntarily stranded community.
Acting as a food source, long distance communication system, pharmacy and much more.
Winter was the worst for the isolated cluster as the snow would freeze the pulleys and break them.
Some went for days without food or news, often being found dead in the spring.
This winter was the worst anyone had known for over a hundred years.
It was only made worse when the marshlands froze over for the very first time.
Some residents woke to the sound of someone knocking on their doors.
A sound that they had never heard before, nobody ever visited in person, it was always by letter.
They met their neighbours for the first time in their lives and roamed about their home.
Come spring the marshlands were still frozen solid and not a soul was to be found.
Dining tables were laid for a feast, beds were unmade and pillows tossed against walls.
Some scraps of paper gave clues as to what had happened and painted a grim tale.
As can be expected, feuds had been held for generations via letter, harsh words carefully written out.
With the marsh frozen they could finally sort things out in person.
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