Friday prompt, courteously of the I Am a Writer FB group.
“What is that wretched sound?” Albert asked. They were strolling through the Central Gardens of Lochrane on a temperate and calm fall day, known to be quite rare during this time of the year when the region was plummeted with “wind storms so powerful that they could lift an unsecured anchor right off the ground” or so his guide and mentor Hal had said, when the air filled with the haunting sound of what Albert could only describe as a pregnant mother whale dying in mid-birth.
Albert had come to study the region of Lochrane from all the way across the Great Sea and was still adapting to the land life. The route to Lochrane had taken ten months and even with having arrived just six days ago his legs, mind and stomach had grown irritable to the solid land and the strange diet of flora and fauna his meager stomach couldn’t handle. All in all his mind had begun regretting the trip in the first place, and the next ship wouldn’t arrive for another four months after the wind storms had settled. He could have taken a caravan across the continent but the journey, although well traveled was known for its treacherous wastelands, roving bandits and of course the Crown of Lochrane that surrounded the border of the small kingdom with “peaks so high that you could see “the other end of the continent.” Another one of Hal’s claims.
Despite his issues Albert had grown fond of the lush mountain side kingdom. The ways the mountains wrapped themselves around the land in a crescent towards the eastern coast gave the land a snug feel, as if it were tucked away from the dangers of the world. But, as Hal had assured him, the very mountain range that made The Crown also brought upon the wind storms.
“That my friend,” Hal said, “are the Horns of Lochrane.” She stopped in her tracks and looked around. “We must hurry, for the wind storms are upon us.”