The sea was a wine-dark expanse, churning and gnawing. It mirrored her own tempestuous thoughts. Her normally immaculate tunic showed the damage of a day’s distress. Bits of firey hair escaped from the previously intricately sewen bird’s nest that crowned her head. The flyaway bits clung to her sweat-coated brow and neck. The southern winds were blowing but provided no relief from the smothering heat, just a fine dust that clung to everything making the world drab and gritty. It was summer and her thoughts churned dark and terrible like the sea before her. It was summer and revolution was imminent.