Beads of water rolled down the icy cliff into the sea—a million tiny splashes echoing in time. The silent rumble of centuries groaned as the glacier slid across the ground. Mists rose up where the it met the ocean, a pitched battle of warm and cold. Waves crashed futilely against the white continent. The wind swirled. The gulls retreated.
Sorun watched the moving ice, gripping his obsidian fishing spear angrily in one hand. He would not allow the land to encroach upon the sacred sea. The ocean was the origin of life, fluid and ever-changing, filled with more wonders than the land would ever see. How dare the young ground try to conquer his domain!
It was a battle the ice could never win. Sorun drove the waves harder against the cold invader. He warmed the seawater with his essence. Blow after salty blow chipped away at the endless block of ice. Yet like the bullish creatures it cradled, the land kept coming. Salt, bolstered by the warmth of the sea, returned the ice to its holy form. Every inch the glacier moved was an inch of itself lost.
He watched the glacier slowly drip into the sea. It was a victory that would take eons. But Sorun was a god; he could wait.