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A fisherman's cottage dangles off the edge of the dramatic Gomengelqgu cliffs near the coiling sea below, supported by endless and ramshackle wooden beams plunging down. Beyond, behind grim hills and mountains, dark forests lie in waiting.

The fisherman parks his bicycle, an ornithopter proppelled by footwork, near the cottage's window at the seaside. He is quite the nutter, ill-tempered at best and close-mouthed. He has a fan with which he flattens the sea.

Gomengelagu smells wrong.

You don't go to Gomengelagu.