The storm raging over the narrow strait felt less like weather and more like a punishment. Sheets of freezing rain lashed against the reinforced glass of Watchtower number eight, the wind howling so violently it made the thick steel girders of the structure groan.
Inside the primary observation room, however, the atmosphere was considerably warmer.
Four men in the dark grey uniforms of the Coastal Defense Force sat around a circular metal table. A half-empty bottle of liquor sat in the center, acting as a makeshift paperweight for a scattered deck of playing cards.
"I'm telling you, the thunder god definitely caught his wife cheating," Miller laughed, tossing two chips into the center of the table. He took a swig from his glass, wincing as the alcohol burned his throat. "There hasn't been a storm this bad since the winter four years ago."
