The moment before the wave hits is eerily quiet. In the tens of thousand of years that have elapsed since these islands poked their heads above the surface of the sea, they have known only the lapping of the waves, the cawing of gulls, and the wind whistling around rock spires and through the lianas and leaves of the thickening canopy. Now they know silence, and following that silence, devastation.

After the water has once more receeded, all that is left is bare rock.

It is now round 6. The weather is drought.