Bruichladdich Waves

A series of galleries approach the eye, the world is a chambered salt-shell.  Sequent vaulted whorls tinted pink and orange with iodine's essence thud massily, trochaic and wet.  Phalanxes stutter forward and recede again, messily; they are salt.  The ancient roots of Yggdrasil crack the ice floor; Rime-Giants stalk and rumble.  A steel cage lowered on a mossy chain to be battered by the waves and to keep the barrel inside from being crushed while it distills the sea into whisky.