Driftwood Cove

The Secluded Shore of Forgotten Wrecks

Tucked away in a narrow inlet shielded by jagged blackstone cliffs, Driftwood Cove feels like the kind of place the rest of Verrowind forgot. With only 900 residents, its quiet, salt-stained streets wind between weather-beaten cottages, boathouses, and narrow boardwalks that creak under the weight of sea spray and time. The people here are a mix of hardened fishers, skilled boatbuilders, and families whose roots in the cove stretch back generations — some proudly traceable, others deliberately obscured.

The village lives and breathes by the tide. At dawn, the water comes alive with the slow, rhythmic push of small fishing boats gliding into the open sea, their sails patched in a dozen shades of canvas. The air carries the smell of driftwood-smoked fish, a local specialty, and the spiced sweetness of rum cakes cooling on windowsills. At night, the waves lap at the cliffs while the wind whistles through the weathered timbers, carrying with it stories as old as the settlement itself.

History has not been kind to Driftwood Cove, though its people carry their scars with pride. The coastline here is littered with wrecks — some the tragic result of sudden storms, others rumored to be the outcome of less honest dealings. Local lore insists that generations ago, the cove’s earliest settlers were pirates who found the inlet a perfect hideout, its cliffs shielding their ships from prying eyes. Whether true or not, the stories persist, told in low voices around the fire during long winter nights. Children grow up hearing about the “Treasure of Blackwater Point,” supposedly buried in the sands of a hidden beach, and “The Drowned Captain,” a restless spirit said to watch over the cove from the fog.

Traditions here carry both pride and melancholy. Wreck Memorial Day is a solemn occasion when the entire village gathers at the shoreline, lanterns in hand, to honor those lost at sea. Names are read aloud, some from living memory, others etched into the weathered driftwood plaques that line the wharf. The Boat Building Workshops, in contrast, are lively affairs — part craft school, part community gathering, and a vital way of passing on the skills that keep the cove’s livelihood alive. Every vessel bears the distinctive Driftwood Cove style: solid hulls of salt-resistant timber, shaped with a care that suggests both necessity and artistry.

Outsiders are treated with polite caution. It’s not that the villagers dislike strangers — it’s that they’ve learned too many come with questions better left unanswered. The cove has always existed in a gray area between survival and secrecy, its economic lifeline bolstered by trades that don’t always appear in official ledgers. This is one reason the Serious Crimes Unit inspires unease here. Officially, the village maintains a neutral stance, but in practice, many residents will offer smiles and nods while quietly steering investigators away from certain coves, certain sheds, and certain conversations.

Elder Rowan Finch, the village’s informal leader, is known for his ability to walk the fine line between cooperating with the province and protecting the cove’s independence. A stooped man with sharp eyes and a voice like gravel, Finch is both respected and feared. “We keep what’s ours,” he’s known to say, “and the sea keeps the rest.”

Driftwood Cove may not welcome change, but it endures — weathering storms, time, and the quiet erosion of the world beyond its cliffs. Its people understand that the sea gives and takes as it pleases, and their lives are built on respecting that balance. The cove remains, as it always has, a place of rugged self-reliance, whispered history, and the enduring pull of the tide.