The engine purred as the driver downshifted for the canyon hills that rose stark and shadowed above the accelerating car.

To one side of the track stood a grim building, the colour of mud, its walls rising silent and stark.

The forests of the Anar lay before him and there was the Ravenshorn, a vast and sprawling mountain range that rose black and stark against a crimson sun.

The augustan peacebetothem oaks, the monolith rising stark from the moonlit pinebarren.

The cliffs rose stark and black on either side, and between them whispered and rustled the thick shadows of the fronds.

There was no slope at all, just the walls, rising stark and perpendicular from a floor almost as smooth as a living room.

The mass of Mount Ventoux rises stark to the west and the long sawblade of the Montagne de Lure is straight before you.

I smiled and lifted a hand to his own cheekbone, rising stark and clean above a tide of auburn stubble.

With the fall of night I could no longer make it out, but the last waning light had shown it plainly, rising stark and somber against the eastern sky.

The sagittal crest rose stark and commanding from the back of the skull, testimony to the heavy muscles of the brawny neck that had once supported it.