Into The Rift

Homerun (52)

-2135 Military Hours
Ship of The Line Minen'Thra

The stars shone brightly, eternal flames burning amidst the cosmic heavens. They yawed ever slowly amidst turbulent waves as a lone priestess kneels by the ship's bow, her eyes closed in deep meditation. She held both hands together—her left engulfing the right, an ancient pose almost unchanged since the dawn of her people.

In the silence of night, her spirit traveled towards distant shores. The holy woman searches amidst the vagueness of tall mountains and smothered fires, of strange stone temples forged in squares and certainty, and through the bitter resentment of a meagre victory.

She searches through the haze, and fails to find that lingering spirit given form and memory. With each call, only silence answers. The tides end here, and so she returns, journeying across a dazzle of false wind and light until the aches of her body is imposed again.

Candles flickered within brass holders, casting her still form in gentle light. Her black robes flutter once more as the ancient tongue of her mainland ancestors rolls past her lips, voice parting as a mere whisper.

"Ishun lun'anth av vier, sens vellum av minth." The sermon flows gracefully, and again she feels the solemn weight of these archaic words. A hope for justice and vengeance, now rooted into that of a prophecy now realized.

Finally she opens her eyes, lips parting with a conclusion. "So, they know of our deceit," the Priestess murmurs, her verdant gaze lingering on the stars, they twinkle back in delightful ignorance—as they always have since the first night.

The salted air hung with each breath, but she pays no heed to it. She stands, legs trembling but holding firm on deck. The candles surrounding her all burn with a hollow glow, empty like her endeavors to commune with the spirit forged from that long dead human. His sacrifice, born of forbidden rituals and thirst for insight, held little sway over her heart.

She remembers his defiant screams—so bold and certain at first, only to ebb away with each strike of a hammer. Only whimpers remained as the acolytes sunk the remaining nails into his skull—his breaths fleeting and voice long vanished. This is the price to pay for clarity into the world her ancestors left behind.

That ghostly twin has served well. It has been three days since it last ferried its tidings, but what it revealed still fascinated the young priestess. Like the nights before, she muses over its many insights as she waited, leaning on the warship's front gunnel.

It was a friend, and so she mourns its demise with all her heart. Much of her days were spent in companionship with the spirit. He was a beacon of delight in an otherwise boring voyage. Now her only worth lies in map scribing, a skill she possesses that others in her church lacked. But until land is sighted, she could not truly embrace the role.

Her hands slowly trail across the coarse wood, feeling its roughness beneath her fingers. She imagines the little bumps as mountains and draws them with her mind, their size and height immaculate as her skills would often provide. The Minen'Thra sways as she pulls her gaze down over the horizon—to the north, so the fleet and ocean's subtle curve lay in her sights.

The larger caravels are most prominent, and are proud mantles of hope in oceans dark and foreign. Their square sails stand tall and mighty, while their hulls bristle ferociously with cannons, ballistae, and more.

Undoubtedly, any who would set eyes upon those imposing vessels would do so with fear. Even the Euralians must respect this power.

As her gaze wanders from warship to warship, footsteps patter behind. Slow, and heavy. She sighs, already prepared to heed the needless tirade that is sure to come from the Minen'Thra's Shipmaster.