Into The Rift

Homerun (52)

"What have your sessions unveiled this time," the Shipmaster's voice holds a commending edge as he nears.

She keeps her gaze forward, voice firm. "Only that the spirit is no more. All that I'm privy to, I have shared. Unless, you desire another recount of the accursed Euralians and their sins through the eyes of that dear spirit."

Silence briefly holds, but it is soon swept aside with a melancholic sigh. "Many still think the people of Eru are no better than bloodthirsty miscreants, even now. I had hoped their fervor would die with time's regress."

She frowns as detestable images fill her mind. Strong hands intrude on her shoulders, dispelling her pity. "Repulsive as their deeds are now, it is still better than when they were an empire. That statement still holds depth, brother."

The Shipmaster emits a chuckle, speaking to her not as an underling, but a beloved sibling. "A change half realized, is no change at all. Still, the fleet is ready to reclaim the lost cities. If they dare trek further south, the soldiers stand ready to meet them."

"For my sake I hope they find their battles," the priestess shakes her head. Sailors and warriors alike kept their distance, but a few simpletons were always daring enough to court her.

Such instances are sadly common, and always made her weary of venturing through crowds on the berthing and cargo decks.

"If they step out of tune, I will leave them to the ocean's mercy. To the underworld with the consequences," her brother declares, voice sharp as his words. She could tell that is a promise.

"Perfect," the woman turns around to offer a meek smile, "but they would not dare with you as Shipmaster."

"Of course they won't," he returns a grin as he glances at the broad sails of his ship. "The winds favour us, and should it continue to do so, you need only to suffer their insolence for two more fortnights."

"Two fortnights too many," she waves off his hands and leans away, obsidian cowl shrouding all but a huff. "Life at sea is not made for me. The waves have been restless as of late..."

He laughs and they soon delve into topics meagre and light, a simple happiness filling their hearts as the stars drift to their eternal wheel. This was a small solace for both in a venture that may be the most pivotal moment in all of post-fall Elven history.

"Shipmaster," a voice yells from high above the main mast, "Emberbeaks from the advance flotilla. Message from Scoutseeker Yora of the Corin'Tha."

"About time her damned raptors arrived," he murmurs and turns around, but spares her a parting glance. "Please, excuse me."

As she watches her brother pulled away by the tides of duty, a twinge of longing tugs at her heart. Their talk was one that may have lasted till dawn had it not been for those creatures. Resolving to shed her annoyance, she traces her steps through the heart of the ship. The wooden planks creak beneath her feet—something at least to muffle her ire.

She disregards the sailors going about their tasks, their weary expressions drifting by without offering whistles or lecherous glances. Only with those on nightshift can she expect such deference.

Once within the safe confines of her quarters, the Priestess shuts the door and sheds her cloak and veil. Her room—luxurious even compared to those of the officers' dwellings, did little to stem the surge of yearning she had of home.

The endearing flag of her birth island is pinned at the front of her bed—a bright sigil in the shape of a diamond against a black background, discernable only through the barest of light. Memoirs of a home now hundreds of nautical leagues away.