Chronicles of the Errai

[Karmotrine Dream]

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[07/07/826]

The sister is restless, the brother sullen.
He speaks again of ill omens, of violently bright and alien lights in the north, searing to the eye, and lidless eyes staring, wreathed in lightning; the instruments detect nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual traffic of Guilders.
And as ever, the Sabik or its fleet are not in its midst.

She knows not what to make of his visions, borne of that mystic orange haze; and his omens - the winking of constellations, a repeated specific pattern in the influx of data - all sound too much like coincidence, or strained nerves.
No blame shall be passed. It cannot be helped.

One year has passed by now, today being the very eve of the fleet's departure. We still see it: the festive tracer fire outside and the joyous clash of aquamarine lights on the assembled vessels, the chanting of propitiatory hymns, the tales of fortune and bravery awaiting, the well-wishes and the hugs, the long last night on Terra Firma, spent making merry around the fires.

A mere one year. It feels like a decade, and the searing longing that comes with it.

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