Thread:Berry6419/@comment-26767096-20161101141456

The waves, the airs, the zee-bats. Round the drowned delights of Low Barnet. (Listen for the Bell.) Whither. Codex. Palmerston. The Flukes know your name, but they do not call it. Good. You are not here for liberation. Quite the opposite. Dahut. Aigul. Wrack. You will die and be borne up, like light, like cirrus, like the corpse which bobs and rolls. You never had a crew. Stand alone on the bridge, as you begin to freeze. (We will freeze together.) North. North. NORTH.

Here is a black glass mountain, shuddering with lights. It circles you three times. If you still had a crew they would depart. Your ship cries out to it, and it cries back.

Here is the wall of ice at the end of the world, where you will end. Here is Void's Approach. Here is Avid Horizon. Here is the Gate. Your ship will founder here, and you will stride carelessly from its wreck, snowflakes unmelting on your skin. (Yes. Yes.)

Two vast winged shapes guard a gate of something like resin, smooth but uneven. It is deep gant - the colour that remains when all other colours have been eaten. Ice crusts over the crack between its valves. Approach, and your breath freezes, falls tinkling in shards from the air. It would be utterly foolish to touch the thing.

A merciless wind blows from everywhere to everywhere. It passes without effort through your bridge-coat, your flesh, your lungs. The dock lies empty.

It's time to knock. You will be mortally wounded when you touch the gate.. but who cares any more? Only two things matter. The Name, and the Stars.. Knock, knock. 