Seydon of Arda
Raquor'daan
Core Worlds - Lytton Sector - Spira System
~Spira
Cyan water. Gold sand. White clouds. Nestled in a quiet cove three thousand clicks south and west of Ataria Island, a sleek, galvanized hulled ship was locked into a makeshift birth. Palm fronds and a thickened layer of camouflaging moss and lichen were strewn across stubby lateral wings, pegged down by duralium spikes knotted with fishgut line. Admittedly, creating such private accommodations in Spira's oceanic vastness was illegal by mandate... But Seroth Ur-Rahn was a poor boy and stubborn. He was traipsing through the relative Galactic neighborhood, needing to restock on preserved foodstuffs. Seafood would prove a welcome change from vacuum-sealed spinach, ranoch jerky meats, and stale, recycled water.
The boy stood tall out on a driftwood pier. A makeshift casting rod, more a supple, hewed palm bough, flicked and snapped a near invisible catching line and sink lure a good three hundred rods out past the beach surf. He hadn't much for bait, but figured a touch of luck was on his side. Warm winds from the west blew out and crazed his combed widow's peak, filled his nostrils with salt and the stink of scale-gull guano. Lazy, soft pounds of rushing beach tide lulled his senses; his mind slipped into quasi-meditation, running unseen 'scoops' over the idyllic sea surface. Force-compelled 'cups' of water lifted and fell at his mental suggestion. And, not for the first instance, certainly not for the last, his lips tingled with sensation. Like the taste of ginseng and some other, closely intoxicating sugar. Illusory brown eyes stared over the hazy, far horizon.
"Hmmn..." Seroth sighed, wriggling his casting rod.
~Spira
Cyan water. Gold sand. White clouds. Nestled in a quiet cove three thousand clicks south and west of Ataria Island, a sleek, galvanized hulled ship was locked into a makeshift birth. Palm fronds and a thickened layer of camouflaging moss and lichen were strewn across stubby lateral wings, pegged down by duralium spikes knotted with fishgut line. Admittedly, creating such private accommodations in Spira's oceanic vastness was illegal by mandate... But Seroth Ur-Rahn was a poor boy and stubborn. He was traipsing through the relative Galactic neighborhood, needing to restock on preserved foodstuffs. Seafood would prove a welcome change from vacuum-sealed spinach, ranoch jerky meats, and stale, recycled water.
The boy stood tall out on a driftwood pier. A makeshift casting rod, more a supple, hewed palm bough, flicked and snapped a near invisible catching line and sink lure a good three hundred rods out past the beach surf. He hadn't much for bait, but figured a touch of luck was on his side. Warm winds from the west blew out and crazed his combed widow's peak, filled his nostrils with salt and the stink of scale-gull guano. Lazy, soft pounds of rushing beach tide lulled his senses; his mind slipped into quasi-meditation, running unseen 'scoops' over the idyllic sea surface. Force-compelled 'cups' of water lifted and fell at his mental suggestion. And, not for the first instance, certainly not for the last, his lips tingled with sensation. Like the taste of ginseng and some other, closely intoxicating sugar. Illusory brown eyes stared over the hazy, far horizon.
"Hmmn..." Seroth sighed, wriggling his casting rod.