We lost so many in The Crossing. Every day, more ships sank, tossed around like children’s toys by the furious waves generated by the Lord of the Abyss. The last days in the isles, though, were worse. Everything we knew, everything we had built, was turning against us, and what was worse, our own people had turned against us as well. Humans say that the only surprising part about a Kelari stabbing you in the back is that you didn’t see it coming, but for all you can say about us, widespread betrayal by more than half our population is not something anyone expects.
Ours was a world of wonders, of flying carriages lofted by spirits into the high spires of our great temples and lights that never died, fueled by the deepest essences of the world. It was glorious, and then it was gone; as the spirits became bloated with profane power, and our people turned to worshipping their dark hungers.
So we fled into whatever boats we could find or build. Less than half survived the crossing to the Freemarch. My own boat went down when we were only days from the green marches. We could see the mountains in the distance, through the fog.
And then there was nothing but darkness, and the sensation of my chest exploding.
But then I woke up in a machine, my body stitched together with source where I should have blood. Returned. A synthetic mirror of the spirit gods I had left behind.
I will make the Crossing back one day, as an Ascended, and take back our lost isles from those who tarnish them.