Allison, begin log... This is Erika Fidard, Captain of the Signal Cartel Ship Reclamation. A ship that I found waiting in my hangar on Rens only two days ago, with no transaction log to tell me who my strange benefactor is. Still, I have to admit that for an Amarr vessel, she's pretty sleek.
But I digress. I woke this morning to a new ship with my preferred AI already loaded and a message that said AI couldn't display. Yet I could clearly see the light flashing for a new message. Ten minutes of hacking and what I had was a single line of Matari text. It read, 'Follow the roots.'
Whatever that means.
The Anathema is an Amarr vessel and so much of the history of New Eden ties back to Amarr. Maybe those are the roots? It was the only clue I had, so I set out to find more. I asked Allison to dig up relevant information on Amarr for me and listened to the reports on my way.
I'll admit that I nearly came to tears, not for seeing the beauty of something like the Empress's honor guard, or the crumbling ruins of the City of Gods - though these things are worth viewing. No, because Kor-Azor and Sarum both hold ruins of my people's attempts at retribution. The Elder War cost the lives of many Matari, and the Elders themselves remain something of a mystery, even to me.
I'll send full trip details to the Cartel for cataloguing. I don't know if this snippet will make it through. Pockets of Abyssal Space keep opening around us while we orbit Amarr Prime. If there's any attenuation to the signal, I apologize. I just hope something gets through the distortion.
If I'm not back in Thera by the end of the week, send someone to look for me. There's something up with the Blood Raiders in this area and I don't entirely trust them.
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Amarr Prime |
My tongue wants to shrivel up and die; my cheeks puckering in as if to save it. The Synth Coffee I had been given as a gift for taking on a tribesman's son as an employee may be the worst tasting thing I've ever tried to drink. I'm not sure if it's a measure of the father for his son, or if this stuff is just that terrible in general. Or maybe the hydrostatic fluid of the capsule is slowly killing my taste buds. Could it be that the nanobots, the cybernetics, and the life of a capsuleer was slowly rewiring my body to taste the stars and give up terrestrial food and such delights? The faint whir of the door opening breaks my reverie and I look up to see my second in command, entering. His jacket is unbuttoned and I can see the start of white ink against bronze at his collarbone in a half-familiar image of our people, but not enough to be sure of the design. "Captain," he says in greeting before taking a seat across the table from me. "Entohk," I
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