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OOC Note: Rogue is the author, Jean is the beneficiary.
Sleep might not come easily on the high seas or the skinny, uncomfortable bunk that smells unpleasantly of sweat and boiled wool. But those scents chase the descent into sweet oblivion, where oblivion is not.
She dreams.
Something moves in the deep. She can see it, but no matter how loud she shouts, the only sound produced is crackling static. A boat floats in the water. Twining ribbons burst out of the sanguine sea. They vastly exceed the size of the long gunmetal grey ship and wrap around the hull, effortlessly crushing the steel into a crumpled, twisted shape. The behemoth rolls out of the deep, never showing its body, but she can read letters on the boat before it sinks beneath the bloody bright water and the word is Faith.
Curved neat tiers rise in ranks above her, a hemisphere occupied by faceless soldiers. Knights. Helms are down, their tabards in many colours. Few wear the exact same shade or pattern, They hold weapons of every kind in their gauntleted hands, hilts and blades and hafts twisted in scarlet cobwebs and thicker ropes. The same material weaves around two nearly mummified people sitting back to back in high chairs. Fibres move over their mouths, muffling the panicked noise coming from them, barely heard, and the Word is Vigilance.
On a seashore, they play: children in grubby clothing, wet at the hems, stained by dirt and sand. Waves drive along the pebbled strand, foam rolling around their feet as they dance in prancing circles. The tide floods holes dug into the ground, forming a murky moat around a misshapen pinnacle of a sandcastle. Two or three children kick at it while others slop handfuls of wet material on. They sing their raucous chorus in high, shrill voices, and the Word is Havoc.
Thin blazing strands halo the sliver of the moon viewed through an icy windowpane. Her breath freezes in hoarfrost patterns, obscuring much from sight. Weak light simmers through cracked casements onto a flagstone floor, revealing broken pews and an ancient block of stone covered in a writing she cannot understand. Fallen dusty goblets and an empty bowl glitter. In the cracked remnants of the church, a hooded figure rises from one knee to both. The cloak sweeps in motion, darkness pulling starlight to its shining surface. Converging chains snarling his wrists and ankles rattle their melody, and that lone, rolling note is Revelation.