Well, shit. Warm beams of radiant light painted the planet-wide ocean with beautiful reds and oranges. The soft turquoise grass caressed Tomb’s shins and knees as it played in the sea breeze. He stood at the sea cliff’s edge, overlooking the watery expanse. He was finally here. His brain had so many thoughts to think that when he saw the ocean his mind just stopped. Like he had gone into mental cardiac arrest. Large waves crashed into the wall below giving a constant, calming rumble.

He was here. At this moment. Everything that had happened. Nine ecclesiastical months of hiding in a cargo hold. Years of uncertainty; family, duty, shame. The journey was over. Here. Hot tears started rolling down his face. He almost had a thought about stopping them. But that proved too much for his shorted brain to handle. So he cried. Watching a pristine sunset over rolling waters, burning his eyes but not looking away. Left in his own world, Tomb cried.

After several minutes dazed and a few moments spent pulling himself together, Tomb steeled his nerves and left the sunset behind. It was time for a new beginning. Who knows what the future holds?

With long, confident strides he made his way toward a sizable bustle of crowd further inland. People of all sizes hurried this way and that. Families called out to one another. Strangers attempting to find their way. Mothers trying and failing to coral their hyperactive children.

Hexagonal carriers with their angles facing outward unloaded groups of refugees throughout the grounds. Dozens of metallic feathers, each several hundred meters in length spiraled from the carrier tops. Tomb traced different vessels levitating from the ground to the main ship hovering in the upper atmosphere. Four great wings kilometers in length slowly shifted around ethereal winds. He still wasn’t sure how the smugglers managed to get real estate aboard that ship.

The Arc Guild of Commerce needed to navigate through endless red tape for the right to raise and maintain Seraphites. These interplanetary vessels were sentient, despite them being manufactured. Tomb squinted at the light reflecting off radiant wings, trying to see the strange body that housed crew and cargo. Once they reached maturity, these ships never touched the ground unless something terrible happened. Which usually meant the seriphite was dead.

Tomb, grunting in concession, moved on and started searching through the masses. He was a good head above even the tallest crowd member, and his eyesight saw the world in far more detail than was ordinary. Muted browns, grays, and burnt oranges covered the majority of refugee attire. Old, well-worn clothes. Trustworthy, and one of limited options. Despite that, splashes of color were added, often in the form of a braid, short scarf, or armband. Most appeared crafted by the refugees themselves; to pass the time on their journey.

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Ash-colored skin, an endless variety of eyes, and dirty, whitish hair dominated ethnic demographics. Antier blood. Tomb himself had the signature ash-colored skin. But his hair was red on the fringes and his height was unique. Lastly, his eyes held three pupils, black pits marking his bloodline’s magic.

While Tomb wore the same attire as the refugees, his presence couldn't have been more different. Long powerful strides. Straight back. He had a dark duffel bag with the strap slung across his shoulders and carried nothing else, at least visibly. He made his way toward the edge of the landing grounds, where the clearing gave way to a large backdrop of trees. Gnarled, twisted purple bark weaved around monolithic trunks, with boughs reaching far into the sky.

It appeared that gravity was lesser here than what Tomb was familiar with. But only the native substances of this world had a true connection to the planet's gravity. Tomb’s soul was still connected to the fortress world, which was in turn modeled after the capital. It would take years before he matched this planet's identity, succumbing to its actual gravity and not that of some far-distant world.

Tomb searched the treeline, his frustration beginning to mount. Just where are they? Despite expecting such, he was unsettled by the lack of communication between this planet and other civilized worlds. Tomb was supposed to be looking for a contact; his potential employer and one of the reasons he ended up at this specific destination. Unfortunately, Tomb had no idea as to his contact’s appearance. He assumed they would be here to escort him to his residence/worksite…

Or at least he had been told as such by the mediator, who arranged this trip initially.

Do I wait? Or ask around? Or… Off to his right, Tomb caught movement. Someone waved in his general direction, and as Tomb turned and made eye contact, the person smiled. Probably them? Tomb hurriedly made his way over, more details becoming apparent as he approached.

Snow white hair and ash-colored skin. A dark gray tank top tucked into baggy burnt-back utility pants. How are they not cold? The sea breeze made Tomb pull his orange jacket tighter.

They appeared female, with valleys of wrinkles and cracked skin giving tell-tale signs of age. She held a lazy posture, both hands in her oversized pockets. From a passing glance, she blended in with the crowd. But there were subtle differences. Her arms and neck seemed too well-toned. Behind lazy slits, her stark red irises watched Tomb intensely. A wide stance perfectly positioned her center of gravity. Well-kept combat boots came mid-shin. And she stood with her back to the woods, providing a maximum view of everyone in the clearing. As Tomb approached he made to speak.

“Hello, I-”

“Welcome, I suppose you’re Tomb?”

“... That I am.” She spoke with an odd accent; slower, with richer vowels and louder endings. Tomb instinctively reached for his identity crest but stopped halfway through, awkwardly transitioning into a handshake. The contact’s eyes grew even more narrow as she gave a knowing smirk, this one slightly more deliberate than the previous. She met his outstretched hand with her own.

“Yuri. Guildmaster of the Green Coshis. It's been a minute since we’ve had any potential recruits. Hope your trip was well?”

“As well as living in a cramped cargo hold with toddlers can be.” Yuri barked a laugh.

“Little shits didn’t do any harm.”

Debatable.

“Anyway, I’d like to again formally welcome you to Roscar. Backwater utopia. Or in the native tongue, rotworld. Paradise in purgatory.”