The Western Rift of Mortal.The sleek sloop cut through the water, rain beat against the hull as its occupant fought to keep her alive. Reidwych grunted as he secured the mast. The maelstrom raged, but perhaps only an iota left. He checked his compass. The needle jittered, then stalled.
"It's stronger," he muttered.
He should have been approaching –
Everything darkened. His head whipped up.
A massive wave of water, scraping the stormy sky, it eclipsed the world.
His compass needle now spun with fervor. He looked up.
Closer now, Reidwych could make out the formation's features through the chaos.
There was no wave, rather, a static wall of water towering high despite gravity. It undulated, pulling water up through its structure into the sky.
In return, a dead zone formed around its base. A gaping moat of absence. The surrounding ocean fell from the edge into a bottomless darkness, to rise on the other side. Forever filling but never filled.
Reidwych did not change course.
He moved. At the bow, he closed his eyes, and steaded his breath.
…
It was time.
The rain struck him, icy, fierce. Water beaded from his hair, dripping down his face. He stood firm, letting the sensations fade from mind.
Breathe in…breathe out.
A shift–
The air suddenly felt heavy, palatable with electricity, followed by a sharp metal taste.
Bolts of lightning struck meters away, the shockwaves would deafen ears. Large waves attacked from all directions, though this time, Reidwych's mere glare broke them.
The maelstrom's fury had rapidly increased, as though suddenly realizing the threat he represented.
Too late–
His gaze fixed on his goal before him–the obstacle in his way.
With a cry, he thrust out his arms and pulled.
All water trembled.
The ocean surged around him, around his vessel. Enveloping everything, yet forming an airtight shell.
The wall of liquid refused his call.
Reidwych roared.
He shaped the shell into a bullet, and the speed rose.
It wouldn't be enough. He pressed the water, the shell froze solid.
Faster
The bullet skidded on the water's surface. Punching straight though waves.
Then it flew–crossing the moat with graceful ease.
Before slamming into the blockade.
Reidwych staggered. The icy hull nearly shattered around him. An incredible pressure sought to crush…everything.
In that split-second Reidwych foresaw himself obliterated, vanquished like pityful vermin.
He met force with force. For a brief moment he strained to match the anomalistic power.
Only for a moment.
The bullet passed through the wall, safely exiting the other side.
It was then that it broke.
Only within the structure, did the forces acting the ice cancel.
In an instant, the shell atomized. Powder.
His ship, fortunately, was intact. It landed with a hard splash.
Reidwych drew a deep breath as the vessel stabilized. Recovering from the ordeal.
But little was left to be done, he gazed out.
The ship was caught in a vast orbit of liquid, gently moving along its current. The wall of water circled the grand whirlpool as far as the eye could see. Enclosed into a dome. The atrium offering serene respite.
Yet everything pale to what lay at the center:
It was a brilliant jewel.
There, everything flowed around the Sphere's heart, a perpetual pooling of tide. The Gate shone with blazing light, soft as a lighthouse cutting through night, bequeathing the sea beautiful contrasts of grey and gold.
He leaned forth, holding the edge of his vessel. Gentle sea mist carried on the wind, whipping his hair. The breeze swirled around the expanse, drawing him closer.
From the sphere, an echo, a whispering song. Subtle, indescribable; Reidwych weighed its soft texture, its sacred homophony, its promise of something immeasurable.
He smiled, and waited.
The hull groaned as the ship touched the light. The Gate pulsed, the radiance to drown out all noise, and for a moment everything stilled. The raging water, the wind's gale, and even his heartbeat.
Then, in an instant, he passed.
Reidwych fell, and saw himself falling. Into the great whirlpool, The sea swallowing him whole, the water bent into a tunnel boring through the world. His perception flashed, as direction lost meaning, there was no up or down, nor left or right.
There was only ahead–
Into flowing water comprising the adit. It shimmered, and he thought to touch it. But lacked any form. He had no hand, no arm, no body in this surreal in between. His perception began to accelerate, everything forming into a blur of motion. For a moment he thought there was another. A vague man reflecting in the water alongside him, in the likeness of himself , but not him.
He opened his mouth. Naming himself, he was called "Cl–" —the sound never finished.
A Chime rang. All liquid briefly rippled, everything turning white.
Reidwych coughed and woke. He was lying on his vessel, The Sky stretched above, an endless, eerie blue-green. He stood, looked out.
His ship was adrift, miles from land. Ahead, a mountain range spanning the entirety of the horizon. Their features curved and bent upward,the peaks breaking into countless islands defying gravity. A multitude of color filled distant land. Bone-white rock faces, and blood-red leaves punctuated by towering trees of royal blues. All in the backdrop of the sea-green sky.
Reidwych laughed at it all. The magnitude and wonder, now he of the few who held another realm in sight.
He closed his eyes, remembering the linger of the whispering song.
He had reached it—Kambo, the Mutant realm.
(Except from 'The Gates' by Great mage Reidwych, Circa 101)