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Rybi Trantim - Damascene Moment


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The ability to evoke unique, alien, yet relatable moments and paint them with emotion and imagery so clear and pure in our mind's eye is a mark of a gifted writer. Just one more of the many notorious talents of @Jo Marshall

Well done, girl!

((N’amiu’s Garden, Darime IV))


The garden, sloping gently down to the divine mountain steam, was usually lovely in the evening. Lines of vacca shrubs ran down the centre, while a tangled yucca copse surrounded the meadow on either side. As the seasons changed, the leaves took on a blazing brightness, with dancing reds, bruising purples, and oranges that made the mouth wet. Silence reigned supreme throughout the fall months as leaves dropped from the trees to be renewed by buds in the spring.


The opulent verdure of the meadow delicately balanced against the encroaching darkness of the distant stars in the indigo sky as the small Pelian woman trudged through the waist-high growing grass. Long strands of the misty evening brushed against the inside of her hand as she swished it back and forth. Geosmin aroma rose from the sodden earth after the storm. Prayers wandered from her lips as she whispered the tenets of their faith to the moons shining above. 


Tomorrow, the dawn would rise. 


That night, the stars were a scornful, silver reminder of the beautiful and the scattered Pelian people. 


She coughed into her palm. Red spittle, the tangy taste of life-giving fluids. Age was the eternal equaliser.


Kinless and kith less, the Garden was all she had left. Family long since moved on. 


Diaphanous mist rolled in over the meadows and arches, dewdrops of the rain long since seeped into the ground. Intertwined trees simmered thoughts of her partner, long since committed to their religious practices for the route of the dead, and how he would welcome her with open arms into the next life. 


She moved as if she were a spirit, cane in hand, swaddled in graveclothes. Eerie quiet shrouded the garden, imparting an otherworldly sense to the natural beauty all about, swathed in its miasmal patina. A divine magnificence entrusted to their care. A gift given by the gods of past and present. In dreamscapes, a marvel of everlastingness.


Slabs of polished stones lay in the thicket of a clearing beside a wizened eethrolia tree. Sitting down to rest her withered limbs and weary legs, she looked into the distance. Rolling mountains emerged like the spined back of a young tasita. Spring would breathe new life into the valley. Leaves would become a flourishing green once more. Animals would frolic in the pastures. Pelians would still make their pilgrimages to the sacred site for centuries to come. 


Closing her eyes, the old woman conceded the spiritual plane to seep into her old bones and frail, wrinkled flesh. She drifted away into an infinite sleep as a somnolent smile played across her lips. 


The garden, sloping gently down to the divine mountain steam, was unusually lovely on the evening Rybi Trantim passed into eternity.




Rybi Trantim

Old, Sick Pelian


As simmed by


Lt. Commander Jo Marshall

First Officer

USS Gorkon, NCC-82293


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