The distant sky yawns with cumulus Catastrophe clouds. Into the storm sinks the sun, casting its inauspicious afterglow across Rhodes Island's deck. Like parched blood. Scorched earth. You turn to go, back into the ship. The course ahead won't be smooth.

Finally you notice you're not alone on the deck, not at all. You have a visitor, just a single one. You don't know when she got here, nor do you know how long she's stood behind you, there on the spot. Only now have you seen her, the black-haired Sankta.

You walk for the ship's interior. You see inauspicious light reaching to creep across her face. Her expression is as placid as ever. You've heard tell that she has no emotion. But you see her, and it's as if she's smiling. You recall that same smile of hers, that day beneath the spotlight.

You see the bow in her right hand, placed to the strings fingered beneath her left. You recall the reason she came aboard.

Bow caresses string. The first note lingers in your mind. She's forbidden from performing, especially to you. You're not at all prepared for this. It's too late.

But the music abruptly stops. It ends. The Sankta doesn't continue. You find you've already walked up to face her.

"Doctor, I'm not going to perform you. Not aboard Rhodes Island, at least."

The Sankta lifts her bow away. Upon its wooden tip, there rests a pallid, sparkling cloud, like newborn ice, a flower bloomed from nowhere.

"But performing this cloud should be fine, at least, shouldn't it?"

Clad in jet black gloves, the Sankta offers it forth. You take the white cloud into your hands, turn your head to see behind you, and the sun has set. The Catastrophe clouds have woven a blackout canopy.

"May this new journey be plain sailing." Her piece said, the cloud flickers and scatters into the night.