"Born of water, there is fire in her veins."
- 6th of Ymiden, 716 Arc
Hera had been called to the port in desperation. There had been... a tragedy. Thinking her mother had been injured, Hera had rushed from their tiny shop at the crack of dawn and sprinted to the docks where her mother slept. The humidity and warmth of the morn cause a sheen of sweat to clutch to her body and her curls were erratic and wild. Fear clutched her heart and when she reached her destination, her eyes searched frantically for the one person that mattered the most to her.
A small gathering of Biqaj hovered around their docked ship and turned to Hera when she arrived. They had been whispering in angered tones, and shook their head in sadness. When they saw her, they separated and the reality of everything set in. On the deck was a woman on her knees, sobbing and Hera knew it was her mother. Around the woman were tatters of a sail that had been shredded with what looked like a sword or knife. Red paint had been strewn across the deck, and for a moment, Hera feared it was blood, but the acidic smell set her straight. She took a step forward, seeing the door to the cabin had been ripped off its hinges and she didn't have to go inside to see that it had been ransacked. A few older women -- friends of her mother's -- hovered around the older Biqaj, whispering words of reassurance and condolences.
Hera's heart sunk, and she boarded the vessel. Gwynthera raised her face and even in the dim light, she could see her eyes were bloodshot and pained. She said nothing, only returned her gaze to the pieces of paper that were clutched helplessly between her fingers. Her mother slowly released it, revealing the sketch of a young man - her father, and perhaps one of the most valuable things on boat, not by price, but by meaning. One of the last remaining memories.
The redhead was silent for a long time, taking deep breaths to control the fury that threatened to burst free, "...Who did this?""
No one answered, but another sob racked through Gwynthera's body.
"Who?" Hera demanded, her voice raising, and she whirled around to those that gawked. They shook their heads or remained silent and the mask the young woman wore began to melt, "Biqaj on every corner at this port, and no one saw a thing?" It was like talking to a wall. Some muttered, others adverted their gazes and Hera scoffed at them. Disgusting.
"Our ships are our souls and look what they've done! What of our retribution!?"
She didn't think they would answer, until finally a man, perhaps mid thirties took a step forward. His facial hair was scruffy, and patterned with salt and pepper hairs. A stern expression, he tilted back the hat her wore and crossed his arms, "Aye. I saw them. I know who did it."