Slipping from the arms of Kasterborous, Rassilon’s little shuttle flanks the ruby orb of a giant red-burning star, then cascades on those solar winds toward a most interesting and unassuming area of space. The screen is flashing the words of the destination he’s just input, like a long-abused wound. He’ll look in a moment. He already knows what it says.
And Rassilon smiles as the telepathic conduits clutch and wind the continuance of his intention with arms of logic and mechanism, like the reactant, reaching confines of a metal uterus about to expel.
The womb no longer holds him, and he knows it, finally; relishes it even, as his little ship sounds its quiet way through space.
Like a great nocturnal bird, he trumpets through the dark, waiting for morning as he hurtles softly to the former lair of the despot cousin, another creature of the night.
The screen reads:
General Specified Disembark Location: Kasterborous: Exact Specified Through Location: Charged Vacuum Emboitment no. 54667: General Specified Destination: Exo-Space: Exact Specified Destination: the planet Perpetuua: Sub-Destination: the wreck of the Hydrax.