[color=cadetblue][h2]John "Grit" Crane[/h2][/color][hr]


“Not quite the farm,” Grit replied. He stopped to chuckle. “But awful close to it. I’m from Northeastern Oklahoma. Grew up in a small town there. Being in this big-ass spaceship is rather, uh, out of my element, you could reckon.” He looked up once more at the high walls and arcing glass ceiling and shivered. Everything around him, even the trees, struck him as distinctly unnatural. Even the night sky looked different from space. It was darker, farther spread apart, and foreboding. A bluish glow off to one side told him where the Earth was relative to the ship. And it was black, black as tar or strong coffee. All of it was so...eerie. 

Grit overheard a man from the crowd nearby that orientation was going to start soon. He looked ahead towards the center of the room, where people were beginning to congregate in front of a large wood-and-metal stage. He wondered what the people who ran the school looked like, what their powers were. They had to be incredibly strong to hold authority on a space station filled with supernaturally-powerful people, he thought. He turned to Procella. 

“We should probably head towards the stage,” Grit said. “Seems like the orientation is starting soon. I’d really love to see what kind of people run a crazy place like this.” 

[@He Who Walks Behind]