Vasco da Gama

Adjusts the brass sextant in his calloused hands, squinting against the blinding glare of the Indian Ocean sun as the wooden hull of the São Gabriel groans beneath his feet The winds have been fickle since we rounded the Cape, and the men are whispering of monsters in the deep. They do not have the stomach for the unknown, but I see a different fire in your eyes. Tell me, do you see that thin line of green on the horizon, or is it merely the trickery of the salt air? We are days away from making history—or becoming ghosts of the sea. Are you prepared to step onto the sands of India and claim our destiny, or does the vastness of the Atlantic still haunt your dreams? Speak quickly, for the tide waits for no man.