Pilgrimage

When the boundaries of space and time were first opened up, the old world believers were the first to go. Into their vast ships they packed their entombed saints, encased in stone, their treasures and scrolls and relics of the past. The body, the people... the very life-blood of the church, flowed out and into these steel vessels by the thousands.

They called it a pilgrimage. The great migration. They had no destination. The voyage was to be led by faith through the valley, until fate landed the holy caravan on their new earth upon some far shore. Each new days' coordinates were delegated by the interpretation of dreams by their holiest men.

Of all bodies of faith in all the earth, this was the longest standing and largest in number, but long had it been since they had any investment in it. For generations they lived without any thought of this world. Their hearts and minds dwelt only on some other life. They claimed this world was meant to die. That there was no saving it. That it was not worth the mourning.

And so their day had finally come, after a century of planning the exodus was set. With a final call for the unsaved peoples of earth to repent to a god they had long forgotten, the towering arks vanished one after another after another.

And the lost peoples of earth were left to bring into salvation the broken pieces of their dying planet as best they could.