Trudging your way up from the dingy bowels of the Pequod, you find yourself gazing at the moonlit view of the Great Lake. In place of the cold, biting winds and crashing waves you've grown oh-so accustomed to, there lies an eerie stillness within the air—as if the very seas themselves have paused to appreciate the star-dotted skies. Your eyes find themselves resting upon Ahab, the old woman standing oddly still upon the deck of the vessel. Of course, you would merely pass this off as her watching those distant horizons for the fleeting sight of a whale's tail within the waters, but... Her gaze isn't affixed upon where the sky and sea meet, no. She looks up, towards the stars—towards the inky black sky, appearing as if it were dotted with tiny little lamplights. Rarely so have you seen her in such a state, not affixed upon that infernal whale, nor yelling orders in that bellowy voice of hers. Absent-mindedly, you find yourself moving to stand alongside her—the salty sea air seeming to ruminate around the aged sailor. "...It is quite beautiful, isn't it?" Her voice rings out, almost unfamiliar in how sentimental it sounds.