As Neyshak began ambling off towards his precious kitchen a thundering explosion rang out behind him which made the entire vessel shake with fervor, forcing him to stumble for several paces before the reptilian was able to catch his balance with a triumphant harrumph that he had avoided yet another catastrophic tumble. The slender cook glanced over his shoulder to observe how his crewmates had fared with the surprise, and unfortunately he saw the Captain laid out on the planks with the others around him caught in a mix of bewilderment and even fright. The first thing that cross Neyshak’s simple mind was the fact that he had stupidly left the cooking stew’s lid unclasped in case the pressure should build too high, and he knew for a fact that such a trembling in the ship would spill his stew’s precious contents all over the half-tidy kitchen.

With a shrill qwork the cook scurried off towards the impending doom which awaited him down below, sliding precariously across the floor planks as he clawed his way around each corner with nary an attempt to slow his speed. When the Ravein finally burst through the half-open entrance, sending the slamming against the wall with a deafening bang , a sorrowful moaned escaped his sorrow-filled face at the horrendous sight before his eyes. The pot had indeed lost roughly half of its contents, judging by the copious amount of vegetables, meat, and stew which were now splattered over the stove, wall, and surrounding floor. As the ship listed once again he also saw the large pieces of raw meat left to thaw flopping around limply across the floor, smearing its raw meatiness across every surfaced it touched and leaving a slimy trail to demark where it had traveled.

Neyshak’s mouth quivered visibly as his terror-filled eyes swept over the horrendous scene to the awaiting custodian, standing conveniently by the ever-so useful mop left in a cubby-hole on one side of the room. His head-fin erected itself precipitously at his stupidity as he set about fixing up his now disorganized work area. First he would start with rehanging the meat, making doubly sure it would not fall from its place this time, next he would toss out a few rags to wipe up the stew from the walls and counter to expedite the removal of the previously chunky goodness, and finally he would need to set about restocking the pot with new ingredients to replace those wasted by his stupidity.

This was yet another moment where Neyshak had to pay for not thinking clearly, but mistakes were good because he would always know what not to do after he made them. Hopefully he would never make a mistake he would not be able to learn from and use the lesson afterwards…

The Mediterranean Wastelands
Grenadier's Position - The Fray
Roussan Filondar - The First Mate

As noble and wise as Roussan could be, he still never had a grasp on how strong he was. If Neyshak had voiced his opinion on such matters, the hulking Ravein would be quick with his apologies. Fill your bowl to the brim and it would always spill. Keep sharpening your knife and it would remain useless and blunt. A man who practised gentility and kindness would persevere and know no bounds. His liquid eyes shimmered as he took in the battlements below, reflecting amber explosions and flashes of gunpowder discharging from trembling barrels. A few moments of stillness passed - a mock embrace of violence, almost romantic if you wished hard enough - and an electric shudder unceremoniously sent jolts through Roussan's heavy legs. Explosives glittered and speckled the abysmal sky as the Walker's and cannon's jerked backwards, lobbing projectiles onto the Decadence's deck. Upon the Captain's hast departure to the Majnun helmsman, Roussan readied himself across the iron railing to propel himself beside the flailing crocodile below.

Unfortunately, Roussan didn't have much time to propel himself from the Decadence when a winking flash of metal caught his peripherals. The reflecting glow of artificial halogen lights trailed an eery glare across it's aluminium body, then quickly dispersed into the smoggy environment. The Decadence was seemingly glaciated above the Walker's, it's nose tipped forward and it's deck's belying forward with it's deck's slightly tilted. Barvassi's commanding voice cut through the sound of methodical explosions. Bracing himself against the railing, Roussan's muscles bunched and corded through his massive arms and legs, readying himself to land off to Sharpclaw's left-hand shoulder—but, he was thrown bodily backwards by a strong gust of wind. It took him a few heartbeats to notice that one of the projectile missiles had splintered just where he'd been moment's before. Billowing clouds of dust swirled everywhere, obscuring his view. All he could see through the dust was flickers of metal, splayed across the upper deck and haphazardly displayed, covered by a layer of loose pebbles, splinters of wood and more wreckage. The concussive force drew bright colours in his vision, threatening to spill into florescent worms. A rumbling grunt escaped the corner of his maw; eyelids ponderously opening, then widening considerably. His heart froze in his throat as he gathered himself from the opposite railing, steadying himself with assured paws. Roussan took a step forward, pausing when the landscape around him shifted. It swam back in place after a few seconds, settling into the familiar wastelands.

The Bear took another step straight ahead, his leg almost folding under him. Ah—his limp. He might've laughed at the absurdity, if the effort hadn't been so laborious. The explosions loud hissing cry rebounded from his temples like a squalling woman. He waited a few seconds for the word to right itself again and tried another step. He felt something wet slide on his neck and pool in the hollow of his collarbone. He put his fingers to it and looked at them. It was red. Dropping his stained claws, Roussan kept on walking towards the fallen Captain. However, the Ravein's footsteps faltered. Aellai had already gathered herself beside him, tending to him with careful fingers, so he felt no need to bulrush his way forward. He would be fine. He always was. Sharp blunt pains vibrated down his spine, but he hardly paid it another thought. It was impossible for him to know that his back was a shredded mess of blood, fabric and shrapnel. Those pains were only distant drums reminding him that something was not quite right. And now, Roussan could focus on far more important matters. Brutish ears flickered, accompanied by a receptive nod. He had orders; after all.

A loud, pulsing, deep-throated roar crackled from Roussan's lips as he catapulted himself from the Decadence, throwing himself from the railing with explosive energy. The pain was still constant. But, it was still unimportant. His battle-cry seemed to echo across the wasteland's scape, ringing loudly in his ears. His body braced itself for the initial impact, absorbing and transforming it into a tight, albeit clumsy, tucked roll. Previously, Roussan had noticed a small, nearly unnoticed, explosion from a soldier's barrel directly below the Captain, Neyshak and the two Majnun's were gathered. From it's trajectory, Roussan had pinpointed where the grenadier had been standing—which had been behind metal barriers, nestled tightly against oil-spattered rocks. His fingers flexed, and curled, as Roussan propelled himself forward in a relentless, bullheaded dash. He wasn't particularly fast, but once he started running there wasn't much that could stop him. Flashes from nearby muzzles winked and disappeared, sending bullets hissing past his ears. An errant bullet caught his shoulder, sending tufts of thick fur and blood spattering in his wake.

Roussan's paw met the man's face like a bludgeoning mallet, with rusty nails. It sent him reeling backwards—firearm racketing off the rocks, and landing below the ramparts. A single chortled scream escaped his throat, then gurgled into silence. This didn't stop the Ravein's ugly rampage. He wasn't dashing forward like a simpleminded beast. Old soldiers always understood that your senses needed to be utilized to stay alive and well. So, the Bear's meaty hands collided with shoulders, faces, and throats whilst he bounded towards the grenadier in his steady, lumbering gait. Another throaty roar escaped him. He could see their eyes: wide, alabaster white, with trembling pupils. Larger Ravein's were a rare treat—it wasn't unusual to believe that all Ravein's were sleek and slender: of the avian, feline or canine breed. Not of the ursine or large reptilian flavor. Shortening the distance considerably, Roussan's roar curdled into a huffing growl as the slender man's fingers caught hold of his knife. Unfortunately enough for the soldier, this gave the Ravein enough time to clamp his hands around his throat and squeeze. Squeeze until the man's pale skin had turned a sickly shade.

“Sleep well."

Estelle managed to pull herself up and off the red-stained sand and into something resembling a crouch. The single greatest advantage to metal legs, more important even than jumping distance or running stamina, was the fact that they simply felt no pain, and didn’t fail just because the rest of her was encapsulated in a splitting agony reverberating from her back and ricocheting through her spine to lance into her skull. She focused on steadying her breathing and pulling air into her lungs in measured amounts, slowly increasing so as not to strain her newly- healed ribs, at least one of which had fractured upon the bullet’s initial impact.

Her eyes drifted closed, and safe behind her stone, she didn’t think to open them again until she heard the sound of movement off to her left. Her lids snapped open, gray-green irises scarcely visible due to the extremely dilated state of her pupils. She came upon the source of the noise almost immediately, and wondered how she hadn’t heard the approach of such a large person sooner. She knew she wouldn’t be able to move much yet (for all her legs could do, it was useless if she was still unable to keep her balance), and inwardly lamented her lack of composure.

The approaching person was obviously a ravein, which ruled out his belonging to the Sky Faction, but these other folk seemed to be pirates, and she no more expected them to have any kind of mercy than she expected the Emperor to just let her go without complaint. The shaking, which had receded to manageable levels with her efforts to calm herself, returned, and she attempted to stand, her flight instinct, ever unfulfilled, kicking in despite her torturous inability to satiate it.

If she’d believed in gods, she would have begged them to spare her what was surely to be a grisly death. As it was, when she straightened and had to place a hand on the boulder to keep herself upright, she despaired. To her shame, her overtaxed body and the adrenaline only now crashing her system, combined with the stress of what seemed to be nothing less than an impending demise, brought the ugly saline solution to her eyes, and she bitterly wished tears had some alchemical use. This was how it was to be, then? She was to die having failed so thoroughly to accomplish anything, unable to face it even with the dignity that Dmitri had managed? How very pathetic.

Caustic resignation tinged her sigh, and she reached for the chain about her neck, pulling it up and over her head. The Blank Compass still dangled from the end, managing to look both intriguing and insignificant at the same time. The smoky glass of its face glinted, and she looked the large reptilian directly in the eyes. “I don’t suppose you’d have the mercy to make it quick, would you? They wouldn’t.” It was clear from Estelle’s tone that she referred to the Sky Faction, but she was too sick with worry to consider making a case for herself at the moment. She wondered if he’d agree to take the damned thing and keep it away from them, but if it looked enough like a piece of loot, he probably would. They were pirates, after all. No need to tell him what it really was, right?




Rhys watched with something approaching respect as the vehicle Hollystone had targeted lit up like those firecrackers on Architect’s Day in the damn capital. The walker’s legs were torn out from beneath it, and the entire thing crashed to the ground, knocking over the one next to it in the process and crushing a few of the soldiers trying to exit. He could appreciate a little mass carnage here and there.

Unfortunately, this on its own was not yet sufficient to stop the launching of yet more bullets and explosives up into the air. A few richocheted harmlessly off the reinforced crow’s nest, but one whizzed dangerously close to Darco’s head. If anyone on the ground had any idea just how useful the monkey man was, they probably would have aimed at him consciously, but at that moment all he had to fear were the stray bullets from the less-apt markmen in the Faction.

Asherah was less lucky. Immediately after being knocked backwards by the gust of wind bent by their captain, she had summoned the darkness to herself, intending to blind as many of the enemy as she could. Unfortunately, she was standing too close to the edge of the ship, and had the extreme misfortune of catching a bullet right between the eyes. The darkness dissipated as the life bled from her, and she toppled over the side of the ship and to the ground below. The gunner, Jack, who had been at the starboard ballista rather than the portside one Hollystone and Shinyscales had been using, caught the bad end of a frag grenade, the rest of which bounced harmlessly of Aellai’s wind-shield. The cat-woman collapsed in a bloody heap on the deck, what was once her life-substance now seeping insidiously into the floorboards.

Of this, the Tempest saw little, busy as he was working his way into the swell of Sky Faction peons hiding behind their more armored vehicles. The fact that he was in a half-ruined mech and should probably not expose himself to all that potential damage didn’t really register with him. He’d always been a lucky bastard, and as it turned out, that was just barely going to hold true this time around as well. His night-vision equipment caught sight of a most peculiar exchange happening between the crocodile-man and the strangest-looking Factioner he’d ever seen. What gave him pause, though, was the object dangling from the woman’s hand.

“Well fuck me sideways,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Shit just falls into your lap, doesn’t it, Barvassi?” Carelessly using his mechanical arm to sweep five assorted goons into the side of their crawler, he engaged the communication equipment and shouted at amplified volume to Sharpclaw. “Hey, Shinyscales! Grab the woman and get her onto the ship, then tell Jan to get her ass in gear and move us outta here!” The rest of the crew was intelligent enough to know that meant it was time to get back on board or get left behind.

Sharpclaw pulled himself out of the fine sand and brushed himself off, keeping a wary eye on the woman the whole time. He would have to tend to his gunshot wound later, even though the thick, black blood was collecting sand and dirt. Hopefully it wouldn't get infected before he could have it professionally looked at. As it was, he simply wiped the excess blood from his side and back and gingerly poked around in the hole.

"Great. Three year I serve at th' mast, an' wha' happ'ns th' second I drop th' guards? I get bits o' me blasted clean out by some smooth-chin human wiv a big stick." He shook his massive head in wonder before turning his attention back to the girl. She'd been saying something about mercy and them, but he'd not really heard her very well. Probably going into shock, he reasoned. Sharpclaw shrugged his mountanous shoulders and approached the girl, calmly picking her up with one hand and tucking her under his arm. He would apologize about the lack of dignity later, after he saved her hide.

Rhys was yelling something to that very effect, so Sharpclaw waved a hand at him absentmindedly as he trudged around the combat zone. He reached the original sand crawler that he'd jumped off of and ground his feet into the sand, packing it for a more stable base. Without warning, the massive ravien crouched low and then immedieatly blasted off from the ground into the air, landing heavily on the roof of the crawler with a roll. He set the girl down and recovered his mallets, which he connected to his belt again, and signaled the ship for dust-off. A rope ladder appeared over the side and unfurled itself down to him.

"Shiny. Well, looks ta be that yer a lucky mot. Comeon then, we're goin up ta meet th' rest o' th' crew." Sharpclaw once again grabbed the small woman and began his ascent using only his legs and his free arm. Once on deck, he set her down as gently as he could and looked for someone in charge. The captain was laid up on the ground, with his green haired sister sitting guard next to him.

"Someone wanna get this heap movin'?," shouted Sharpclaw. "I think we need ta be pickin' up th' crew and get scarce!"

So drowned in drunkeness was the deranged bomber, he barely divulged from the din the shouts of his comrades. Crying in crazed delight, he cocked the hammer of Skylight, carrying the barrel over the edge to cannon several more grenades into the convoy. Barely aware of the situation below, he blasted back at the enemy until Jan's words finally processed through his brain. His head jerked slightly, his hands slinging the rifle to hover over the railings as he tried to calm his muscle spasms. Firing off several rounds, the first few flew wide, but as Hollystone calmed down the grenadiers and snipers met a fast paced finish. His heartbeat slowed, even as he heard the activity behind him. The Majnun madame was measuring maims and murders, trying to prove mastery over her stomach. Aren always thought she appeared and acted soft, especially airy in this arid environment. A movement below marked the marksman's expert eye, noticing Sharpclaw and Roussan on the Mediterranean wastelands. A young girl was glued to the gigantic skippers, and Aren gripped his gun tighter in an effort to give generous covering fire.

Shaking himself from his last bits of insanity back into control, he realized that his actions did not have benefited the entire crew as a whole. Had he controlled himself, and shot the snipers and grenadiers before they did so much damage, perhaps the shipmates Aellai now mourned would have lived. Perhaps the ship wouldn't be so scorched and the side wouldn't need so much repairs. A self-loathing scowl spread across the sniper's face as he loosed shot after shot upon the convoy while the ship prepared to set sail. The scowl grew to form a slightly disgused grimace as he continued to pile more and more guilt and blame upon himself, and decided that afterward he'd seclude himself back in the soldier's quarters as he usually did, the careless oaf he was. If Hollystone had a reason to hate working with others, this would be it- his usually breezy or quiet demeanor would be shattered if a comrade perished. A stray bullet screamed past Hollystone's horrendously burn-scarred left side, causing him to flinch away and lower his gun for a moment, before raising it blinding and taking a intuitive shot. The soft round roared straight back toward the gunner, splattering what was left of his right arm across the ground. It was getting to be quieter now, since he had taken care of most of the harassing Grenadiers with his own gun. It wasn't with it's own challenges, but while most snipers flinched under heavy explosive suppression, Aren reveled in it. He obtained an unnatural high from watching things go ka-boom, and became almost fearless in the sight of it. Shrapnel littered his right side, bleeding quietly the entire time Hollystone was blasting away. It was nothing to him, just a consequence. Adrenaline numbed the pain, and obligation to avenge fallen comrades caused the bomber to ignore what was left.

---

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence - The Mast – The Crow's Nest
Bryan Darco- The Monkey Man

Bullets plinked and plonked off the Monkey's nest, sending the poor lad flinching back hoping that his defenses were enough to withstand the stray attacks. Even as the explosions stopped, and he dared look over, his eagle-like vision did not fail to catch the odd exchange going on near Bearman and Crockshock's location. Even then, he took note of Tailor's own struggles and how he brushed them off with his own skills to meet up with the other two. The fire had been drawn now to the bulk of the ship, stray shots few and far inbetween. Hopping over the side, he blazed his way down the ropes quickly, vaulting over the railings and into the area of the upper deck, where he motioned to Jan about the situation below. It was a quick message, merely stating that they had picked up some odd cargo and that they might be pulling out soon. Odd, but it was how the Monkey Man perceived the signs. Pushing off the side, he maneuvered back down onto the deck where he quickly looked over the railing for any sign of the Dark Mage, Asherah. Finding none and deciding she was as good as dead, he quickly cleared the distance between the railing and the next corpse- Jacqueline. Observing Aellai's quiet mourning from a distance, he decided now wasn't the best time to be demanding that the pretty little tea-party needed to be broken up. They were still under attack, and they were still standing up on deck having a nice time. He decided get back to observing the battlefield for incoming reinforcements, to measure some sort of timeframe for them to be leaving. He didn't particularly like the notion of leaving comrades behind if an armada was only miles away, but the Monkey Man didn't go so far to join the Asura just so he could be captured and return to being a legless cripple. Gritting his teeth, he flung himself at the ropes and began hauling himself up in a random pattern.

The menial tasks of cleaning the kitchen and preparing more food to be cooked may seem tedious to the majority of the crew, but to the reptilian chef it was near enough to meditative and therapeutic in nature to merit a modicum of respect. Not to say the filth in itself did not bother him, in fact Neyshak had numerous problems in concerns to personal hygiene and cleanliness, and needless to say that spilt food and uncooked meat disturbed him to the very core. Indeed he often had to clean up twice just to make sure that everything was as clean as he preferred, and on this occasion he nearly went over the mess a third time for all intents and purposes, but the presence of the dutiful janitor helped to assuage his discomfort.

Despite his discomfort at the mess however, the congenial cook still managed to find much happiness in the routine, and the escalation of his fin was a very obvious demarcation of his current temperament. The intriguing physical feature even began to flutter, just visibly, to indicate he was indeed as jovial as a buzzing bee. Another clear indication of his cheer was the fact that he began singing an odd little ditty which he had learned from where was anyone’s guess, but despite the quirks of his speech the short verse went something like,
“Ohhh weeeellll!
De monkey wrap hisss tail ‘roun’ flag pole
‘N washed de grasss grooww ‘roun’ his ash-pole!”
More often than not he used the peculiar song when watching Bryan climb around the mast and crow’s nest. He never sang it to agitate the monkey man, but he never quite could tell with the pirate whether he enjoyed or despised the ditty. Anyways Neyshak never really cared much to question the little man what his thoughts were on the subject.

Upon finishing the necessary tasks to restore order to the disrupted kitchen, and taking extra precautions this time to make sure that such calamities would never again befall the kindly cook, at least not for the nonce, Neyshak once again performed his mandatory self-congratulation ritual. Without paying much heed to Naga, which was not uncommon for the ravein due to his rather absent/simple-minded state, the cook decided it was best to discover what became of the raid upon the Skyfaction caravan, especially when considering the fact that the explosions had ceased sounding off for some time now. After a moment of deep contemplation at how to go about his perusal of the crew’s business, well as deep as that contemplation might be, Neyshak headed out of the kitchen towards the front of the ship.

As the cook began happily bobbing down the corridor with his eyes half-closed, head-fin fluttering rapidly, and repeating the strange tune for some odd reason he unwittingly ran into his much larger fellow reptilian counterpart on the crew, Sharpclaws, as he was holding a rather diminutive bundle of something. No sooner did he speak up to hurriedly apologize as he recognized that the huge crocodilian was carrying a small woman, and the nice green lady spoke up in her rather half-commanding way, “’N washed de….ooooohhhh, I’s ssorry….”

"Sharpclaws, please take the girl and Dee to the inner cabins. I leave them to you."

Neyshak paused in wonderment upon discovering that the incapacitated woman, if she was not a child, was covered with fascinating tattoos of symbols he had only seen used by few people, and indeed some were similar to other markings upon his cooking box in the kitchen. A sharp grunt from Sharpclaws had quickly plucked him from his bedazzled state however, and soon the much smaller reptilian began sprinting off down the corridor in hopes of finding an empty room with which they could house the poor girl. As he neared the end where the hallway T-ed off a sliding scurry nearly sent him tumbling into the wall, but quick reflexes allowed him to kick off the impending speed bump and catapult onto the wall on the opposite side, and finally twist around back to land on the ground.

Just then a non-illuminated doorway sprouted into his view, and the squirrely being hurtled towards the opening with a vengeance, just to discover it was merely a supply closet. The cook’s disappointment was palpable as he heard Sharpclaws lumber down the corridor to his position. Luckily when Neyshak tried the door neighboring the supply closet on its starboard side, or was it the portside, he could never really be sure sometimes with the layout of this particular ship, but the heavens deemed them fortunate as an open cabin showed itself, and just in time as his enormous counterpart loomed nearby.

”Ova hea’, ova hea’, iss emptyss!”

Well, that had been rather different than she had foreseen it. Further proof, perhaps, that there were still many things Estelle needed to learn about the world. Rather than being impaled or beaten with something or other until her life bled out onto the cool sand beneath her mechanized feet, she was lifted and tucked under a large reptilian bicep. Not having much in the way of time to react to this, she was merely able to blink rapidly a few times in a comical caricature of astonishment before the man’s legs bunched beneath him and she was sailing in the air.

Literally, now, for they had landed upon the deck of the pirate ship. She was opening her mouth to… well, she wasn’t exactly sure what she was planning to say to all this, but as it was, she never got the chance, for the ravein’s raspy baritone sounded above her, something about getting a move on, and it wasn’t long before more people seemed to appear out of nowhere. A furred man was hauling ropes up with haste and a strength completely alien to her, and someone was firing a gun or letting off explosives or something, and above all of it, a rough woman’s voice was muttering a string of obscenities.

“Yeah, yeah, you say that like the ship can just steer any which way… I swear, no finesse…” But the young woman was not to hear any of the rest of the helmsman’s rant, for she was soon brought indoors, where yet another ravein, this one lizardlike, was rushing ahead of them, apparently trying to find a spot for her to be placed. It briefly dawned on her that she could not be certain if the nature of this search was for a guest room or a prison cell, but either way, it seemed she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“Um… you can put me down now,” she pointed out in a small voice to the one carrying her. “It’s not like I can really go anywhere, and…um.” Ending that sentence probably wasn’t necessary, was it?

Either way, she eventually found herself in a fairly-spacious room, alongside the two scaled men and someone with enormous mechanical arms. He appeared to have been injured, though he wasn’t bleeding excessively. Blunt force then. Concussive? Perhaps, he was most certainly no longer conscious. Ignoring for the moment the odd nature of her predicament, she scanned the room until she found a small inkwell atop a desk and went for it, grasping it delicately in one gloved hand and a quill in the other. The avian spent a moment in quick contemplation before deciding that technically, one of this man’s comrades had saved her life. Might as well go as far as she could towards returning the favor, right?

Trauma concentrated in the head, so… dipping the quill in the inkwell, she pressed the tip to the unconscious man’s forehead and began a circle, repeating the process several times until she had a transmutation array drawn in ink above his brows. It looked kind of silly, she supposed, but that was a small matter next to the fact that this would help repair any internal damage. Touching the circle, she created the characteristic flash of blue-purple light, and stood back.

“Mmm… he may not wake up for a while, but he should be fine now, I think.” So saying, she dropped like a heap of stones to the floor, completely drained herself. The darkness that overtook her vision just before impact was a blessedly-welcome kind of peace, given all that she’d endured recently.



Right on time, Jan had turned the ship so that it began to gain altitude, and the crew, true to their training, all grasped onto the ropes that had been thrown overboard. Rhys was no exception. Though he might have preferred the delightful carnage, he was not stupid, and did not much fancy the idea of being left behind.

Roussan was quite strong, but Rhys wasn’t counting on him to haul a fifteen-foot mech up, and so directed Tempest to climb, hand over hand, up the rope and onto the deck. Taking care that nobody was in his way (the one time he’d almost squashed Neyshak, Barvassi had had words for him), he maneuvered the machine into a crouch and opened the hatch, climbing out of the cockpit with some difficulty due to his bum leg. Someone, he couldn’t see who, was dragging the captain into the cabin area, presumably because he’d been injured.

It didn’t happen all that often, but certainly wasn’t unheard-of. Rhys did a quick head-count and registered that they were missing Asherah, Sharpclaw, Neyshak, and Naga. It was most likely that the last two were below, but he wasn’t sure about the majnun woman or the gator-man.

Roussan seemed to be preoccupied for the moment, so Rhys made his way to the helm, where Jan was busy steering them away from the Sky Faction, apparently feeling just as cranky as usual. He said nothing, well-aware that the woman was quite capable of doing her own damn job. Indeed, it wasn’t long before they’d disappeared into the sky.

Turning back to what crew were still on deck, he yawned quite openly and waved his hand lazily. “Right… everyone go eat or sleep or whatever it is you do. We’ll be in the sky for a while yet, might as well take advantage of the fact that the Architect doesn’t have anything fast enough to catch us.” He shrugged, posture slumping, not terribly aware of how odd he looked, leg still bleeding sluggishly, face spattered with someone else’s gore, and seeming for all the world as though he might just fall asleep right there. Still, when the captain wasn’t around, he was generally heeded. Technically, Roussan was next in charge, but Rhys wasn’t exactly sure where the bear-man was at the moment.

While hating to take orders from a Majnun, Sharpclaw didn't know if the woman he was holding was injured or not. As a precaution, he followed the diminutive Neyshak down the hall at a leisurely saunter, taking care not to squash him beneath one of his gargantuan feet. Sharpclaw had to keep checking to make sure he was carrying her still, because she was so light. When they arrived at the empty room that Neyshak procured for them, he set the girl on her feet again. The croc felt exhausted, after fighting to stay conscious against the blood loss. With a dull thud, he sat heavily on a barrel in one corner of the room, crushing it and sending potatoes tumbling into the room.

"I'll jus' take a sit here...Af'r all, I's a bit dogged after all th' fun," commented Sharpclaw to no one in particular. Just as he was about to fade out, his bullet wound started to itch like crazy. Glancing down tiredly, he noticed that it was closing up on its own. Sharpclaw scanned the room in confusion, but once he noticed that the captain's sister was tending to everyone, he closed his eyes again. The gator didn't have enough energy to say anything to her, let alone complain about her magic.

Sharpclaw closed his eyes for a moment, but in actuality slept for about an hour or so. When he woke up, he rubbed his stomach and got up, lumbering into the kitchen to see if Neyshak could feed his grumbling belly. He brushed his hand against the wall as he walked, feeling the texture of the woodgrain, and the occasional roughness where he'd carved a bird. Sharpclaw had been a part of the crew for a long time, so the bird carvings were in pretty much every part of the ship.

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence - Upper Deck – Wheel
Jan : The Sky Dragon

Jan was angry. Not quite furious, but not at all pleased. The only reason she was not saturating the air at the moment with angry mists was the echoes of Barvassi's words coming to mind. He said this would be a lucrative venture. That the payoff would be immense. Then again, Jan thought with a shrug, Barvassi said many things. After a few minutes of spewing harsh invectives at nobody in particular, the majnun calmed down. Without having realized it, Jan had been clutching the wheel in a death-grip ever since Barvassi went down. Her arms felt like slabs of rock on bone.With one last curse, Jan forced herself to ease up on the wheel. The flood of blood leaving her muscles provided an indescribable level of relief.

Too much had gone wrong this night. Given, the crew was not the elite by far, but nights like this were uncommon. Why hadn't the captain hired a couple mercenary ships to take the brunt of the- "Oh hell."

Jan, sulking at the wheel over her battered love--the Decadence, not Barvassi--Jan cut the thought short. That musclebound twit was barely keen on dividing loot, much less allowing a substantial portion of it to go to some no-name sellswords. This was not exactly the truth, Jan knew, but she liked to believe things were this way. In actuality, she probably disliked sharing money more than Dee did. The true reason that the human did not often ally himself with others was either one of two things, Jan surmised: either trust or pride. It was not hard to imagine that a pirate would turn on another in order to increase their share of the wealth. That was the most logical reason to refuse aid. The second, less objective and substantially more foolish reason--also the most likely, she noted--was the issue of pride.

Ever since meeting him in his younger days, Jan knew that DeVargo was a romantic. Not the flowers and sunsets type mind you, but the storybook hero sort. The man that pictures piracy as riding in at full sail to steal treasure from the paws of some inherently evil power, maybe shag an inexplicably horny wench while you're at it. Therefore, it would not do to ride in with assistance. A foolish notion, Jan thought, but a part of her never stopped loving that about the man. "Oh damn..." Jan glanced around, noticing that the deck was mostly empty, save for a few crew members that she had no desire to interact with. In her eyes, she may as well have been alone. It was nights like this that DeVargo and that shrew he called a sister would spend topside, making idle conversation under the pretense that they needed fresh air. The fact that Jan was often a part of these conversations was mere coincidence.

Not even the Bear, or Hollystone for that matter, was present. Rhys did not count. Under no circumstances would she speak to that green-haired little bastard unless it was to admonish him. He caused Jan no end of grief, scraping, scuffing and denting the below-deck areas with that metal monstrosity of his. The worst part, Jan noted with a scowl, was that he was a damn-fine pilot. It stood to reason that the only way he would be doing any damage to the Decadence, no matter how superficial, would be on purpose. "You're lucky we require your strength, whelp," she growled to the lad a few feet away, "else..."

Jan let it go at that. The ship was listing to the right a bit too much, and the majnun righted it with a slight adjustment to the weights below. Besides, threats were beneath her, no matter how real. She took a deep breath in an attempt to clear her head of the hot, angry blood that clouded her thoughts, but was rewarded with a bitterness that she had not been expecting. Aside from the night air, the taste of blood came as well. Not just any blood, as that was fairly normal. This batch bore the acrid tang of chemicals woven in with whatever creature was bleeding. Immediately recognizing what could only be the refreshing taste of Hollystone, the majnun focused once more on the sky ahead.

She did not care at the moment. She cared about the condition of her ship. Jan would have a lot of work to do once they docked...alot

It wasn't until the caravan's smoking mess had faded to but a speck that the gunner had abruptly lowered his weapon, his dark eyes never leaving until it disappeared over the quiet horizon. Darkness' cloak had thrown itself over the land in full, and even as Hollystone finally turned to kick some empty shells over the edge through a hole blown through the side by an explosive. He grunted as it strained his side, wounded from the vicious shrapnel that left various pieces of wood and metal lodged into the flesh. It had been bleeding for quite some time, but thankfully the shrapnel had lodged itself and kept the wounds from bleeding openly. They had long since clotted over, which would mean more pain since Hollystone would have to rip them out.

Rising his downturned gaze, he saw Aellai providing some quick first-aid before bringing a newcomer on board. A girl, so it seemed. Well, it was to be expected, but why a girl? Didn't Barvassi promise the rest of the crew riches and supplies and guns? Hollystone never cared for that- rather, he did not allow himself to. The only reason he was here was because Jan and Barvassi saw his talent and went through a ton of pain to break him out of prison. He was here at their pleasure only, and nothing else. His cynical gaze turned back down toward the deck itself, gently pressing his clothing as quick padding as he quickly moved out off the deck and back into the Hired-Gun's quarters. It felt a lot emptier now, despite the fact that nobody really lived in the quarters except for Hollystone. The Azura can't afford to be hiring every strong man around, can they? Might have an Imperial sneak on board.

He quickly pulled the first-aid kit from the wall, discontent to continue having shards of warped metal and broken wood infect his body. Taking a pair of tweezers, he quicky began pulling out the pieces, padding his waist so that blood would not stain the floor or his bunk. He dropped them into a small container he had at hand, prepared to simply dump them over the edge when the time came. He flinched every time he had to reopen a wound, luckily there was no serious injury and that the wound was superficial. Nothing like the burns that cover the entire length of his side, which followed him ever since his accident. After he finished, he quickly swiped an alcohol pad over it to sterlize it as best he could. The pieces had been lodged in there long enough, so Hollystone could not assure that he hadn't been infected with something but it was the best he could do. Wrapping a more official pad around it, he tested it out and smiled slightly when it stuck fast and did not leak. He wiped and cleaned off the tweezers and replaced the kit, as well as taking the container of shrapnel and putting it away for later. He quickly moved to the lower decks, checking up on the others. After glancing in briefly, he confirmed that those who he didn't see dead were all right and walked away.

He was back on the deck at this point. Walking back over to the destroyed ballistae, he knelt down and assessed the damage. Completely irrepairable, the explosive round had torn off an arm, ripped the table to shreds, and knocked the hold containing the bolts to god-knows-where. Luckily, the string was still intact- the arm was weaker than the powerful treated flax, and thus kept it's hold while the arm broke away. Retrieving it before it came loose, he quickly walked up and down the ship, assessing the damage from all sides. Looking up, he didn't see too much damage to the roping or sails but felt that it should be reported as well. While everybody else recuperated, he decided he would have to do as much as he could so they could rest with a clear conscience. As well as to earn his board and bread. Quickly moving up to the Upper Deck, he moved toward the wheel where Jan, one of the very few that relied on him at some point.

"Madame, report. Large damage to the port bow, mostly to the upper center in the form of various explosive rounds. The ballistae is completely destroyed, though I managed to scavange the string itself, and there is some scattered holes along the sails and roping due to bullets. Some of the piping burst as well- I'm not too sure we should be using the shitter any time soon." He said concisely, saluting wearily.

---

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence - The Mast – The Crow's Nest
Bryan Darco- The Monkey Man

Even as the battle roared to it's climax, Bryan found it extremely difficult to give information. The rounds made a din so loud, the crashing drowned out his attempts to contact through the tubing that connected it to the Wheel, and climbing out and down in the middle of a bulletstorm was nothing short of suicide. Shrugging slightly, he realized that his part was about done anyways. His last quick glimpse over the side revealed no incoming enemy forces that he could see, and that the crew was handling themselves pretty damn well. He stayed in the crows nest, even after the bullets zipping by became less frequent and more faint. It was too many a time that he saw idiots walk out assuming they were far away enough before taking a stray bullet to the gut. Not fun business, especially when he was so far out of everyone's reach. Can't be too careful, the crows nest was a precarious place.

Grinning, he hoisted himself out to the ledge, observing the ship below. The poor thing was torn up pretty badly on one side, as it circled the caravan to allow gunners to keep up covering fire without having to have them run across one side to the other. He watched as everybody walked toward the the under-decks, patching up wounds and assessing what they did manage to take- which by his eyes seemed to be a colorful bag of supplies or a person. He couldn't tell, and suspected it was riches as there wasn't much reason to take aboard any Imperials. Never talked, and when they did they never had anything useful to say. It was a pain just killing them after months of hard work. Not to mention distasteful. He threw himself over the side, grabbing the ropes and began clambering down. Sweat laced his back and soaked his clothes, the physical exertion of climbing many stories high taking it's toll on the tempered Monkey man. Spinning around the edge of a network of ropes, he flipped to the other side and landed on the deck. Unfortunately, while off the ropes his artificial leg was loud and clunky, despite his agility. Walking downstairs, Darco admitted quietly that he made enough noise to rouse a land wurm from a slumber. Turning down the halls, he quickly made his way over to where most of the murmuring and noise came from. Bursting into the room, he eyeballed the room. "So, what do we have for loot? You guys ain't taking my share this time." He declared, suddenly aware of somebody unfamiliar. And no loot.

"Ugh." he groaned, softly this time as he crossed the room and sat down. "What's this then? " He asked Roussan, gesturing at the girl. He wanted to ask Crocky, but the big Ravein had already moved away. Probably hungry, or had to poop, or didn't like sleeping with everyone watching. Bryan didn't particularly care.

Everything that had happened after Neyshak procured the empty cabin occurred rather hurriedly, and for such a slow-minded creature as the Ravein was they had gotten rather confusing and quickly. First of all Sharpclaws had carried in the small woman, whom Neyshak had assumed was unconscious, but was obviously wrong when she stood on her own two feet quite readily, who decided to start working some of her voodoo whatchamacallit on the Captain. That was another surprise, seeing the giant, metal-armed man knocked smooth out the fragile little girl was bright and chipper for the moment, they have a word for situations like that but the cook simply could not put his finger on it, they did escape him so easily.

If Neyshak had been more intelligent, observant, or generally quicker with his thought processes he might have noticed the rather precarious position the tiny woman was in after completing her ritual, but alas he was not gifted with such traits in life. So instead of leaping to prevent her from falling to the ground, as any gentlemanly or heroic figure would he supposed, he simply stood there and was amazed when her head bounced off the planking as it had. There was simply dreadful business all around in retrospect. Luckily for them all that the Green Lady had come in when she had to rush to the girl’s aid, and make both him and the Croc appear dim-witted fools nonetheless.

As the Green Lady attended the little woman she inadvertently began mumbling to herself, something that seemed rather inherent to most of the crew members, or not it was hard to tell sometimes, and Neyshak caught tidbits about big words like “mechanical” and “composition” of which he had very little knowledge concerning what she meant. He did, however, understand he quite plainly when she asked for him to tell any other injured crew members to go to her. So, with a clear and simple goal in mind, Neyshak did not need to stand about twiddling his thumbs anymore whilst important things needed to be done.

Like the scurrying and fretful creature he was the cook quickly set of down the hallways of The Decadence towards the upper deck in hopes of finding any injured crewmembers. Well not really hoping to find them injured of course, that would just be plain-old cruel, but at least hoping to find them so he could help. By the time he had arrived though most of the injured sailors had already been discovered and tended to in some form or fashion. Unfortunately though, the little creature ran right into Mean Green as the man seemed to be dolling out orders to everyone else.

Needless to say as he bowled the somewhat larger, and much more intimidating, man over Neyshak decidedly flipped out over the incident. He was not exactly on the best of terms with the malicious fellow, in fact he distinctly remembered the man nearly squashing him with his giant contraption one time. In hopes of not incurring the fellow’s wrath the reptilian Ravein decided his best course of action was to “disguise” himself, but this naturally included grabbing the man’s coat quickly and wrapping it around his blood-stained face just so he could hopefully have enough time to dash off before the vindictive creep could decipher his appearance. Maybe not the best course of action for the cook, but it was all he could manage in the short amount of time this unfortunate circumstance occurred.

Naturally he knew the best course of action would be to run for the kitchen with all due haste and pretend nothing ever happened. The man might not believe any feeble-tale he could weave, but it would definitely be better than admitting the truth to Mean Green. If he was at all fortunate the man would forget about everything that happened and have his anger sated by a delicious bowl of stew, yet Neyshak is not an individual most would consider fortunate.

Apparently he had at least half a good idea though because as soon as he returned to the kitchen people started drifting in looking for a bowl of stew and a piece of bread. If he couldn’t do anything else right he could at least manage to ladle stew into a bowl and slice bread, well most of the time anyway. After the better part of an hour most of the stew-consumers had drifted in and back out with delightful smiles and full-bellies, but some of the stragglers were forced to sidle up against the walls as Sharpclaws trudged down the narrow hallways, that is narrow for his massive size at least, and requested something to eat. Naturally Neyshak pointed his ladle at half of a cow hanging up in the corner which had finally defrosted. It had been sliced into several sections beforehand so the little creature could put them on the hooks in the first place, and with any luck the dirt from earlier had either been washed off or dripped of with the melting frost.

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence - Kitchen
Naga Neroli : That Janitor

Ahh, he felt like a proud, Goody housewife. One of those ones who had wistful, daily dreams about her entire house being clean, with her short blonde curls done up all pretty with the snappy things. Hair pins, maybe. They would have red flowers on them. Naga tucked the as-of-now grimy rag in his belt, and ran his thumb over the surface of a counter. Squeaky clean. Goody good. He took hold of his mop once more after applying a second coating of chemicals to the floor, and a whistled tune danced about the culinary vicinity. Neyshak had been singing a little ditty earlier, too, come to think of it. Interesting number. Later, the majnun would have to ask for those lyrics again, and perhaps ask Sheran Sheran to make a concerto of it. Maybe they could even form a band. How exciting, laughed Naga, as the tendrils of the mop slithered about the floor.

Just as he began picking at a reluctant corner (how long has it been since he's cleaned this corner? There was a cobweb! Could Neyshak have adopted a pet...?), he heard a bit of tromping. Clicking toenails. Ravein, no doubt--too much weight in the footsteps to be the cook. Naga paused, folding his hands under his bristled chin as he leaned on his instrument of cleanly justice. An eagle, perhaps. Jeffrey. Or was that the name of the cabin boy? The hulking silhouette soon entered; it was the crocodile. No one else had such a remarkably shaped nose. "Shiny!" quipped the Janitor with an amicable flutter of sausage fingers, "Good evening. Doing well, then?" Such a wonderful name he had. Naga wished he could be called something so literal, like "Horns with Ridges and One Appears Broken;" "Horny" for short.

"Stay well, friend, be careful not t--" Shinyscales soon was surpassed in speed by scuttling company; the hasty return of their beloved finned lizard was a bizarre one. Naga could barely recognize him even as he squinted without his shades. What was that dark shape engulfing him? Last he checked, the cook did not have any such obscene growths. Naga may have some ointment for it, and he will have to keep in mind to check. In any case, for the moment, Naga was preoccupied with waltzing out well of Neyshak's way. "--oooo, careful, Neyshak... And. The rest of you." He stood well aside for the rowdy row of ants (though none were actually ant ravein, alas) as they filed in and out, individuals and small groups at a time. It always was like this after a battle, wasn't it? Just like in his youth, when he would play outside and get hungry quite soon after. He never had to return to a slippery kitchen, though....

Welp! Ought to go clean up that deck. Because they weren't boarded (as far as he knows), the bright side was that he wouldn't have to scoop up any corpses and their messes.

As everyone went about their business, Rhys chose to do… well, pretty much nothing. The affair, such as it was, rested entirely outside of his hands now, and he didn’t much care for the details of the retreat-and-repair segment of pirating life. Instead, he was perfectly content to let his eyes wander lazily over the deck and then out into the sky beyond. You’d never guess it if you knew him, but he’d once been the kind of boy who was always looking out at the horizon, imagining the adventures to be had beyond a meager existence in a swollen slum in the Architect’s second city. Nowadays he mostly thought himself disabused of such idle, gossamer-winged fancies, perhaps not for the better, but irrevocably changed all the same. Only idiots wished for the past to be present again, and only dreamers dwelled overmuch upon the future. He was no longer either.

Somewhere to his side, Jan’s general waspish muttering had directed itself at him, but Rhys only smiled, in a way likely to infuriate. “Why Jhanjhavata my dear, you shouldn’t say such things. Someone might come under the impression that you actually care about the rest of the crew.” It was clear that she disliked him with vehemence, perhaps even hated him, but this was not something that concerned him. It meant that he didn’t have to bother attempting civility, and every once in a while, she said something clever enough to amuse him. His use of her full name, flawlessly pronounced of course, was designed to provoke if possible, as he was rather terribly bored already. If it didn’t work, he might bring up the large scrape he’d put in the hull on his way down to the fight instead. That would definitely do it.

Unfortunately, his efforts (if they could be called efforts) to entertain himself were cut short by the approach of Aellai, and he frowned as she inspected his face. He was not overly fond of proximity, and remained perfectly still. If it had been entirely his choice, he would have said something extremely rude and left, but she was Barvassi’s sister, and that warranted more patience than he would otherwise have shown. So instead, he glared through narrowed eyes when she actually touched his face, and stood stock-still like a good little soldier as his leg was mended. Her comment, however, was met with a derisive snort. “Worry about someone else- it does me no good.” He wasn’t convinced it did anyone any good, but he held no illusions about changing her nature as she seemed to have about changing his.

Testing his mended foot, he re-engaged his neural impulses there and was able for a while to resume his staring off into space. It occurred to him that he was a bit sleepy, probably due to the engagement, but it hadn’t been that severe, all things considered, and he for now ignored the feeling. Nobody else was yet out here with sufficient authority, and so he would remain. Not that he’d ever admit that was his reasoning.

He caught the approaching Neyshak out of the corner of his eye, but decided he was too lazy to move and avoid the collision. When the creature lost his small mind and started panicking, however, Rhys was forced to shrug out of his coat or else be dragged along behind, and he crossed his arms with clear irritation. “Lovely,” he muttered to himself. He’d get it back later, when he collected outerwear from the rest of the crew for repair.

---

Two days later, the Decadence came within range of Cassim, a well-known (and suitably ill-reputed) hovel of a city. The polluted, rusty light lit the inky darkness around it, illuminating in oranges and reds and ill-fated browns the sprawling, haphazardly-stacked metal sidings of the shambling boroughs. Wires were slung, drooping, from one tarnished tenement to another, the clothes hung between them arguably dirtier in the wasteland wind than they had been before submersion in reddish water. No small wonder that ale was the primary liquid of consumption around, as the large number of pubs would testify in raucous permanence.

It was a city of thieves, the downtrodden and the slum-kings alike, but it stood long outside the authority of the Architect. The dirt beneath his feet, below his notice, and not at all opposed to that. The people walked with a kind of stubborn swagger in their steps, from the serving-girls at the taverns to the enriched crime lords in shady back rooms. Ravein and humans mixed freely, without much regard for who was what. It all looked kind of the same under a layer of oxidized dust.

The Asura were not unknown to the citizens here, and as the grandest pirate ship in the world pulled in and docked at the edge of the commerce sector, a few walking in the streets glanced up and smiled to themselves. Those pirates were always damn good business.

Even as the majority of the crew was released for ground leave, Roussan, Jan, and Rhys were asked to remain behind. It seemed the captain and the strange girl had both awoken, and the five of them would be having a rather significant meeting.

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence - Upper Deck – Wheel
Jan : The Sky Dragon

A particularly well defined epoch in the life of Jhanjhavata Sola'cori was in her eleventh year of life, when she was introduced to the Fourty-Seven Treatises. As with all those born in the higher castes, Jan was required to have at least a basic knowledge of the lesser races and how the majnun have interacted with them in the past. One of the first things the younger Jhanjhavata noted was how often these creatures bickered over disputes that an adolescent would handle with grace and poise. Humans and Ravein tended to focus almost solely on what made them different, unique, and created pariahs and heroes out of those that stood out more than others. The closest to this obsession with minutiae that majnun society achieved was the division of castes. Even then, it was rather clearly defined; Lowborn are infernal beings built to serve, midborn are the closest that majnun come to resembling the lesser races, and the highborn are the purest manifestation of elemental force bound in mortal coil.

As the years dragged on, these differences ate at Jan. It was clear that most every highborn is aesthetically pleasing, but why was this so? So, she studied. Symmetry. Soft features. Curves. Musculature. Scarring. So many things began to alter Jan's perception of people that she developed tastes in who she consorted with, much deeper than simply those of your caste or wealthy families or friends of mutual benefit. It was when Janjhavata arrived on the surface that she stood witness to an even greater difference: race. A completely new avenue of study opened up with that discovery, new sub-categories in the ever expanding tastes of the exiled majnun.

Then, there was Rhys. The self-styled "Tempest" that so often grated on Jan's nerves. Jhanjhavata smiled--a gesture devoid of warmth--at the boy's lovely majuni accent. The charmer he could have made, had he been born a male of her race. She would have been lying had she said that she was not attracted to him on some physical, loathsomely primal level. At the moment, and many moments preceding this one Jan would have loved nothing more than to tear those lovely eyes from their sockets.

"Ah, young master Wilcox," Jan said without looking at him, "How I do enjoy your wit so. I will enjoy it further when we are discussing the matter of repair costs," her voice oozed with cold familiarity as she uttered the last words she could stand to speak to the little cretin this eve, "I have a feeling you loosened the mooring shafts in the gunnery deck with your comings and goings. Again/"

Speaking of cretins, Hollystone decided against making himself scarce for once and delivered a fairly professional report. Until he mentioned the lavatories, in any case. Jan pinched the bridge of her nose and bit back a curse directed at Aren. He was a useful tool, the closest thing to an ally that she had on the ship, but it was never safe to assume someone would do something foolish out of spite. Especially someone as unhinged as this one. Jan glanced sidelong at the young marksman and could not help but be reminded of some sort of vermin. He simply had that sort of face. Not trustworthy, but not someone that you would immediately discard. Jan twitched when she realized that she was not wholly repulsed by the thought of-

"Fucking Hollystone," she said not quite loud enough for Aren to hear, "Thank you, Hollystone. Remind me to look for some ply-metal sheets when we get to port. We should have enough money to afford some extra protection in addition to the repairs," in truth, Jan could hear her wallet screaming; any excess augments to the ship would come out of her own pocket. Jan regarded her fellow saboteur with an appraising look, "How would you feel about a gatling gun? Starboard side?" it was only a thought for the moment, but it would provide a much-needed increase to the ship's destructive potential.

Jhanjhavata abruptly turned to see if Rhys was still on deck. Against her better judgement, she had need to speak with the wretch one more time. Instead, the majnun tapped a few buttons and adjusted levers on the console. The prow of the ship parted the air with silent ease even in it's wounded state. They were facing northwest now and accelerating steadily. Jan opened up the broadcast system.

"First Mate Filondar, Scholar Neha, Wilcox, report to the deck at your earliest convenience." Jan watched the radar for a moment, confirming a ping to make sure she was heading in the right direction, "Given the state of the captain and our ship, I have set course for the nearest city: Cassim. Confirmation on this course of action is required."

---

Cassim. Jhanjhavata scowled at the ruddy sight and wrinkled her nose at the scent of rust assailing her nostrils. Thieves, tramps, and not one piece of metal in the whole place that was devoid of rust. None that would not cost five times less anywhere else, in any case.

She hated Cassim.