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The moon had disappeared a few hours ago, taking with it the bright resplendent glow of daytime. Night was now fully upon the caravan and the wasteland over which it traversed, cloaking everything in what seemed to her a fulminating darkness. Even her eyes, sharpest of her senses and perhaps the last vestige of her family’s blood left to her, had difficulty seeing too far ahead. Not that it mattered now; she was holed up in the storage compartment of a shipping vehicle. Was expectation thick in the air, or was that simply her mind playing at poetry? Estelle didn’t know, and at this particular moment, could not bring herself to give it much thought.

The driver of the large, trundling terrain crawler coughed, phlegmatic and sudden, and she started sharply, narrowly avoiding smacking her elbow against the wall of the compartment. She froze in place for a moment, thinking that perhaps the worst had happened and she’d been given away by her own foolishness, but from the lack of response, he must not have heard anything. Resisting the urge to let out her bated breath in a gust, she instead exhaled quietly as she could, and her heart resumed the tense staccato it had temporarily ceased. A small hand tightened around an object about the size of such an organ, only round and with internal workings even more complex.

The face of the item was nothing to look at; indeed, the smoky glass was devoid of any noticeable features at all, for the present moment. The rest of it was a burnished copper color, not unlike the piping one might see in more complex buildings in the sky-city. For all it looked mundane, she truly believed it was the single most important thing she had ever held, and that was a significant statement coming from a person who’d visited the vaults of the world’s largest library and handled relics of the oldest recorded ages.

Estelle chewed her lip- her position in the storage compartment was uncomfortable, wedged as she was in between crates full of the Sky Faction’s spoils, but what she was really struggling with was the fact that she had no plan beyond this point. It would have been impossible, of course, to formulate one, as she’d not known when she’d actually find the object among the various other valuables stored here, and timing made all the difference in such a situation. Though she knew it wasn’t helping matters, she was also about as frightened as a rabbit in a trap, and it was interfering with her ability to think. This act- really any of the acts she’d committed in the last three days- constituted an offense punishable by nothing less than a public and humiliating death, and she was not such a fool as to think that the Emperor would never be able to find her. The Emperor always got what he wanted, in the end. If the last years had taught her anything, it was that. She would simply have to hope that time was on her side, that she could do what needed to be done before he did.

---

Unbeknownst to either the rogue alchemist or the driver of the vehicle she was hiding in, a large pirate vessel was even now homing in on their location. From above, it was obvious from the number of headlights that the target caravan consisted of ten vehicles, perhaps four of them armored crawlers and the remaining ones swifter-moving walkers, carrying perhaps Sky Faction soldiers. To be sure, this was an unusual arrangement for this far out in the wasteland, hence the extra guard. Rhys watched from his position at the prow of the airship, fingers drumming absently on the railing as he peered into the darkness. All that was visible from up here were the head-and-tail-lamps of the ground-bound machines, but he knew his tech well enough to guess what was going on. The radar hadn’t lied- this was going to be one hell of a confrontation.

The slow smirk that spread across his face signified his unhealthy delight with this proposition, and he straightened abruptly, making his way down a couple flights of stairs to the hull of the ship, where idled his own little piece of tech: a bare-bones mecha, well-polished ebony metal exterior glinting in what little artificial light illuminated the space. A few uttered words were all that was necessary to engage the main systems, and after a pause, he initiated the night-vision equipment as well. He’d been given the go-ahead to drop in whenever he damn well felt like it. The more concentrated attackers would be focusing on the crawler in the center of the formation, as that held the piece of loot DeVargo was after, but quite frankly the pilot was less intent on that and more on the thought of being able to tear through Sky Faction peons at will.

Within mere minutes of this rather delightful idea, he was settled in the cockpit of his machine, hands encircling the controls. Cracking his neck, once to the left and then to the right, he spoke the command to open the hatch, creating an exit into the air. The drop was at this stage one of about fifty feet, and chances were they’d be spotted pretty soon, even as dark as it was. If he wanted that little extra element of surprise, then, he’d have to make it quick. Even as she ship began its ambush descent, Rhys directed Tempest out the hatch, plummeting at reckless speed to the ground below.

---

No more than thirty seconds later, the driver of the vehicle Estelle was in, a middle-aged man of some girth, was squinting up ahead at where one of the escort vehicles appeared to have stopped. “What the hell?” he muttered darkly to himself. “Don’t these idiots know we have to keep moving?” He peered through the murky gloom, straining to see something. Moments later, he swore at a higher pitch than was perhaps strictly masculine and ducked in his seat, covering his head with his hands even as a large chunk of metal careened into his windshield, cracking the glass into spiderweb patterns.

Over his communications radio, the sound of the lieutenant’s voice crackled. “We’re under attack! All units, ready your-” the words were abruptly cut off, and Marcus the contract transport specialist snorted. That’s what you got when you relied on military types, wasn’t it?

“No shit,” he replied, reaching down for the clockwork rifle wedged between his seat and that of the passenger, currently empty. There were situations where you really just had to do things yourself, weren’t there? Marcus figured this was one of those situations. The only kind of person who knew better than a soldier how to deal with a pirate (because really, there was no way this was anything else but a fucking raid, now was there?) was the kind who had to beat them off constantly, which is exactly the kind Marcus was, being in the business of moving expensive stuff from one place to another.

Estelle heard the crash and swallowed back the urge to vomit from sheer anxiety. There was no telling what was going on out there, but maybe, just maybe, this would be the opportunity she needed.

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

This was it. After nearly a month of petty jobs and boredom, the crew of the Decadence finally had some real work. Suffice to say, the blue-skinned woman at the wheel of the ship was excited. The halcyon air about her belied a tempest of anticipation that whirled around inside of her head. It was not the way of the majnun to betray themselves so blatantly with emotions as the lesser races did though, so she stood erect and focused on steering the Decadence. Jhanjhavata Sola'cori, Jan to most aboard the ship, glanced at the control panel to the right of the wheel and nodded. A small red light was flashing in a rapid series of blinks and pauses of varying intensity. Visual Morse code for "Descend".

As Jan modified the positions of several engine and ballast levers, another light near the wheel switched on. The bay doors were opening. Jan picked up a small brass horn, one that linked to several others across the ship via a complicated tubing system of human design, and spoke into it. The communication was currently keyed to the hold specifically. "Rhys, remember, as the sole mech-pilot of the crew, it would be prudent to exercise a level of caution when-" Jan scowled as the bay-light winked out. The doors were closed, and that boy was most likely whizzing through the night sky like a bat out of hell. With a sigh, Jan told herself to remember to 'forget' to give the boy his full stock of lubricant.

The ship's bow was dipping slightly as the Decadence knifed through the sky. Jan considered, for the briefest of moments, ramming the bowsprit of the Decadence into the hull of the target walker. The thought faded away in a wistful gust as the majnun thought about how much that would damage her ship. That only works in novels and plays anyway, she thought sadly. Still holding the brass-speaker in her left hand and navigating with her right, Jan began her announcement. "All gunners and boarders, be aware that the target will be located port-side. I repeat, the target will be located port-side."

Over the muted sounds of the ship, Jan could already hear the sounds of the caravan stirring and rousing it's defenses. Jan rolled the wheel of the ship and allowed it to descend until barely fifty meters separated it from the large walker that held DeVargo's treasure. "To arms, to arms, all pirates just. In to their bellies, your cutlass thrust. Should their attitudes for boarding be crass..." Jan finished the rhyme with a whisper and another turn of the wheel, "leave him a corpse, and rape his lass." it was merely a good luck charm, an anacronism that belonged in her past. Still, Jan could not help but feel that it attracted the favor of some god of piracy.

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decandence - Lower Deck - Starboard
Sheran Sheran - The Rhapsodist

The wind whistled mournfully around the Decadence as the crew drew closer to the caravan they were supposed to be robbing. The ship had been lowering itself steadily for a good while now, and the crew bustled with excitement. All this fell on deaf ears, however, as Sharpclaw Shinyscales stood at the balcony and stared at it in concentration. He'd been engraving a bird into the hardwood and he didn't want to move until it was complete. Just as he was putting the finishing touches on the eyes, that hateful Majnun announced that they were close.

"Always when I be in th' middle o' an importan' taskin', we's gotta be raid'n. Ne'er durin' a time when we's got somethin' borin' goin' on er nuthin." Continuing to grumble, Sharpclaw strapped himself into the huge ballista on the side of the ship and activated the winch, which slowly lowered him over the side so he could have a better shot at his targets. Taking a bead on one of the escort walkers, Sharpclaw blasted a five foot long bolt at it with a shout. The huge projectile slammed into the side of the vehicle and startled the driver, but otherwise had no effect. Wasting no time, the croc grabbed the sling and dragged it back into locked position, slamming another bolt home and ready.

"Chew on this, y'wee puttock!" he hollered and fired the bolt at the walker, aiming for the driver. Just as he was about to reload again, misfortune struck. Sharpclaw had forgotten to cinch the belt tight enough around his waist, and the recoil of the enormous ballista popped him loose and he tumbled into the darkness. Without a counterweight the ballista raised itself back into the ready postion, as if he'd never been there. The next few seconds blurred for Sharpclaw, but when he finally became aware of his surroundings, he found himself lying atop one of the enormous sand crawlers. There were several troops surrounding him with weapons pointed, but no-one fired. Probably because they thought he was dead.

Big mistake, lads. Nary a cove exists what can do more'n scratch a scale 'r two on my hide, jeered Sharpclaw in his head. Without warning, the massive gator began to thrash and bite at the men, flailing his large clawed limbs and tail.

The ship moved swiftly, sailing across the skies without so much as a stutter. This was important to the hunched man in the corner, identifying a small vial filled to the brim with a strange powder. Muttering something inaudible, the man moved the vial over to a small stand where he capped it quickly. He licked his lips as he did so, smiling as he twisted the cap shut. A nondescript wooden case held all the vials, which is where he placed the container next and secured it with a latch. The check was complete- the liquids to his left had evaporated slightly, but that was to be expected- the last time he didn't seal his bottles with waxpaper well enough. He handled the case gently, sliding it back into the little nook next to his bunk. The reason he chose that was because of the storage space- slightly larger than the rest of the bunks, most of which unoccupied. He took the metal oblong shapes from his bed, hefting them slightly before attaching them to his grenade belt. He always kept several on him at all times- it kept him from going crazy with paranoia. The key to the charge padded on his chest was well within reach as always- and it never left his body, ever. He nearly banged his head when the ship shuddered slightly and he jerked his head up.

An attack? Nobody told him these things. Well, nobody knew him well enough. Despite everything, Aren Hollystone- the Mad Bomber was a reclusive man. His attempts to make conversation were awkward enough due to his years of solitude and solitary confinement mashed together into one large mass of social deprivation. The slight shudder must have been Rhys Wilcox- the mech pilot that also sew clothes. It was a familiar shuddering, much unlike the violent shaking as flak cannons exploded around the ship during an attack. He grabbed Skylight off his pillow, which smelled slightly like gunpowder, and opened the chamber. Taking a grenade, he fitted it into the gun and closed it, cocking the large hammer with a grunt. Slinging it around, he grabbed his rifle just as a familiar voice ordered him to move portside. Easily the farthest from the action at that point, he did a quick check to see if he had everything. Finishing up, he picked up the night-vision goggles and wore them around his neck. No sense in tunneling his vision now.

Hustling, he hardly had to move a few meters before he heard the sounds of hard fighting. Though it seemed like confusion to Aren, he had faith that his employers had a better grasp of the situation than he did- and all he had to do was blow things up. That's what he always did, and just thinking about it gave him a thrill of pleasure. Storming up the steps, he reached the deck and quickly moved port-side. A caravan- an impressive one to be exact. He looked to his right- Sharpclaws the Ravein shooting the large ballistae attachment. However, lady luck had other plans for the gator-man as he was launched off. Running over, he leaned over the side of the ship and donned his goggles. Thankfully, Sharpclaws had landed on the caravan and the guards presumed he was dead. Using this opportunity, the gator-man began attacking them- but they all had ranged weapons. Raising his long rifle, Aren cocked the hammer and loaded a six shots in with his nimble hands. Without hesitating, he brought the gun over the railing, taking precise aim. A loud bang resounded, and a soldier behind Sharpclaws was blown off the caravan- flesh scattering the top as the soft round fragmented in his body and destroyed his insides. Cracking the lever forward, the ejected soft shell didn't get to hit the floor before the second shot was fired, all but tearing another soldier's leg off. The man lost his grip on his weapon, flopping to the floor where he struggled to get up and fire his gun. Slinging the long rifle over his back, he decided to take over Sharpclaws' former position.

The ballistae was something he wasn't too familiar with, but he had fired a bow, crossbow, and repeating bow enough times to know how it worked and how to aim it. Laying a large bolt on the table, he cranked the winch back until the string was safely behind the latch connected to the trigger. Securing the belt tightly to his body, he took quick but careful aim. Releasing the bolt, Aren's entire frame shuddered as the Mad Bomber watch the bolt sail away into the night, headed straight for an escort walker. Sliding out, he loaded another bolt, mumbling the entire time about the lack of explosions. His body was wired, almost dangerously so during battle, and it took a lot of concentration for the Mad Bomber to be using quiet, accurate weapons. Despite this, it came extremely easily for him to aim the weapon. It was almost as if the trajectory pattern was already laid out for Hollystone, and all he had to do was arrange it to intercept an object and pull the trigger.

---

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

It was blustery as hell, dark as hell, and cold unlike hell. Sometimes the ex-athlete debated becoming an infantryman so he didn't have to sit up in the cold so much- but then again this was one job only he could do. The youth perched against the edge of the large basket like a bird, the powered goggles scanning the horizon for any threats of targets worth mentioning. The guys up top had already picked their target already- it was his job to alert the guys down bottom for any reinforcements incoming. Nice, safe job if your enemy was dumb- the smart ones start lobbing cannonballs and arrows at the crows nest to avoid communication of intelligence. Something the young man had to get used to very quickly- he was almost fearless now in that sense, though the more proper term would be desensitized. He looked down at the caravan that the ship rapidly approached, unaware that demise was about to rain down upon them. Grinning, he swung himself around the mast, looking around for any units that might have gone unnoticed- such as the rear guard or scouting parties.

With none in sight, he was about to call in a confirmation to attack, but a echoing voice had reached the small speaker on the Crows Nest, connected by a long tube going up the mast. Janny was getting a little too excited at this point, but then again he had caught Blackbot moving about with his black mech earlier. The goggles had really helped identify the mech pilot's black cyber suit in the darkness. Bryan would love to go down there and start pummeling people, but he had a job to do- and that was to keep watch and not die like a bitch. Checking the battlefield again, he saw Sharpclaws fuck up and get launched onto the caravan. Giggling like a maniac, he hopped over the nest, hanging on the ropes stories above the deck and even higher above the ground as if it were nothing. All that matters was that he was sure of his movements. If he was sure, he didn't have to worry about heights and falling. Climbing lower, he moved to observe the battlefield itself at a closer distance. In the initial stage of an ambush, incoming reinforcements was more of a trivial matter- as it took time for the forces to get there. It was then where the Lookout moved a little closer, picking out potential threats from a position that was almost bird's eye to the battlefield. Though Crocshock had been surrounded, his surprise attack and Bomberboy's covering fire had proved to be a effective. He couldn't catch sight of Thunder-Arms anywhere, but he was sure the brutish guy was somewhere punching the snot out of some soldier.

Shrugging with one shoulder, he clambered back up the ropes easily and hopped back into the nest to observe the landscape around. His nest was heavily personalized because he spent so much time up there, complete with snacks courtesy of Raptorchef. A very heavy bedroll, one made to withstand cold and keep users warm was neatly packed in the corner. A durable thick-glassed lantern rested next to it, along with a small pouch of specialized bullets for his knuckleduster. A handful of books could be found too, thin volumes reciting tales of success for fictional and non-fictional athletes that made it to stardom. A canteen and three skins of water rested on one side, to keep him hydrated during long shifts. The ex-athlete had used some of his hefty savings to also reinforce the crows nest, lining it with strong resistant steels and woods to prevent a stray bullet from punching through and killing him as well as bolts to secure the nest to the mast. A telescope, though not as useful as his goggles in the dark sat idle next to the skins. Various other items littered the nest from personal trinkets to plates and bags.

Perching once more on the side of the nest, he scanned the darkness and confirmed that there was no immediate threat to the ambush. For the time being, of course.

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decandence - Upper Deck - Portside
Sheran Sheran - The Rhapsodist

The untamed slice of gyrating red cedar reassured him that he was still aboard the Decadence, thereby asserting that he most certainly had not been somehow blasted through the side of the ship, and ergo, left for dead.

Good!

Naga buckled over to clap his hand over the floorboards; clutching it firmly once greeted by the cold piece of rounded metal he sought. What had seemed to him an almighty turbulence, he realized soon after, had merely been an unfortunately timed downward veer. Unfortunate in that he had been very intently waging a war against a stubborn colony of fungi in a corner of the hold, easily losing his balance due to the precarious position in which he was forced to inspect them. Naga had harvested a petri dish of the sons of bitches for the sake of it, yet now--now they resist him. It almost seemed they mocked him, breeding with each passing second to culminate more of their yellow-spotted, ashy ilk. In that he was fairly sure the colony would birth a stomach bug if somehow consumed (or licked, or masticated, he can't trust some of these crew members): he was sorry, fungus friends, but you would have to relocate... to their reincarnation, that is.

When he was sure all was steady--and indeed established that the enemy scum had not retreated to another portion of the area--the horned janitor uncorked the smallest bottle with a flick of his fingernail, dipping it forward and allowing a trickle of purple fluid to engulf the space they called home. A deflating shriek signified the demise of the spotted ones, and gentle consecutive snaps signified the detachment of their iron roots. Satisfied, Naga swept up their remains and hummed a jolly funeral tune. It was not long before Jan's announcement echoed overhead, and Naga ceased his footsteps, raising his head as if to bask in her sound waves. (This was not the case, though she did have a lovely voice). When that was over, he continued on his way. It never hurt to stop what you were doing to listen to an announcement, that is, unless it was a suggestion to evacuate the premises. It would be silly to not hurry along his way in that case, he supposed. Naga was chuckling at his stupid idea when he arrived on deck.

He heard the soft greeting of a stringed instrument, and did not have to remove his visor to know the maned musician was near. "If it would not draw their muzzles to you," he said, laughing as he placed his weight against the railing, "I would request a patriotic, morale-feeding number for the occasion. You know the sort?" For the Ravein to have hand sausages barely thinner than Naga's own, Naga could not help but admire Sheran Sheran's fluency in sound--likewise for the even more fat-fingered Sunshine and his food tray instrument. Accompanying the admiration was a deep appreciation, for not only did music soothe the wild egos of the rowdy, but it was a particular art that could still grant him leisure. Unlike paintings. Darned paintings. (Though touching the brushstrokes was interesting, he will give it that).

He very nearly cringed at the explosive gunshots across from the Starboard (at which he decided to be situated), and one whoosh of wind, Naga realized the Ravein was gone. He tipped his head back in curiosity, only to notice a clash of blades and flesh, as well as gurgles of men who perished with blood rising up their throats. What would it be like to be in the place of a certain Mr. Darco, and see it all--every gory detail imaginable? The battles below were fierce, no doubt, as they often were with this motley crew. Certainly Naga had questions about this venture, as he did with every venture, but he knew better than to voice them. This was a pirate crew, he could expect no less than rape and plunder when he joined them. Still, better than the slave ship, and far better than the other, more dreaded and less feasible journeyers of the sands (some not even officially "pirates").

Naga then heard a clatter and a peculiar cry, followed by a short grumble. "Neyshak," he concluded with ease, sliding his visor from the bridge of his nose as he peered toward the noise. Of course, this was entirely useless toward gaining him any information. Should the valiant cook have made (yet another) mess, however, Naga was unfettered. Until he had to swab entrails off the deck, he had not a peep of complaint. "Neyshak!" He cupped the side of his chin. "You all right up there?"

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence – Upper Deck - Wheel
Roussan Filondar, The First Mate

Sleek coils of moonlight knifed through heavy clouds, caressing and augmenting the glinting stars. With acute, watchful eyes; you might've caught them, but now they were gone. All the remnants of glistening stars, alabaster moon and meager plots of light disappeared—and with it, was replaced by an everlasting, suffocating darkness. Uninterested in the nostalgic feelings flooding through his core, Roussan rubbed his spotted nose with his knuckles. He snorted long and hard, like he needed a handkerchief but couldn't stomach being polite enough to use one. Easing his bulk up the oak staircase whilst stippling his rippling arms across his barrel-chest, the Ravein cast a glacial gaze across the decks to make damn sure that the crewmates were well prepared for the raid to come. A small grunt of acknowledgment escaped his maw as Roussan sidled up beside the Decadence's pilot, who seemed to buzz with restrained excitement; pushing glowing buttons along the panel with tapered, slender fingers. He remained simply there beside her, a silent but formidable force.

The solid ground of the Decadence trembled as Jan fiddled with ballast levers and engines, plummeting downwards with smooth consideration. While the clipper's sails billowed, only empty air kissed the ship's belly. Canvas wings spread outwards, spreading it's fingers towards the sunless horizons. Despite the irascible situation, long strings of curses rode on the breeze and gusty laughter drifted across the lower decks. Ropes slithered around the deck, searching for an ankle to snag—though, they always found nothing. The Decadence worked alongside it's crew, fulfilling it's purpose. The Monkey Man—an affectionate name that Roussan had taken to calling him since witnessing his fine display of acrobatics and graceful agility—slid down the rigging like rain down a glass window, then returned back up the rigging to plop down in the Crow's Nest and resume his scouting. The flickering light belonging to the bay doors caught his attention, though Jan's capable hands had already swept the brass horn up. Rumbling discord rattled in the depths of his gorge, threatening to spill out of Jan's shoulder like a distempered father. And then, the light winked out. Her bucolic voice was unheard, and most likely that damnable mech-pilot was plummeting towards wastes with that affronting smirk splayed across his features.

“Blvdes Arschloch—damned lad doesn't have his head on straight!” He breathed, knuckling his muzzle exasperatedly. Roussan quickly bowed his head, tapping his clawed fingers across the empty section of the panel whilst furrowing his brows. Nothing needed to be said. He trusted her with the ship as he would with his own life. No instructions were truly needed, because Jan knew and understood what needed to be done without taking reckless risks. Withdrawing from the Majnun's side, Roussan murmured soft words of providence and good fortune. Though, again: none were needed. How many times had they been on dangerous missions such as this? Far too many to count. Whilst retreating back onto the shuddering decks, Roussan's flowered ears caught the remainder of an old, long forgotten pirate cadence. It caused a small smile to tug on his lips, before dispersing back into a calculating line.

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence – Upperdeck – Port Bow
Roussan Filondar, The First Mate

Joining some of the harried crew members aboard the lower decks, Roussan effortlessly braced himself against the intricate railings. His paw pads brushed across the wooden detailing depicting an unfinished flying bird, gnarled hawks and flourishing creatures which held realistic appeals. All of them belonged to the hulking, Reptilian Ravein aboard the Decadence. Everything seemed to be going as played. Winking lights below the ship's belly, accompanied by sharp sounds of metal scraping against metal, declared that Rhys had engaged the Crawlers. Again, Roussan resisted the urge to bellow Rhys reminded orders into the empty wastes—though, it'd fall on no one's ears but his own. His recklessness would be the end to him! And still, the First Mate worried after his crew members like a ruffled hen. The Captain seemed to have full assurance that everything would go as planned: with no casualties. Shaking his burly head like a forlorn hound, the Ravein spotted Sharpclaw easing himself into one of the substantial ballista. Unlike Sharpclaw, Roussan preferred conventional, personal means of combat, which consisted of bashing skulls with his fists. Either that, or those whizzing machines simply terrified him. Eyeing the crocodile's cinch, the Ravein's mouth worked irritably—

And before Roussan had the chance to berate him about ballista safety, Sharpclaw was unceremoniously ejected from his seat and sent barreling through the darkness with Roussan careening forward against the railing, thundering in a voice restricted for merciless interrogations, “Sharp!” There was nothing he could do but hope that he wasn't impaled on the Crawler's antenna's or mechanical parts. Leaning precariously across the railing, the Ravein thought he'd seen a figure rousing atop one of the closest Crawler's. A tittering tail swishing and flopping behind the silhouetted figure identified a perfectly functional Sharpclaw, who seemed fixed on ripping the nearest man's arm clean from it's socket. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, vibrating into a snort. Soft footsteps caused his undamaged ear to twitch. Aren Hollystone—the explosions expert, was leaning off to his right. Fortunately enough, Aren was accomplished in the arts of weaponry. Firing off a few rounds at the soldiers surrounding Sharpclaw, he effectively heightened the Ravein's odds. The Mad Bomber had shortened the distance between him and the vacant ballista, then began strapping himself in where the crocodile once sat. “The legs; take out the legs, then,” Roussan's rumbling voice called to Aren, motioning to the top of his thick, furred skull, “Hit the head.”

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence – Weather Deck – Bulwark
Roussan Filondar, The First Mate

Retreating towards the upper portion of the Starboard, the Bear's lips curled back in a scrupulous frown. Both the Captain and the green complected woman were standing together, easing themselves into conversation whilst preparing for the next maneuver. His own footsteps ponderously thumped forward, announcing his adamantine presence. Soft accents of string instruments glided down the upper and lower decks, adding a soft lull to the deafening sounds of battle below. Shortly after, the music ended and Roussan couldn't help but feel like something faltered within his ribcage. Gurgled cries of death sweeping out of chortled throats added to the explosive blasts—nothing like the music Sheran Sheran had been playing moment's ago. These were the sounds he was all too familiar with. Whilst surveying the carnage, a rolling ball of green tumbled by; acquiring raised eyebrows from the shaggy Ravein. Snuffling impatiently, Roussan's large foot prodded the jutting plank down until it seemed as if it would stay put until the carpenter looked at it. He took a deep breath, then followed Neyshak with a dogged determination. Snaking his gauntlet-sized fingers forward with a surprising amount of speed, the galumphing bear slipped his hands underneath the Ravein's armpits and moved him back to his feet without trouble.

Nagga's voice sounded mute in his left ear, though the remnants of his shout resounded in his other. “Stumble is all, laddie,” The Ravein called back, patting Neyshak across his slender shoulder before waving him forward to join them. He reclaimed his position next to the Captain and gripped the railing. “Time for the taking, Captain?”

Above the Mediterranean Wastelands
The Decadence - Upper Deck - Near the Port Bow
Asherah Koe, The Midnight Mage

Darkness was her realm; her world. Indeed, Asherah Koe was more comfortable in complete darkness than she ever was when the moon loomed brightly in the clear sky. Even before she’d chosen darkness as her element, she’d felt its murky call beckoning her. Once she’d harnessed the power to extinguish the offending light entirely, she was hooked. Admittedly, light was a necessary evil which she could not escape entirely, especially when a member of a crew which did not possess the ability to see perfectly in the darkness. This was why, when onboard the Decadence, Asherah was happiest roaming the deck at night with minimal light and optimum quiet. The female Majnun was currently occupied in this way, but tonight was a night unlike others, and on deck, instead of soothing silence filling the air it was alive with an animate cacophony of sound. Bang: the blast of firing weapons. Swish: the clash of metal on metal coming from below, and, of course, the sound of bellowing voices calling out orders to the crew. Tonight was the night the crew of the Decadence had spent more than the normal amount of time preparing for. Tonight was the night of their latest raid; one that had the Captain and the rest of the crew more excited and, at the same time, more on edge than normal. They were raiding a Sky Faction caravan which was bound to reward them with more than their fair share of bounty, but it was equally as sure to give them more than their fair share of danger. While she was sure none of the crew was immune to nervous feelings, Asherah was also sure none of them were known to run from a bit of trouble. They were pirates after all. Sometimes it seemed that they actively sought danger and trouble.

Of course, this wasn’t a bad thing in Asherah’s eyes. Anything that detracted from her usual state of boredom was preferable. Besides, there were no better people to be in a bind with than those aboard this ship. They’d been through this and worse together and still they’d always come out of it all right. Sometimes they came out of it with a heavier coin purse, as it were, too. Therefore, the nerves she was feeling now had nothing to do with the worry that she or any of the crew might not make it out of this alive, but rather, she was antsy: overly excited for the time to come for her to join the fray. She fidgeted as she wandered the deck, her sunset eyes scanning from one side of the ship to the other, watching as the action picked up.

The battle seemed to have started without her, and if there was one thing Asherah hated, it was being late to a party. Rhys and Sharpclaw were already thick in the heat of battle (though the latter was there inadvertently) and Ash could feel blood pumping thickly through her veins in excitement and anticipation. She was not squeamish when it came to spilling another creature’s blood, in fact at times like these, she found herself looking forward to the opportunity. She crossed the deck, passing several other crewmembers as she went. Her hurried feet made no sound on the bare wood as she went, passing Aren who now manned the ballista just as Roussan had left him, having bellowed out orders in his gruff, authoritative growl. The deceivingly beast-like first mate with the warm heart was undoubtedly on his way to the Captain’s side, and this was where she also needed to be. Asherah fell into step in the hulking bear’s wake as if she were his exaggeratedly small shadow, although she was much further behind Roussan than his actual shadow would be. The Majnun’s swift feet moved quickly and gracefully as she struggled to catch up to the Ravein but he was not making her task easy with his sweeping strides. He did stop long enough to pull a crumpled Neyshak into a standing position; apparently the timid cook had taken a tumble. Of course, this wasn’t unheard of.

Sure enough, after that, Roussan made his way to where the Captain was positioned with his sister, one of her three Majnun kinsman who made their home aboard the Decadence standing near as well. By all accounts, she and Asherah should not have had any problems getting along well together since they certainly had a few things in common, and Aellai was certainly friendly enough. Despite this fact, Elle—as some called her—was one of the crewmembers Ash felt she knew least about, and, as a consequence, spent the least time with. In truth, Asherah thought perhaps the reason that they were not more familiar with each other was simply that they had not spent enough time together to forge a close bond, but she was not opposed to remedying that when there was time for it. She nodded to her fellow Majnun as she reached the party just in time to hear Roussan’s query.

“I certainly hope so,” Asherah smiled, replying to the question though it had not been directed at her. “We can’t let everyone else have all the fun.”

Neyshak’s tumble to the ground had both stunned the reptilian and knocked the breath from his lungs, an altogether unpleasant feeling when one comes to think about such things. When he finally regained his composure enough to glance down at his apple-clutching hands a whimper escaped his lips. One had been thoroughly bruised and beaten by the fall, but luckily the cook had managed to save one of the precious orbs with his clutching claws, and it did not even have a scratch showing from how heartily he gripped the fruit. A smile lit up his face, a rather curious matter if you think about how a reptile would appear with a broad smile planted across their visage, and not much else mattered for the moment.

That is until the rather overbearing figure of the care-bear easily plucked Neyshak up from his prostrated position to beat him upon his thin frame. The big bear always had the best of intents at heart, but sometimes it slipped his mind just how BIG he was and just how SMALL the cook was in comparison. In retrospect he was probably lucky not to suffer from a broken collarbone. As this particular event was taking place the funny man glanced over at the cook with a somewhat worried look upon his face and inquiring, "Neyshak! You all right up there?"

The first mate had replied to the funny cleaning man’s inquiry for him, but sometimes Neyshak did not like people speaking for him. It made him feel inferior, and he did not want people to think he could not speak for himself. Looking around for the funny man Neyshak replied, “Mees okay funny-man. Oh… I needss you in ta kitsen, mees gotsa mess fromss ta meat.”

The next crew member to take a look at the cook’s plight, this attention did bother him so at times and he really did not think it necessary, was that of the intended recipient of his present. "It seems that everything is still in order, Neyshak. I am glad."

The green lady had taken a quick look over the reptilian Ravein to make sure that no serious damage had been accrued due to his plight, but as soon as her eyes glimpsed the delicious morsel in his grasp she started frowning. This was a rather peculiar habit to which Neyshak had grown accustomed in the last few months, but it still perplexed him as to WHY someone would frown if they were happy. "Is that apple for me? Neyshak, I appreciate it. But, you should worry about yourself more."

Unfortunately this rebuke seemed near enough to a scold to the simple-minded Ravein, and his eyes went down towards his feet ashamedly. He proceeded to step back and forth whilst kicking his feet lightly in embarrassment for a few seconds before finally responding, “Mees ssorry Elle. I’ss a be more careful nesst time…” It seemed though that this place was becoming much too crowded for the mild-mannered cook, and the combined presences of the Captain, first mate, green lady, scary lady, and even funny man were weighing down upon his reclusive nature.

As always their conversations steered towards excluding Neyshak, but he could not blame them for this subconscious shift. There really was not much that he could do in matters concerning the ship besides cook and perform some other basic, rudimentary tasks. He always tried to stay out of other people’s conversations because he probably would not be able to understand too much of what they said if they were not explicitly trying to dumb-down their diction. Right at the moment he was about to depart though he heard his name called once again by the green lady, "Teddy, do keep tabs on Dee for me. I do not want to see my brother getting boo boos all over. After all, he is so cute right Asherah and Neyshak?"

This odd question perplexed the cook nearly as much as the time he found the machine pilot sewing something. For some reason he just could not comprehend what was placed before him, and at this moment that was the word “cute” being used in conjuncture with a huge, half-metal man who looked like a rusty can at times. Neyshak’s head even cocked to the side while trying to get a better idea of what in the world she was referring to at the moment. In the rather unsuspecting and naïve manner only the reptilian could seem to embody perfectly he replied, “Tin can iss no cute… iss ruff and dirty…”

The cook then remembered the pot of boiling stew placed upon the stove, and a sharp yelp signalled the necessity of his departure, but not before he left the still pristine apple sitting on a windowsill overlooking the battle below them. With that gesture the cook scurried off back to the kitchen to make sure that nothing had gone awry whilst he was busy fooling about.

To their credit, the Sky Faction troops on the ground were exactly as competent as one should expect for an army with aspirations to conquer the world itself, and their reaction time was not a trifling skill. As soon as the near-invisible mech had torn the front end off one of the transport vehicles, the men within it and the other perimeter vehicles (disguised as ordinary transports but really holding more soldiers), engaged, arming themselves with the impressive technology that heritage and labor had bequeathed them, and spilling out of the convoy, which had now stopped. The assault was not only from the front, though, and it was not long before a group of them were treated to a most unusual sight: a large, reptilian ravein fell from the sky and landed on the roof of one of the smaller transports with an unfortunate crunch.

Before they really had time to decide if he was dead or not, the man was up and about, lashing around with claws and a most troublesome tail. Not bothering to waste time answering questions, the five men all opened fire immediately, aiming for the admittedly rather large target. Two of them realized their mistake a bit too late, laid under by covering fire from above, but the other three managed to duck behind the shell of one of the vehicles.

Orders buzzed over the communications system: the caravan tightened formation, giving the men all large metal constructs from behind which to fire upon those pirates who had reached the ground, namely the crocodilian, the lion-man, and the mech. Still others went for the artillery stored in their transports- incendiary explosives loaded into impressive propulsion systems- and fired upon the ship itself, lobbing explosives up and over the low-flying vessel, to be dealt with by those still on board.

Captain DeVargo Barvassi hadn’t survived this long by being a fool, and he’d been expecting something like this to happen eventually. What he had not been expecting was that his crew would decide an ambush and assault was a good time for conversation, and subsequently would gather beside himself and Jan at the helm. He was about to order some people to get down there and help their fellow crew members when he caught the slightest glint of metal from the corner of his eye, reflecting the ship’s artificial halogen lights.

“Move!” he shouted, engaging his massive metal limbs to bend the air about him into a great whirlwind, strong enough to propel even Roussan backwards and away from the area-of-effect. He had not quite the same chance to move himself, and was barely able to bring his arms in front of him, shielding his more vulnerable flesh from the worst of the damage. Still, the concussive force of the grenade knocked him unconscious, and for the moment at least, the crew was on their own to complete the mission.

Whether or not they would do so was not even a question; they had their orders, and they knew to stick to them.

---

Though most of the bullets would do little more than merely bounce off the shell of Tempest, Rhys was much more interested in that which was now deploying from the tightened ranks of the Sky Faction soldiers: large, shiny, and clearly bristling with weapons technology.

“Oh, hell yes.” It had been a while since he’d had the chance to fight another mech, and this one looked like one of the newest, fanciest models he’d seen. The pilot wasted little time in charging towards him, apparently another one of those half-suicidal arrogant bastards who loved nothing more than getting in his opponent’s face. Rhys did so enjoy that. His hands reflexively tightened on the controls of Tempest, and his machine surged forward to meet the oncoming advance. The other pilot swung low, but with a hefty tug on the right-hand stick, Rhys danced his machine sideways, slamming the elbow joint into the upper arm of the silver monstrosity. The cacophonous sound of metal-on-metal sounded a grating rapport, but it might as well have been sweet music to his ears for all it fazed him.

He’d learned some time ago that despite its aesthetic similarity, fighting inside a mech wasn’t really like using your own body at all. The skills needed were similar, but there was an extra dimension to this, and it required an understanding of physics and space which wasn’t true when you had the instinctive understanding of your own bodily boundaries. So, while perhaps the movements themselves could be likened to that savage dancing Sheran Sheran favored, it was as much an intellectual speed-round of mathematics and strategy as that. That heady engagement of mental and physical capacities- in a combination that could and would kill you if you weren’t careful- that was his obsession, his addiction, if one would.

A loud crunch alerted Rhys to the fact that there was unknown technology at work, and he watched with mild surprise, eyebrows lifted but otherwise no discernible change on his face, as a bladed arm sliced through his hull like a knife through warm butter. For a moment, there was the intense sting of pain when the jagged metal of Tempest’s midsection buried itself into his left shin, but that disappeared almost immediately as his cybernetic neurons shut off his pain receptors.

“Hmm… they did give you some fancy tricks, didn’t they?” He inquired pleasantly, drawing back his right-hand lever and slamming it forward with extreme prejudice, using the lack of distance between himself and the shiny one to land a blow at the neck-joint. Apparently, the other pilot had intended to cut him in half as well, or at least Rhys presumed he had, unless he was just an idiot who left himself open after an impressive show of force. All things considered, then, Rhys probably wasn’t nearly as impressed as he was supposed to be.

The blow sent the other pilot back a few steps, and Rhys grinned, advancing in the wake of the small retreat and striking again, without mercy or really any identifiable conscience at all. A small opening was all you needed when you knew this business as well as he did, but that wasn’t going to stop him from taking a large opportunity and devouring it.

“Hmm… well, that was unsatisfying.” Rhys frowned and looked around, ignoring the smoking heap of metal that he’d reduced the other mech to. Surely the others would have managed to exercise some competence by now and find whatever the hell they were looking for? Well, if there was still a line to break, he supposed he could help with that.

---

The sounds of gunshots and artillery sounded a rat-ta-tat-tat against metal surfaces, and she didn’t miss the whistle of air that accompanied incendiary fire. Estelle closed her eyes and tried not to think about it too much; though there was little stopping the tremulous shaking that the noise induced. It hadn’t always been so, really, but things can change after you’re forced to watch your best friend being executed by imperial firing squad.

She heard the driver of the vehicle exit, and was suddenly very conscious of the fact that she was alone. This was her opportunity, if she was brave enough to take it. Unfortunately, she’d never really been all that courageous, at least not enough to run out in the middle of a firefight and escape or anything. But…

Setting her mouth into a firm line, Estelle decided to stop thinking about it and just go. She was dead if she was discovered anyway. Feeling along the wall of the transport, she eventually found the latch and scrabbled to grip it in thin fingers, tugging until the boot of the terrain crawler popped open. Glancing around, she noted with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that the wagons had circled, so to speak, and there was no way out that didn’t have a bunch of men with guns standing in front of it. Granted, most of them were facing away but… oh. Right.

Her more sensible self protested that this was indeed a very bad idea, but her fear-driven adrenaline was pushing her to get outgetoutgetout, and for once she was inclined to obey. But first… Estelle pulled one of the titanium bracelets from around her wrist and touched the transmutation circle etched into it, producing a thin, linked chain, which she then threaded through the object held in a deathgrip in her other hand. This, she slid over her neck and under her clothes, flexing her cramped fingers and trying to pick the best angle of escape.

The large mech fight over to her right was discouraging to say the least, so she banked left instead, picking up as much momentum was possible, mechanical legs carrying her in quick strides that would never match the feeling of flight. The next part almost did sometimes, and she launched herself as well as she was able over the line of gunmen and heavy-armored crawlers. She probably would have landed lightly on the other side, had a stray bullet not caught her in the back and sent her sprawling onto the sand instead.

To say that the sensation was painful would have been quite the understatement. Stars exploded behind Estelle’s eyes, and she screamed at a rather high pitch, struggling to find her feet again despite being scarcely able to see. It was sheer luck that she’d managed to land behind a small outcropping of stone and was thus safe from further fire from the Sky Faction side. Tears streamed down her face as her hands ineffectually clawed the dirt, and she was aware of the sensation of blood sliding down her back. It took her a moment to recover mental faculty enough to strike her hands together, activating the largest and most complex circle tattooed on her person. She barely maintained control of her stomach as the bullet was pushed out and the wound closed up; the amount of energy it expended was more than she was used to, and her limbs had taken on a different kind of tremble. Exhausted, she swiped at her eyes to try and clear her line of sight and pushed herself to her feet.

It still hurt, of course. The formula was imperfect by necessity, and she wouldn’t be able to run quite so fast anymore… if she could walk at all.

No sooner had the attack started than Sharpclaw's plan got shot to shit, both figuratively and literally. He hadn't counted on the men to be well trained and ready for counter attack. Mentally shrugging to himself, Sharpclaw clicked his belt and released his mallets, which clanged heavily to the hull of the crawler. Ignoring the bullets that painfully kept ricocheting off his hard plate-like scales, Sharpclaw casually picked up the weapons and stared at a soldier dead in his eyes. The man backed up a step in fear, but before he could fire off another shot, a long whiplike tongue punched him in the face and adhered fast. With a muffled scream of pure horror, he was pulled into Sharpclaws waiting maw and shook like a ragdoll. As soon as his internal organs were pulped, the huge croc spit him out and leapt onto the next man, swinging both mallets and aiming for an out of the park. The man's body lost structural integrity and was sent far into the night in three pieces.

Sharpclaw slowly rotated to face the final man, who was holding a different gun than before. Tilting his head quizzically, the large gator took a step towards the frightened soldier, who squeezed the trigger in panic. The resulting bang was substantial and the projectile punched a hole in Sharpclaw's side, going completely through. Loosing a surprised hiss, Sharpclaw swung one of his mallets overhead, sending the poor human's head into his chest cavity. Snarling angrily, the croc kicked the man's body over the side of the crawler and scanned for more targets. Since Rhys seemed to be enjoying his tussle with the opposing mech, Sharpclaw decided to go on to hunter/killer duty and leapt off the crawler with his hands out like a swan dive.

A soldier was lining up a perfect shot on the mech pilot's head when he was sucked down into the sand with a yelp. His friend, a few feet away, didn't notice for a few minutes. By the time he turned to see why his partner wasn't shooting, his face was already gone. The gator surfaced on the sand and opened his nostrils, blinking his inner eyelids to clear out the extra sand. He moved in on a female soldier and was about to attack when he noticed her state. She seemed particularly distressed and in a lot of pain, not to mention the metallic tang of blood in the air. Slowly, so as not to alarm her too much, the huge gator man pulled himself out of the sand to approach the girl, ready to pull her in with his tongue if she turned out hostile.

The Mediterranean Wastelands
The Transport Caravan - The Fray
Sheran Sheran - The Rhapsodist

The powerful sound of the whipping bowstring sent the bolt hurtling through the darkness, vanishing the moment it left the table with it's speed and power. Grabbing another spear-like bolt from the container, his shaking hands laid it on the table. His nerves were frayed from how quiet in general it was, and it was only steely discipline instilled from years of raiding Imperial ships that he didn't start making irrational decisions. Over the din of combat, a calm voice pierced the Mad Bomber's thoughts. Recognized immediately as the first mate Roussan, Aren instinctively swung the large bolt-thrower toward a walker's legs, and sent the bolt flying. However, as the initial shock of ambush wore off, the caravan's defenses began to converge, beginning a powerful counter-assault to force the raiders away.

The Mad Bomber turned, realized Roussan had already made a break for it, and threw himself off the ballistae. A rumbling explosion tore most of the table off the Ballistae, leaving it completely useless. Despite all this, Aren felt a shiver of pleasure shoot up his spine. Standing on his feet, he grabbed his longrifle and aimed it over the railing, loosing a few shots at guardsmen before grenades began to pellet the airship in full force. A wide grin slowly spread across his face as explosions rang in his ears, and sharp jolts of ecstasy shaking his frame as he fired more shots down at the caravan, pulling back with a whooping call. Reloading more soft rounds into the chamber, he failed to notice the large commotion regarding the small cook, a motherly Majnun, and a single red apple. Too engulfed in the pleasure that was combat, Aren continued to pick at the soldiers using his long rifle, until heard screaming from a voice above.

"You bloody madman, Get your ass down to the armory! Go! You bloody idiot! Get your kicks later and help the bloody bard!"

Aren craned his head, his goggles scanning the battlefield- and there he was, Sheran the Rhapsodist. He could barely make out his cries, it was amazing the Monkey could distinctly pick out what he was saying. The convoy had stopped due to the raid, as defending on the move would have been difficult against a ship that could easily keep up and lob projectiles at it while able-bodied men had to focus on driving. Dashing down, he reached the armory and grabbed a snub-nose revolver and a package of ammo. Running back up, he made his way to the trashed Ballistae. Swinging it around, he grabbed the bowstring and heaved on it until it found the hook and pulled on the winch. While half the table was gone, that didn't mean it couldn't fire smaller projectiles. His brain was working into overdrive, calculating the distance between himself and Sheran with an inhuman speed. Arcing high, he released the bowstring, sending the revolver and attached package of ammo landing with a small plop near the Rhapsodist's position. Grenades exploded above and behind the Mad Bomber, even as he abandoned the ruined Ballistae and slung his longrifle around his back. The battle was in full swing now, and Aren pulled out his maiden- Skylight. Letting out a deranged cry, he shot the single grenade into the night, toward a walker where it would put all that packed combustibles with it.

---

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

It was slowly coming together in a familiar pattern- the enemy is surprised, takes some losses, but then gets right back up and starts fighting back. The reaction time was much quicker when it came to more large-scale raids, such as the caravans of the Imperial Sky Faction. The returning gunfire forced the Monkey to hop back into his reinforced Crows Nest, trying to gauge whether or not their victims were shooting at him. Realizing that this wasn't necessarily the case, he peeked over and strengthened the focus of his goggles. They were very much concerned with the two Ravein- Lionel and Crockshock tearing up their men. Clothboy was also grappling with the other bots, and even Crazygun was causing a nuisance with his sniping. Honestly, they were all so skilled Bryan often wondered why it was taking so damn long to raid. The soldiers were little more than mincemeat in numbers compared to them, especially with a wide range of Majnun in the wings. He finally caught sight of ThunderArms, sleeping on the ground like a baby. He was going to have a field day with that.

His head swiveled sharply, accustomed to sudden and quick movements as his goggles tunneled his vision in compensation for enhanced distance sight. He caught Crocshock doing fairly well, but Lionel Sheran-Sheran-Sheran seemed to be in a little bit of a pinch. Hopping over, he clambered down until he could call out to the almost ecstatic gunner. "You bloody madman, Get your ass down to the armory! Go! You bloody idiot! Get your kicks later and help the bloody bard!" He screamed, barely able to break past Hollystone's high. Sometimes he worried for that man, his mental state wasn't the strongest and for some reason he got his kicks from listening and watching explosions. Shrugging slightly, a slight smirk emerged when Hollystone launched a revolver from a ship using a damaged ballistae toward Sher Sher Sheran.

Clambering back up the ropes, he knew he had to try his best to remain discreet and unseen. Darco was terrible with long range weaponry, which meant that if the enemy started shooting at him he had no choice but to hide in the crows nest until the threat was taken care of or he died. Therefore, he hopped back into the crows nest, daring only to peep a few inches of his head over to observe the battle and to scan the horizon for reinforcements.

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

Jhanjhavata turned the wheel in silence, exhaling slowly through her nose. Other than the bulk of the greatest members of the crew, the lessening of weight on the ship was negligible. At times though, Jan fancied she could feel and and every subtle shift in the weight of the Decadence. The sound of a multitude of feet pounding, tapping and clanking against the deck was carried over the wind to the majnun's ears. Jan's lip curled in distaste without her knowledge. It always amazed her how easily the beast-men and humans fell in to scurrying and leaping about the ship as if they were common animals. Speaking of lesser races, the first mate decided to pop in. Again.

"You know, I have asked this of you nearly every day since our first meeting, but I never tire of hearing your responses...would you like me to teach you how to man the helm?" Jan said the words without looking back towards the ursine man. The first time they spoke, she had made no effort to conceal her disgust for the Ravein species in its entirety. Yet, for some reason, Roussan had come back each time as if nothing derogatory had been said. Jan eventually grew to appreciate his stoic poise and began talking to him, if only for a few sentences at a time. Roussan was a member of a slave-species, after all. Still, the beast-man shared many of her own opinions and understood the need for practicality. In most situations, anyway. When Roussan cursed in whatever esoteric tongue he so often spoke, Jan allowed herself a pickerel smile. As Roussan finished making idle silence with the helmsman, Jan glanced at his back. "I look forward to our next chat, Roussan. Such a polite bear," she added the last part more quietly as she returned her full attention to the task at hand.

A sudden crash drew her gaze for an instant. Another beast-man floundering gracelessly about, she supposed. What had this one done? Neither Jan nor Neyshak was aware of it, but things between them would be boiling over once they were safe enough for the shipwright to inspect the damage.

Jhanjhavata tried not to let the rest of the minor events occurring across and below the ship distract her further. Several liters of liquid balast were adjusted to compensate for the shifting weight on each side as crew members disembarked and the ship listed ever so slightly in its turn. Jan continued to circle the main target carrier and began to worry that the land-vehicle would employ some sort of speed enhancement. The sudden, minute jerk in the stability of the ship--Hollystone, manning one of the new ballistae no doubt--brought a smile to Jan's lips. The carrier was going nowhere fast. Indeed, it sounded like the battle was a massacre from what the majnun could discern.

All the while, a buzz of idle chit-chat rang in her ears. It took all of Jhanjhavata's willpower not to growl the inferiors down. She included both "Ash" and "Elle"(especially Elle) in this category, despite the circumstances of birth that set them all in the same caste. Jan was superior to both in combat and wit. That was the simple fact of the matter. At last, the azure woman reached her limit, calmly smoothed out a ruffle in her skirt with one hand and spoke into the air in a clear, concise voice. "Captain, if you would-"

Suddenly Jan's ears were ringing. She glanced back only once to see the metal-limbed DeVargo flat on his back. Whatever projectile had made it so close had sent jolts of numbness across Jan's body. She forced herself to stay in control though, and began to bob along the currents of the wind to minimize the effectiveness of the enemy armaments that began hammering upon the Decadence en'masse.

"Hollystone!" she called off-handedly, obviously straining to keep the wheel from stuttering, "Would it bother you terribly to snipe at whomever the hell is blasting my ship apart with grena-" out of the corner of her eye, Jan saw Aren's own explosive sail towards the incendiaries depot below. The first thing that sprang to Jan's mind was how much ballast she would need to shift to 'accidentally' throw the rat-faced Hollystone overboard.

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

Sunshine must have been conveniently in the region, to have responded in the lizard Ravein's place with such swiftness. Indeed, the scratching and scrambling upon the planks was minimal, so it was likely Roussan even had a hand in preventing more damage than necessary--or at least simplifying the situation. "Shall I call you Neyshak from now on?" Naga asked nonetheless, barely removing his hand from cupping his cheek--which was dimpling at one side.

There were others there in the distance--the entire collection of his kin, apparently. Naga had little time to dissect what they were doing, however, for soon duty called: "Oh… I needss you in ta kitsen, mees gotsa mess fromss ta meat.”

"Ah," responded the ingenious and funny Majnun man, in what resonated as a wary chuckle as he picked at a crevice in one of his horns. "Good that I left my mop there after the last culinary opera then." At least, it was a good thing so long as no one tripped on it. Before someone else could--oh, he didn't know--vomit a love letter to him all over the deck (or turn positively daffy and try to shove a gun in the janitor's hands); he shrugged the fur of his hood closer to his jaws and made his way down, down, down to the citadel of bubbling pots and tickling aromas. Naga had to thank the designers of the ship for not making the corridors too terribly wide in girth, lest he be unable to slide his knuckles along both walls. It was good to him when a blast caused the lass of blue to decide the path of turbulence would be the ideal. It certainly was, he was sure! But for one, the thought of a slab of meat rolling around and staining everything nailed down in the cook's domain was less than pleasant. Thank the embrace of darkness that seldom could make him feel dizzy; thank more fervently the more crazed helmsmen who have rendered Naga near immune to motion sickness.

He stopped when the shivering of the space around him was especially strong, instead turning his ear to the muffled outside. Right then, there was a woman's scream among the relentless firing. Why he took note of it, he could not be certain. Though less so than their opposing gender, there were a plethora of women involved in these blood beseeches. Naga deduced that it was likely that it was a noise more than a howling, gutted gurgle. Moments later, when he felt it was sage to wander once more, he finished his journey to the kitchen.

Come to think of it, this may not be the best time to start playing hockey with Neyshak's mess, what being rocked like a baby in a cradle... but who was he to argue when he was "needed?" (He was the janitor, that's who he was). He tapped the rod that served as his "eyes" till he caught the base of the mop, knocking it off balance and catching it with his free hand. He replaced the empty spot with the rod, finding the spot to be a miniscule gap between two counters. With his basic surroundings established, he stood in wait for the cook: smiling blissfully still and swaying his head in correspondence with the currents.