It was dangerous to fly at night, but it was preferable to trying to land at night, so Lucian Dubois had taken his chances with the moonlit, early morning skies over the Mediterranean Sea on his way to Sicily, where old friends were to gather. 

It had taken about nine days’ worth of travel, preparation and planning to finally depart from Cannes to Corsica, to Cagliari, Sardinia. That wasn’t even accounting the time it took to travel from Tours, where the Wolves’ contact had tracked him down to Bayeux along the Normandy coast where his plane, The Magpie, sat in a warehouse owned by one of Lucian’s personal contacts, drained of fuel and oil and covered with several taped tarps to prevent the harsh ocean air from corroding the plane over the years. He had always intended to come back to his beloved bird, but he had been a very busy man the past 8 years, there simply wasn’t time. It had taken the better part of a day to bring the plane back to operational condition, and to secure his belongings, stored neatly in a specially designed metal crate that was fixed to the bottom of the fuselage and designed to be as aerodynamic as possible. It wasn’t that he needed to pack much, but he had a few things that simply could not fit into a suitcase. From there, it was a simple matter of planning his route, refueling along the way, and taking the time to rest in each port, fueling himself with local cuisine and inexpensive inns to catch up on rest. Unlike some of the more… impulsive of his out outfit, Lucian was a man who preferred to be unrushed, so he planned ahead when possible. After all, flying was supposed to be a liberating joy, and there was no reason to not enjoy himself between stops. After all, flying tired was as stupid as flying intoxicated, and flying on an empty stomach was both distracting and unpleasant.

After leaving Corsica, he had to be careful, given the current political climate. Italy was officially neutral, and focusing more on the criminal element of the sea, which Lucian did not overly concern himself with. After all, his weapons and ammunition were hidden away craftily behind a panel in the tail of his plane, screws painted over to give it the illusion that it had never been disturbed. Other than his revolver, which he declared at each harbour he stopped at, he had no contraband or anything worth smuggling. There were bigger fish to fry, so to speak, and Lucian carried himself in a calm, approachable manner. A small seaplane was hardly most smuggler’s choices for peddling opium around the continent, after all. More often than not, at least one of the men in charge of customs in each port was a military veteran, such as himself. It often did not matter which nation you were from, there was a bonding familiarity between men of uniform, regardless if their nations had a long history of animosity and conflict. It wasn’t that long ago, all considered, that Napoleon made his mark on Europe and the countless imperialistic conflicts between all large nations in Europe. To the men fighting the war, at least with the veterans, it often grew impersonal. The only difference between them was the flag they sewed to their sleeve. This was certainly something that helped Lucian avoid too much scrutiny, as the way the customs officers saw it, a former man of uniform, and an officer at that, had principles. Italy had much more troublesome things to concern herself with.

At last, the cove that had been marked on the map Lucian had been provided came into view and he pushed in his throttle somewhat, slowing his craft down for landing. Fortunately, the sea was not too choppy, so he did not have to concern himself with the short space to land within the protected bay and he felt the all-too-familiar drag of the ocean beneath the pontoons, the light craft bouncing with each wave. The more the craft decelerated, the closer to a boat it behaved, and he made his way to the cave opening, a natural formation that was large enough to guide a plane into. It was coves like this that were smuggler havens, and often ran the risk of search if discovered by the increasingly proactive Mediterranean powers. Finding a place to tie off behind a plane the Frenchman immediately identified as Erik’s, Lucian felt a wave of excitement and nostalgia creeping through him. This was really happening. The [I]Loups[/I] were really reforming.

Finding his way through the old, musty wooden door, Lucian stepped into what looked like an old, long-forgotten tavern, recently cleaned. Wolfgang and Erik were sitting around a table, looking towards Lucian as he approached, his long grey-blue coat seeming somewhat inappropriate for the climate. He smiled warmly at his two old friends, shaking their hands in turn. Memories of each came back as he stared each man in the eyes.

[I]Wolfgang, our leader. The man who fought me distraught 11 years ago in that Brest harbour and gave me a cause to rally behind. There seldom is a more passionate man, a true visionary. I never shared his idealism, but it is impossible not to respect or admire the man, even if he lets his emotions get the better of him at time. Somehow, he managed to turn that into a plus instead of a liability. There’s a pain, an anger in his eyes. Something has happened. I am willing to gamble it has to do with why he called us all together, after all these years.[/I]

[I]Erik, our dear Swede who fancies himself a Viking. He certainly has his moments of being as cold and detached as one with certain episodes that makes him take stupid, reckless chances. A bit softer around the edges since the last time I saw him, the man reminds me of a bear, especially with the way he took to Madelief. Too bad he never bothered to teach her how to subtly handle the law, since one cannot simply bludgeon his way out of every situation. I can’t imagine what he found himself doing the past 8 years, he was never one to enjoy inactivity for long.[/I]

“My friends, it has been too long. We really should meet up more than once every 8 years. I don’t think our beloved planes can handle it.” He said, pulling a bottle of red wine from the crate. “Local Cabernet. You shouldn’t have.” He said, plucking a glass from the crate, blowing into it to clear the remaining dust particles, and pouring himself a glass slowly before taking a seat and a sip. “[I]C’est bon.[/I] I trust you’ve both been in good health and company?” he asked.