Scaerthrynne never saw what happened. He barely even heard it.

One moment, he’d been preparing for the battle to come—double-checking his turret’s arcs-of-fire, setting it to prioritise aerial targets and targets with high arcane signatures, and laying additional traps along each of the paths leading to the cargo hold’s entrance—whilst trying to ignore the vicious screams, terrible cries, and metallic clangs of a fight that was getting much too close for comfort.

And the next, he was engulfed in chaos, pure and total.

The sheer force of a violent, deafening explosion threw him forward. His chest slammed into the edge of a crate, knocking the breath from his lungs. Then, just as he managed to steady himself, the airship lurched, and sent him sprawling the other way. He crashed back-first onto the cold, hard floor. His mouth opened in a pained shout, but his ears didn’t hear it. They couldn’t hear anything, not over the endless, shrill ring that filled them. And before long, even that piercing noise vanished; snatched away by rushing winds, replaced by ghastly howls and fearsome roars.

Grunting, Scaerthrynne pushed himself up onto his elbows, but had to immediately flatten himself against the floor again, to roll out of the way of a crate that had freed itself of its lashings. That great mass of wood and iron rumbled and clattered as it slid and tumbled past him, passing so closely that he thought he might catch a splinter from it. He barely had any time to regain his bearings before he had to scramble out of the way of a laden pallet charging him down. Ropes snapped, its contents spilled, and he dived just in time to avoid getting his head taken off by a flying barrel.

A growl worked its way up his throat. He didn’t know what had happened, but he was certain that he knew what was happening. And he knew he hadn’t any time to waste.

Throwing caution to the wind, he grabbed his rifle and hurriedly clambered to his feet. Powerful gusts, and the airship’s list made the mere act of walking an arduous task. But Scaerthrynne fought them both, all the same, his teeth gritted in effort. He ran towards where he thought he’d last seen Vallena, somewhere near the cargo hold’s entrance. Along the way, he caught sight of Ezekiel in the corners of his eyes.

“Eyepatch!” Even with his voice raised to a scream, Scaerthrynne wasn’t sure if he could be heard over all the din. But he had to try, nevertheless. “Get Venn! Make sure she’s secured!”

He didn’t wait to receive an acknowledgement. He didn’t even stop to check if Ezekiel had even caught his words, to begin with. The most important thing for him now, was to get to Vallena, and make sure that she was alright. Only then would he worry about anything else.

One problem at a time.

“Val!” He shouted as he neared the entrance. “Vallena!”

“Over here, Scratch!”

He turned in the direction of her voice, and saw the girl peeking out from behind a netted pile of crates that was still lashed tightly in place, right by the exposed runic circuit. She looked as if she was about to speak, but then the airship veered hard again. Vallena yelped, and would’ve fallen flat on her face had the dark elf not rushed over to catch her, and push her back behind the safety of the crates. She clutched the sleeves of his jacket tightly, shivering slightly, and didn’t let go until he had sat her on the floor.

“Are you injured?” He asked and knelt in front of her. “More than you already are, I mean.”

Vallena shook her head. “I-I’m okay, Scratch,” she replied. “What–”

“Explosive decompression,” he answered before she could finish her question. “Those three f–” He looked away, coughed into his elbow, and tried again. “Those three fools probably caused it, somehow. I’m almost certain of it.” Leaning in a little closer, he examined her from top to bottom with narrowed eyes. Once, then twice, and then thrice. Vallena squirmed under his gaze. “Stop moving,” he said with hints of irritation in his words. But not long after, he relaxed, and let out a relieved sigh. “You look fine, Val–”

“I told you that,” Vallena whined.

“–But we’ll have to take a closer look after all this, just to be safe.” He kept talking as if she hadn’t spoken.

Gradually, the airship levelled out, but only just. It still listed noticeably to one side, and although the winds weren’t as strong as before, they still rushed and whipped through what remained of the cargo hold. Worst of all, however, was the near-constant shudder Scaerthrynne felt in the floor plates. It was like the frenetic, struggling pulse of the airship itself, telling him that it couldn’t hold itself together for much longer. Judging by the tortured groans of shattered steel, and the high-pitched squeals of engines pushed to their absolute limits, Scaerthrynne had little doubts of that. If nothing was done soon, the airship, and everyone aboard it, would be due for a very, very harsh reunion with the ground.

“I’m tired of your fucking tricks! Fight me, you cowards!”

He groaned. Of course, the explosive decompression sucked out everything except the ones he needed to disappear the most. He drew in a deep breath. The air was dry in his nostrils, and chilled its way down into his lungs.

One problem at a time.

“Stay here, Val,” he said and stood up.

Just as he turned to leave, the girl grabbed his sleeve. “No! I-I can help!” She placed a hand on one of her pistols. “Y-You gave me these for a reason–”

“Yes, to defend yourself, not jump into a fight,” Scaerthrynne replied quickly. Vallena looked up at him with as much determination as she could muster in her eyes, and refused to let go of his sleeve. “Let go of me, Val,” he said firmly. She shook her head, and he sighed. He knelt again to look her in the eyes. “Val, listen to me. Right now, the best thing you can do for me is to stay here, and stay safe. Then there’ll be one less thing for me to worry about, at least. And besides, someone has to keep an eye on the runic circuit. That’ll be your job, Val. Keep an eye on it, and tell me when the runes stop glowing, alright?”

She loosened her grip, but still didn’t let go. “A-Alright, Scratch.” Her voice was small, and there was worry in her eyes when she met his gaze. “Just be safe, okay?”

“Well, I was thinking I’d fight them with my fists,” Scaerthrynne said with a grin. A small, and very hesitant, smile formed across Vallena’s lips. She finally released his sleeve. “I’ll be alright, Val.” He stood up, ruffled her hair, and hefted his musket. “Just be a good girl and wait here for me, and it’ll be over before you know it. Trust me.”

He breathed in once. Then twice. On the third, he burst from cover.

And for the first time since the blast, he saw the true extent of the damage to the cargo hold.

There wasn’t much cargo left. There wasn’t much of a hold left, for that matter. One of the walls had all but disintegrated, with a jagged hole in the middle, and several smaller surrounding it where debris, picked up by the earlier gales, had punched through. Those same gales had extinguished the flames. Charred metal littered the area. Twisted steel groaned and creaked from what was left of the ceiling. And in the middle of it all, were two red-hooded strangers. Sparkler and Furnace. Two Swords and the griffon had been sucked out of the airship, it seemed.

The ghost of a smirk graced Scaerthrynne’s face. That was one thing going in his favour, at least.

He dashed for a fallen girder that had, thankfully, missed his turret by mere fractions of an inch. The winds could be thanked for that, he supposed. So strong had they been, that despite his turret’s legs digging into the cargo hold’s floor, they still managed to drag it out of position. Deep, jagged gouges in the floor plates showed the path it had taken.

“Wake up,” Scaerthrynne said gruffly to the turret as he slid behind the girder. “Spellcaster in the distance, keep them suppressed.”

The turret whirred, sounding almost excited to finally shoot at something. Its rails glowed brighter, and they made a high-pitched noise before launching shard after shard of debris at Furnace. As its target moved, it turned to track it with precision, never once slowing or stopping its fire. A quick glance over the girded told Scaerthrynne that the shots were finding their target, but whether or not they were effective wasn’t clear.

It didn’t matter, ultimately. As long as Furnace was forced to move, or forced to throw up a shield to protect himself, then he would be unable to cast whatever spells he wanted. That was good enough, for now.

Scaerthrynne infused his musket before popping up from cover. Sparkler was sprinting towards Ezekiel at full speed, with a shield on his arm. That simply wouldn’t do. The dark elf took his time to take careful aim at the moving target, then pulled the trigger. Gunpowder ignited. The musket kicked against him, but it was a purple bolt that lanced from his weapon’s muzzle, and not a bullet. Upon striking the shield, it dissipated, and spread across the arcane barrier like a black mold growing on a wall.

Then, the shield flickered once, and disappeared.

“Eyepatch, that one’s yours!” The words flew from Scaerthrynne’s mouth even as he crouched behind the girder to reload. Then, he stood up again, and searched for Furnace. It wasn’t difficult; he just had to follow his turret’s shots. That thing was relentless, if nothing else, and kept pursuing the spellcaster with its deadly gaze. Scaerthrynne saw sparks where shots glanced off Furnace's armour. "I'll focus on the spellcaster," he shouted to Ezekiel. "You focus on taking the one with the sickle out as quickly as you can!"

Race: Aasimar
Class: Paladin
Location: Stormrider; Cargo Hold
Interactions:Scratch & Val @Apex Sunburn
Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute.
Attire: Clothing and gloves
Gold Balance: 87
Injuries: New injuries; concussion, fractured ribs, giant splinter in his leg, injured shoulder, all bruised up. Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.

---

Ezekiel kept one hand tightly coiled around the netting that secured a stack of secured crates. The other remained wrapped around Venn, who he’d caught just in time before she could be blown away by the winds that filled the cargo hold. He shielded her from the worst of the flying debris. Between the powerful gusts, the shrieking griffon, and the clatter of wood and metal - the room descended in indistinguishable chaos.

Then the griffon soon shrieked no more.

The winds softened just enough.

Little remained in the cargo hold to be flung around.

As the paladin rose amongst the wreckage; the damage to the cargo hold was startling. If he was certain of anything at that moment it was that a giant hole in the side of an airship was a huge problem. If red-hooded terrorists didn’t kill them before that door opened a crashing airship certainly would, and if the ship was left so damaged and without its engineer…well that couldn’t be an option.

The griffon was gone, as was the warrior with twin blades, and only two enemies remained. The odds shifted just enough as divine favor blessed them with an evened up battlefield.

“I’m tired of these fucking tricks…Fight me, you cowards.” The warrior with the sickle surged forward, his weapon dragging behind him. Sparkler’s eyes burned, the rage in them was unmistakable. Good. Anger made men sloppy.

Ezekiel matched the intensity but not the emotion. It wasn’t rage Sparkler looked back at, it was judgement. The sickle wielding warrior would not commit another wicked act. The only mercy Sparkler would find now was with whatever god he prayed to and his soul would soon journey to the next plane.

The floor rattled. A pressure pulsed like an urgent warning. Whatever it meant, it wasn’t good, and it could not be heeded until those last two warriors were slain and the door to cargo had opened.

One thing at a time.

He freed his sword from its sheath once more. Magic powered by unshakable faith followed from Ezekiel into the weapon. It not only glowed but hummed softly with the protective light of Holy Bulwark. If Sparkler dealt the first blow, the Aasimar’s sword was poised to handle it and any magical force that came with it. But he didn’t intend for the opponent to have a chance to lift his heavy sickle from the ground where it dragged and screeched.

Both hands gripped the hilt of his sword, his eye remained locked on the enemy with intensity of a hawk, and Ezekiel charged forward. He couldn’t match the speed Sprakler had, but he wasn’t giving the spellcaster any more time to throw them another curveball. This fight was happening right now.

A shot rang out, and Sparkler’s shield sputtered and died. Scratch held tight to the musket.

"I'll focus on the spellcaster," Scratch’s voice carried through the hold with ease. "You focus on taking the one with the sickle out as quickly as you can!"

As the two warriors closed in on one another, that momentary distraction was put to use. Retribution, aglow with light, swung at the red-hooded figure with unyielding intent to kill and decades of precision. He aimed not to merely strike the opponent with the blade but to cleave through him. As deep as the blade could cut and then just a little bit further, propelled by the paladin’s sheer will alone.

Meiyu stepped through the haze of shattered tile and flickering shadow, each movement silent, deliberate, feline. Her eyes, still gleaming in the fading strobe of arcane light, scanned the scene with a predator’s poise.

The satchel was gone. Liana had slipped from her grasp like smoke. Her jaw tightened. Not from grief. Not even rage. But sheer, razor-edged frustration.

So close.

Then her gaze fell on the girl.

She approached the stall with eerie calm, stopping just outside the blood-slicked threshold. Her gaze swept over Phia, cradling the girl like some tragic painting, and then down to Talis–barely breathing, clinging to life by threads already fraying.

Meiyu said nothing at first. She simply crouched, slowly and gracefully, resting one elbow on her knee as she looked the dying girl over like a puzzle half-solved.

A breath passed.

And then she sighed.

“You poor little thing.” Her voice was soft. Almost warm. Like a lullaby with something sharp hidden in its notes. “She gutted you like a rabbit and left you bleeding on tile like an afterthought. I imagine that hurts.”

She leaned in just slightly, her expression unreadable, the way one might study a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Her eyes narrowed as they flicked over Talis’ body–not in sympathy, but in scrutiny. Blood, yes. Lots of it. But it was the veins that caught her attention. A delicate tracery of black branching beneath the skin like ink spilled under glass.

Meiyu’s brows drew together faintly.

“Fascinating…” she murmured, mostly to herself. She tilted her head, studying the branching marks with a sharp, clinical eye. “Not natural. That’s not any venom I’ve worked with.”

As her eyes flicked upward, they caught on the trail of blood still slowly trickling down Phia’s cheek. Meiyu’s gaze lingered there, then shifted to the shattered mirror behind her, the fractured wood, the blood on the frame. Her expression didn’t change, but her tone cooled.

“And you…” she said to Phia, not unkindly, but edged in quiet astonishment, “You took a hell of a beating. I watched her smash your face into that frame like she was stamping out a cigarette.” Her head tilted slightly. “I’ve seen girls die for far less.”

Then, with a slow exhale, she shifted her weight and crouched fully beside Talis. Her eyes met the girl’s fluttering gaze with eerie calm.

“You’re dying.” There was no cruelty in her tone. Just truth, laid bare like silk on stone. “I can’t save you. And unless she knows what this is…” She gestured to Phia first and then to the black veins. “Then any attempt to do anything could make it worse and make it more painful.” She reached forward, brushing a blood-damp lock of hair from Talis’ forehead with a gesture far too gentle for what she was.

“But I can take the suffering from you.” Her fingers ghosted just above the girl’s skin, as if testing the air between them. “The fear. The burning in your chest. The cold in your bones.” She smiled, small and soft, the kind that made wolves seem almost merciful.
“All I want in return...”

She paused–just long enough for tension to coil tight.

“…is the truth.”

Meiyu’s eyes shone brighter now, hunger hidden in grace. “What was in that satchel, little sparrow?” she whispered, almost sweetly. “Tell me. And I’ll make the rest easy. Let someone else know what you were so desperately trying to protect.”

A faint smirk tugged the corners of Scaerthrynne’s lips as he watched Sparkler stagger and falter beneath the weight of Ezekiel’s powerful strike. Blood arced from the red menace’s wounds, spattering across bent and warped floor plates in wet, dotted trails. Scant justice, but perhaps a poetic one, for how they and their fellows had bled Stormrider and the elemental that powered it. The dark elf’s smirk quickly morphed into a muted, scornful laugh—drowned out by the din of battle and the cries of a stricken airship—when Sparkler finally collapsed in a heap of torn metal and tattered rags.

Scaerthrynne’s mirth lasted only the merest of moments, however. The sight of the sickle falling apart, and practically melting into a mass of dark, wriggling serpentine creatures gave him cause to frown. A curious, perplexed frown, rather than a worried or dismayed one, but a frown, nonetheless. Had that sickle been an arcane, living weapon? It’d been a long time since he’d last come across one, and as far as he knew, they were rarely ever good news.

He cleared his mind with a quick shake of his head.

One problem at a time.

Tucking the butt of his musket tight into his shoulder, Scaerthrynne took careful aim at Furnace. The turret had done, and was doing, an excellent job of keeping the spellcaster occupied. A few shots had managed to graze them, but to little effect as far as Scaerthrynne could see. That would have to change soon—even from afar, and with no small amount of debris between them, he could see Furnace’s hands move, and the glyphs on their arms glow, as they started to cast something.

Scaerthrynne clenched his jaw. His brow furrowed. He curled his finger around the trigger.

“Scratch! The runes stopped glowing!”

He sighed.

Well, maybe he had to handle two problems at a time, this time. One was easier to resolve than the other, and far more pertinent to the main task at hand, and so he decided to see to it first. He ducked behind the girder, the muzzle of his weapon pointed to the ceiling.

“Now remove the arcane battery!” He shouted back and peeked over the girder. There was a strange force building in the air, and a chill—not the sort caused by wind or altitude—started to set in. Furnace was up to something big, no doubt, but as far as Scaerthrynne could tell, they were still focused on the turret. Good.

The dark elf reached across and gave the turret a firm slap on the back. “I gave you that arcane battery for a reason.” He spoke like a stern parent telling off their child for not following instructions. “If you don’t plan on using it, can I have it back?”

A loud, warbling whirr came from the arcane device. It sounded almost sheepish.

“Then use it,” Scaerthrynne said.

The turret aimed towards the ceiling, then towards the floor a few times, reminiscent of a series of nods. It chirped and pulled itself closer—its gun, and its legs tucking into its body—and squatted on its legs until it was almost flush against the floor. Had it been a person, it would’ve almost certainly been standing on the balls of its feet, and hunching its shoulders, preparing for a powerful strike. The arcane battery on its back hummed and glowed. Lines lit up all over the turret, all of them converging on its rails. A loud, high-pitched whine filled the air.

When it opened fire again, it was no longer a rapid chatter, but slow, steady barks. And its shots no longer simply pierced and dented debris—they now landed in small explosions of arcane energy. Not powerful, or large enough to shower enemies with lethal shrapnel, but certainly enough to throw up clouds of dust and smoke, and enough to blast a clear path towards Furnace.

Scaerthrynne patted the turret on its ‘head’. “Much better.”

“The arcane battery’s out!” Vallena’s voice called for his attention.

“Now remove the panel covering its manual locking mechanism,” the dark elf shouted back. “It’s located in the same place as any other door on this ship, and secured in exactly the same way!” As he spoke, he felt around his rifle’s forestock for a sliding switch located just above the arcane battery which he’d slotted into the weapon earlier. He pushed it as far forward as he could, each click sending a slight shiver through the solid, wooden stock.

Scaerthrynne looked towards Ezekiel. “Eyepatch,” he shouted to him. “Get to Val! There’re three levers we need to pull to manually unlock the door! Val can get maybe one or two of them, but she’s not strong or tall enough to get all of them! Go help her, push the door open, and get her through! I’ll get Venn!”

“I got the panel out, Scratch!”

“You’re doing great, Val! Let Eyepatch help with the rest!”

Without another word, Scaerthrynne gripped his musket tightly, pushed himself away from the girder, and retreated towards where he’d seen Ezekiel place Callandra. He slid into cover behind a stack of crates, his shoulders heaving with exertion. The turret was still laying down an intense barrage of fire, by the sound of things, but Scaerthrynne knew that it wouldn’t be enough to take out Furnace. The spellcaster’s attention was focused on it—they would surely be able to bring up a shield to deflect any shot heading their way.

It was down to Scaerthrynne to take them out.

Drawing in a deep breath, he flicked a switch near the lock of his weapon.

Then, he infused it. But rather than feeding the musket his own, innate arcane energy, he used himself as a conduit to channel the condensed, concentrated energy found within the battery into the weapon. Bright lines lit up along its barrel—arcane circuits, carved into the metal—and a hum emanated from its lock and firing chamber. The muzzle glowed blue, then purple, and then white. Vague, ghostly circles, each of them etched with runic glyphs, hovered around the length of the weapon like diabolical halos.

He leaned out of cover and took aim at Furnace. The turret’s blasts had cleared the way for him; had given him a perfect lane to shoot at his target. It was almost like firing at a range.

Scaerthrynne breathed out halfway, held his breath, then pulled the trigger.

The weapon kicked hard into his shoulder, and its crack seemed to shatter the very air itself. A bolt, akin to lightning during a terrible thunderstorm, lanced into Furnace, punching them with a resounding boom, and an incandescent flash. Scaerthrynne didn’t stay out of cover long enough to know the effects of his shot; a glance to know that he’d hit his mark had been all he’d allowed himself.

Smoke curled from his musket’s muzzle, and vapour curled from its lock. It would be a while before it was cool enough to be used again, and so he slung it across his back, and pulled out his pistol. “Get that door open quick,” he said, peeking out of cover again. A shudder rippled through the floor, as if the airship was reminding him of what was truly important. “We’ve to get to the engine room, and soon.”

Race: Aasimar
Class: Paladin
Location: Stormrider; Cargo Hold
Interactions:Scratch & Val @Apex Sunburn
Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute.
Attire: Clothing and gloves
Gold Balance: 87
Injuries: New injuries; concussion, fractured ribs, giant splinter in his leg, injured shoulder, all bruised up. Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.

---

Ezekiel felt it, the strength of The Silver Flame working through him. Guiding his hand, strengthening his grip so that he did not falter in this moment. He could hear the crackle of holy fire in the sound of steel against steel, as the righteous light cleaved its way through wretched darkness.

One hit. That was likely all he had in him right now.

And thank the gods it had been enough.

This moment was more than just two warriors clashing over the fate of an airship. For Ezekiel the scythe wielder in black and red had stood as a representative of Karrnath and all their crimes. Brutal and cloaked in an aura of unfiltered evil that dissipated into the form of worms and serpents that slithered from the light as their avatar fell never to rise again.

He stood for one lingering moment, clutching Retribution like a holy relic, with a deep sense of pride. It rose and burned. The smile that formed from a feeling of true accomplishment became a wince as that burn swelled.

Heartburn. A pressure that seized his heart and burned its way up into his throat. The sickening feeling of guilt deep in his gut followed it. He almost choked on the bitter taste of pride.

Pride which comes before the fall.

His Aasimar blood rejected the feeling, it turned his body against him even at the slightest inclination to stray from his path. To take pride in a kill, to relish in the spilling of blood, to linger in the violence – these were the first steps towards a path strayed into darkness. Ezekiel’s cheeks burned with the shame of his momentary stumble towards such a path.

He stepped around the writhing mass of serpents and worms, he returned to following Scratch’s commands. He wiped the blood from his blade on his tattered sleeve and resheathed the sword. His shoulder burned. The world became an unfocused mess. His injured leg shook with the effort of every step.

Without the promise of battle to sharpen his focus, everything else seized hold. His steps toward Val were slow and shaky, the light of his eye dimmed, and the sound of the turret rattled his bones. A musket shot rang out.

He didn’t bother to check and see if Scratch had slain his mark. He was simply sure the dark elf had; everything that had taken place inside the cargo hold left the paladin without a trace of doubt in Scratch. He simply put one foot in front of the other until he made his way to Val and the door that stood between them and getting out of this mess.

Ezekiel placed a hand on two of the levers and allowed none of the weakness in his body to show on his face as he gave Val a single nod. “At your command.” He spoke and stood ready to pull the levers and then push that door open with every bit of his body weight. The floor continued to rattle beneath their feet.

As Talis began to speak, Meiyu murmured a few soft, serpentine syllables beneath her breath. Her fingers made a subtle, almost graceful movement in the air, casting a quiet veil of soothing arcane energy around the dying girl–a muted spell meant to dull the fear, the pain, the desperation.

“Calm now,” she whispered, “Let the fear drift. Just speak.”

And Talis did.

As the girl laughed–a breathless, pride-tinged sound–Meiyu’s eyes tracked the motion of her hand sliding into her robe. When the crystal emerged, faintly pulsing, imperfect, unique, Meiyu went still.

Her breath caught, soft and precise, like a blade stilling before the strike.

The heartbeat of light in the crystal called to something deep and silent within her. Something ancient. Her gaze sharpened, lashes lowering slightly as she stared at the artifact with reverence and hunger braided together.

“Good girl,” Meiyu whispered low, almost to herself, the words curling from her lips like smoke. “That’s it.”

Even as Phia poured her soul into comforting the girl, Meiyu’s attention remained riveted to the crystal. She heard the ache in Phia’s voice, the raw anguish in every word, but her eyes did not leave the artifact. She noted the way Phia's grief threatened to consume her, saw her spirit fraying with every desperate word she offered the girl now fading in her arms. But Meiyu remained still, laser-focused, reverent.

Magic hummed now, thick and old. The crystal hovered. Chose.

Meiyu’s breath caught as she studied it, the artifact’s glow reflected in her serpent-bright eyes. The hum threaded through her like a chord strummed against bone–resonant, wrong, familiar. Questions bloomed fast in the dark soil of her thoughts: What power nested in that light? Was it sentient? Could it be bound? Was this what the Devil had come for or was it more than even she knew?

She let her gaze linger a moment longer before it drifted downward.

Talis was still.

The girl’s chest no longer rose. Her hand had fallen. Her spirit… gone.

Meiyu’s expression didn’t falter, but a cold stillness settled behind her eyes.

Then she looked to Phia, noting the elf’s labored breathing, the slackening in her limbs, the final collapse of someone who had poured out the last of herself into the fading light. The grief on her face was raw, carved deep, but Meiyu only acknowledged it with the faintest flicker of thought.

And then, silent and poised, she turned back to the task at hand.

Her fingers hovered near Talis again, not to comfort this time, but to search. Her movements were respectful, efficient. A final check, though the girl no longer clung to life. She rifled through the folds of the robe and pockets, seeking… anything else. Anything missed. Her hand moved with precision, never disrupting the moment’s sacred air.

She found a pressed flower tucked in a wax-sealed envelope over the girl’s heart, simple and unassuming. A memento. Sentimental, not magical. There was a locket too–brass and silver–its painted miniature revealing the soft features of a woman who might have been her mother. Meiyu’s gaze lingered a breath longer there, registering it but not dwelling.

A folded paper, too, with words written at the top, "Dear Arin," followed by nothing. Unsent. Unspoken.

And then, the purse. Eight gold. Unremarkable.

Only after cataloguing these pieces did she return her attention upward. Her gaze lifted to the crystal once more.

Then, finally, she reached for the crystal. Not in haste. Not in greed. But in wonder.

With fingers like silk and steel, Meiyu extended her hand toward the artifact, eyes gleaming with something terrible and beautiful. “Let’s see who you really want, then,” she whispered.

And touched it.

A satisfied smirk curled Scaerthrynne’s lips as he took a quick peek around the stacked crates he’d been using as cover and spotted Furnace’s smouldering corpse lying where they’d been shot. So broken was its form, so blackened its flesh, and so deformed its dark armour, that it was almost indistinguishable from the debris it laid amidst. Were it not for tattered strips of crimson fabric still clinging to it, it would’ve seemed as if Furnace had simply vanished into thin air.

“Good riddance,” the dark elf muttered beneath his breath.

He relaxed, but only barely. Slaying that damnable spellcaster was a victory, to be sure, it not one he could fully enjoy. And soon, his attention was taken by the cacophony of harsh, mechanical grumbling laced with piercing, metallic squeals. The noise told him that Vallena and Ezekiel had managed to open the door, and also reminded him that all this—the explosion, the escape from the griffon, the confrontation with Sparkler and Furnace—had merely been the prologue to his troubles.

He drew in a deep breath. One problem at a time. One step at a time.

“Eyepatch,” he called out and holstered his pistol. “You’ll go through first. Make sure the other side’s clear, and that there aren’t any more of these–” he gestured vaguely to the two bodies draped in red “–waiting to surprise us. Leave Venn, I’ll get her on my way out! And Val, follow him after he makes sure it’s safe. I’ll be right behind you.”

“What do you mean, Scratch?” Vallena shouted back, her voice worried. “What’re you going to do?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he repeated. Then, to mollify her, he quickly added, “I won’t take long.”

Without waiting for her response, or another word, he jogged over to the turret. The thing was still chirping and whirring happily as it swept its muzzle left-to-right, right-to-left, eagerly searching for targets that didn’t exist anymore. Scaerthrynne knelt beside it and pressed a finger on its arcane battery. Once again, it lit up in a faint, pulsing blue, as did the web of circuits etched into its body. “You did good.” The dark elf’s words were tinted with fondness. “I’ll have to remember your design. I might bring you out some other time.”

A warble came from the turret, sounding almost like a cheer. The meter on the battery began to fill.

Scaerthrynne clicked his tongue. “Don’t get smug,” he chided in a tone not entirely dissimilar from the type he would’ve used to say the same words to Vallena. The turret squeaked and beep a few times, making a sound that could only be described as a childish, playful laugh. Its circuits flickered once before darkening, and its noises slowed and deepened until they all merged into a singular, constant, low hum.

Then, without warning, it simply fell apart into the debris Scaerthrynne had earlier infused to create it.

He snatched the arcane battery—now almost full—before it hit the ground, stashing it safely into one of his pouches. To let a perfectly good battery go to waste would’ve been a shame, especially during a situation such as this, where a burst of arcane power could very well mean the difference between life and death.

As he hurried towards the cargo hold’s exit, the airship shuddered several times, and light flashed beneath the floor plates—certainly a worrying sight when said plates were each a solid slab of steel roughly an inch thick. It was like the vessel itself was reminding him of the need for urgency. Scaerthrynne didn’t need any such reminders, however; the extensive damage done to this one compartment—and he couldn’t assume that this was the only damaged part of the ship—was more than enough to push him to do something, and to do it quickly. He couldn’t even imagine just how many elemental-arcane energy lines were ruptured, cut, or otherwise damaged.

A particularly strong shiver rippled through the floor. Scaerthrynne grimaced. An elemental could only take so much abuse before it went berserk, and if that happened…

He shook his head as he carefully scooped Callandra into his arms, and slipped through the ajar door, and into the relative safety of the corridor. One problem at a time. Thinking of such an extreme possibility now, when he’d yet to even examine the state of the airship’s subsystems, was pointless. Only after he reached the engine room, and had a chance to gain his bearings, would he be able to come to a proper decision as to whether or not panic was necessary.

“Easy,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, as he set Callandra on the floor. He rested her back against a wall, setting her in a sitting position. “Don’t you dare die, now,” he said quietly and placed a hand on her shoulder for a moment. He patted it twice, then stood up. “Not after all the trouble we just took to get you out of there. You’d better live.”

“You’ll be alright, Venny,” Vallena said and held the woman’s hand. “We’ll make sure, right, Scratch?”

“We’ll surely try,” he replied. The crackling of fires he couldn’t see, and the various torn arcane wiring lining the ceiling and walls, all leaking wispy, colourful trails, didn’t inspire much confidence in him. Just fixing the airship would be enough of a challenge, it seemed, let alone trying to heal Callandra while he was at it. He tried to tell himself that it would be fine, that they had a healer here with them, and that he’d been in worse situations before. Even so, his grimace darkened, and pulled harder on his already dour features.

Vallena, however, wasn’t as glum. As soon as Scaerthrynne had pulled the door shut, and made it secure, the girl charged into him. “We’re alive!” she cheered, her words bouncing off the walls. Wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, she pulled herself in close, burying her face into his jacket. “We’re alive! We made it! We’re alive! We…” She repeated those words over and over again, until they became muffled gibberish spoken directly into his clothes.

“For now,” was what Scaerthrynne wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t leave his mind, not in the face of such relief and happiness. He exhaled slowly through his nose, and looked down at the girl with a smile on his face. Vallena deserved to celebrate their small victory, he supposed, even if he didn’t. She was still just a child, after all. She could be afforded these small comforts and joys.

But that didn’t mean Scaerthrynne didn’t have to be realistic.

“We still have work to do,” he said firmly, placing his hands on her shoulders and, with as much gentleness as he could muster, tried to peel her off of him. The more he pushed, however, the more she tightened her hold on him, and the closer she pulled herself to him. “Alright, Val, that’s enough.” More than a few shades of his growing impatience showed in his tone, but Vallena either didn’t notice, or if she did, she didn’t seem to care. “Come on, Val, we still have an airship to rescue. Let’s celebrate after we do that, hm?”

Vallena looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, and smile sheepish. “Sorry, Scratch,” she said, but didn’t let go. “I-I was just really scared, and I didn’t know if–” She stopped abruptly, her eyes turning curious as they focused on something on the ceiling. “Hey, what’s that?”

“What’s what?” Scaerthrynne asked. He looked up.

And saw a flash of energy surge towards him.

He didn’t even notice what colour it was; it was all he could to bring up an arm to shield his face. The flash struck his sleeve, and pierced it. With his eyes squeezed shut, he never saw it, but he surely felt it—there was a strange sensation radiating from where it impacted his skin. There wasn’t any pain, but he certainly felt…Something. Something hot, yet cold at the same time. Something energising, yet sucking the breath from him, and sapping the strength from his muscles. It was something alien, something that didn’t belong, something that his body instinctively knew it wanted to be rid of.

And yet, it was something that felt…Right. As if this was where it belonged.

Then, the sensation stopped.

Scaerthrynne sucked in a deep breath, his eyes wide, and staggered backwards a few steps. He blinked a few times, his head swimming. What just happened?

“Scratch!”

Vallena’s panicked voice snapped him out of his stupor, and he rushed over to the girl, dropping to a knee beside her. She was shivering, her eyes glued to the rolled-up sleeve of her arm, the very same one which he’d bandaged earlier. The linens, torn to shreds, fell like snow onto the floor. “Scratch, w-what’s that? I-It wasn’t there before!”

There, set into her completely healed arm, was a jagged blue shard. It looked like a piece of broken glass, long and thin, and spanned from her wrist to halfway down her forearm.

“Calm down, Val,” Scaerthrynne said. He ran a hand over the shard. He felt only smooth skin. “Do you feel any pain? Any discomfort?”

Vallena shook her head.

“Okay, then that’s–”

He stopped abruptly, and rolled up his own sleeves, as far as he could. And sure enough, where he’d felt the sensation radiate from earlier, he saw a similar object buried under his skin. Only instead of a shard of glass, his looked more like an elongated disc, set just beneath his left wrist. Despite feeling nothing from it, he couldn’t help but feel a momentary burst of panic and worry. Just what was this thing? It’d clearly come from that burst of energy, but what was that, in the first place?

In all of his four-and-a-half centuries of life, he’d never seen such a thing. That, in and of itself, was a very, very worrying thing. He gulped.

“S-Scratch?” Vallena called to him. She sounded on the verge of tears. “Y-You have one too? What is it? Is it a curse? A-Are we cursed? D-Did the elemental do something to us? Is it angry?”

“No, the elemental didn’t do anything,” he replied.

Then, he drew in a deep breath.

One problem at a time.

One. Problem. At. A time.

What did he know?

Well, it was clearly arcane in nature, that much was certain. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t immediately lethal, otherwise Vallena and he should be dead by now. Neither did it cause any discomfort or pain. Could it be a curse? Maybe, but then who would curse them? Or rather, who would curse Vallena? Scaerthrynne could think of many people who would wish ill upon him, but the girl? That wasn’t likely. Then maybe it was an artifact of some kind, looking for a host? But then why them? Why a girl so young—

He shook his head. He was asking the wrong questions. Or rather, the wrong question.

What did it matter? He could figure out a unified theory of arcanology, or the meaning of life right now, and none of it would mean a thing unless he also figured out how to stop the Stormrider from crashing. If it was indeed a curse, then resolving it now would be meaningless, unless he simply wanted to have the choice of dying by falling from the sky instead of by malicious arcane nonsense.

No, as far as he was concerned, this shard, this magic thing, didn’t exist. Not until the airship was safe.

“Val,” he said, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Val, listen to me, alright?”

She nodded and looked at him, her eyes teary and her breaths shuddering.

“The truth is, I don’t know what’s going on,” Scaerthrynne admitted. “But what I do know, is that unless we get this airship safe, we’re not going to have to worry about what’s going on. Isn’t that right?”

Vallena nodded hesitantly. “Y-Yes.”

“Good, and what do we do when we’ve more than one problem to take care of?”

“T-Take them one at a time?”

Scaerthrynne forced a smile. He didn’t feel like smiling, not with the situation at hand, but he also knew he had to, if only for Vallena’s sake. The last thing the girl needed was to see him unsure. “Good girl. So what do we need to do now? The most important thing?”

Vallena gulped. “S-Save the ship?”

Scaerthrynne ruffled her hair. “That’s the clever Val I know,” he said. “I promise, once the ship’s safe, we’ll figure out what just happened to us, alright?” Of that much, he was certain. It would’ve been one thing had it just been him who got afflicted by…Whatever this was. But this involved Vallena, too. That changed a lot of things. Not figuring this out wasn’t an option. By hook or by crook, he had to solve this problem.

Vallena nodded. She still looked frightened, but she had every right to be. That she wasn’t bawling was an achievement in and of itself. She drew in several breaths to steady herself. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay, Scratch. I-I’ll focus. On saving the ship. A-And try not to think about–” She shook her head. “N-No, no! I’m not thinking about it! I’m not!”

Scaerthrynne couldn’t help but chuckle. “Keep trying. You’ll get it eventually.”

He stood up and, at long last, turned to Ezekiel. “Thanks for the help,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Do you have one of…” The dark elf raised his arm, showing the man the strange object. “One of these, too? If you know what this is, I’d pay good money to find out. But if you don’t–” he nodded to Callandra. “She’s all yours again. I need to get to the engine room to save this ship before worrying about anything else. You’re welcome to follow us, or you can bring her above deck, or the infirmary. You know where it is, don’t you?”

Scaerthrynne started walking down the corridor. “Either way, anywhere’s better than here.” As much as he tried not to show it, there was a sense of urgency, of anxiety in his steps. There was only so much altitude the airship could lose before it was beyond saving, only so much of its airframe that could be ruined before it simply fell apart. Only so much elemental energy it could bleed, before the elemental either simply died, or lost itself to a catastrophic rage.

One problem at a time.

And for now, the problem was a simple one. He just had to get to the engine room. Nothing else mattered.

Race: Aasimar
Class: Paladin
Location: Stormrider; Cargo Hold
Interactions:Scratch & Val @Apex Sunburn, Venn @princess
Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute.
Attire: Clothing and gloves
Gold Balance: 87
Injuries: New injuries; concussion, fractured ribs, giant splinter in his leg, injured shoulder, all bruised up. Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.

---

Ezekiel moved through the door first, ensured the hallway was clear before stepping out of the doorway and leaving room for Val to follow. He continued down the hallway until it opened into a high traffic area for the passengers. The energy matched what had been felt deep within the cargo hold; panic, confusion, and the ambient singe of magic was left in the air. A hint of necromancy too, Ezekiel was sure he caught a whiff of that rot in the air. There was blood splattered on the floor.

The attack had not been limited to the confines of the cargo hold.

As he turned to head back down the hallway, something flew into his eye socket. It slipped right under the eyepatch and lodged itself where it didn’t belong. He could feel the jagged edges, the relative smoothness of the surface despite those edges, and most concerning of all, felt the uncomfortable influence of magic that was not his.

One hand rose but hesitated before he touched his face or even tried to dig whatever it was back out. Instead, Ezekiel looked at both his hands. Entirely too filthy to be poking around for magical debris in his socket, he’d have to figure that out later.

He doubted he could pluck whatever it was out, or maybe he felt he shouldn’t pluck it out, either way; he’d have preferred a bug to whatever this was. He didn’t care for the sensation of outside magic, an artifact whose origins and intentions were unknown to him, having the chance to exert its influence. What strange continuation to an already vexing day that wasn’t even nearing its end. He limped his way back to Scratch and Val, who were in the midst of discussing the similarly strange artifacts that had lodged themselves in the pair as well.

“Thanks for the help,” The elf cleared his throat, the expected question quickly followed.

“Do you have one of…” Ezekiel looked at Scratch’s arm and gave a single nod. He looked in Val’s direction, hesitating before lifting up the cloth that covered what normally was an empty socket. Now a shard of mystical crystal sat lodged within the void glowing with the same intensity as his intact eye but with a blue and purple hue. He figured if the kid was the assistant to a surgeon she had likely seen sights more disconcerting than this.

His gaze turned to Venn as he lowered the cloth back over the eye and hid the crystal shard.

“You do not have one.” It wasn’t a question; merely an observation that the ship's officer was not examining herself for a strange glowing bit of rock. He found that odd.

“The attack was not limited to the cargo hold. We should stick together.” Ezekiel suggested, on the chance that the enemy had regrouped rather than retreated, Scratch should have someone to watch his back while he did whatever needed done in the engine room. The ship continued to shudder as if it too had injuries in dire need of mending.

There was no question what needed the most attention right now.

“And no point in heading to the infirmary if this ship crashes." The engine room was the only logical choice.