InfamousGuy101

Paradise Lost

Vitiafa of Endiohon

---

“Lopez, send some more robots to the passenger boarding corridor as fast as you can. Ease the pressure on the crowd.” she ordered. "And we need more hands to guide those coming aboard."

She paused for a moment, clicking off her own communicator and taking a deep breath. She turned her head to face the quessir at the helm. “Keep that tunnel open until we need to crush a bug with it.”

@Bingelly

Mark A. Lopez

---

“Engineering copies,” Mark muttered into the headset, not even looking up as he shoved another warning window aside. “I’ll push what I can. Just don’t expect miracles.”

He kicked over to the drone panel and dragged three more units into the active queue. The interface lagged, too many manual threads, too much going on at once—but he forced them into sync anyway.

“Alright… single-follow mode,” he grumbled, thumb tapping through configuration menus that should have been automatic.

The lead drone chirped to life and rolled forward, the others clattering along in a loose formation behind it. Their cameras relayed flickering, shaky feeds as they entered the upper corridors. Civilians rushed past them, panicked and disorganized, but the machines carved out a thin bubble of space just by being big, loud, and obviously not human.

“Boarding corridor, follow the person in front of you, go by the side, keep moving!" Mark's voice came through the drones speakers.

The first bug appeared at a junction, mandibles wide, legs scraping metal. Mark forced his focus into the control link and rammed the drone forward. The steel claw caught the creature center-mass, slammed it into the wall, and crushed it in two jerking pumps.

He didn’t breathe until the feed stopped shaking.

He logged onto another drone in the back, chasing motion and into anothed Metacer, shoving its claw straight into the thing’s mouth, and firing its flare. The bug lit up like a bonfire, thrashing out of frame before collapsing in a smoking heap.

“That… works,” Mark muttered, wiping sweat from his jaw.

He forced three more drones to split down different branches, herding civilians toward the ship and creating pockets where people could breathe without getting trampled.

“Vitiafa, you should see them on your end now,” he said, shifting to her channel. “They’re clearing the choke points. I can keep this up as long as the grid holds, but I’ve gotta hop between units manually. One drone at a time. The rest just mimic it. If you need a drone somewhere specific, shout. Otherwise I’m playing whack-a-bug down here.”

Empire of the Clouds

James E. Carter

---

Carter sat stiffly in his chair, his hands clasped loosely before him, the muscle arpund his cheekbones tightened with every new revelation Swaiger delivered.

Fifteen thousand dead. The Quinians cut off. The Imperial Family taken. Only a single princess unaccounted for, likely dead.

He had told himself a hundred times over that this wasn’t his war, that whatever happened east of the Evig wasn’t his to shoulder. But watching Arkadios, the usually unflappable and composed officer, visibly shaken by the news…

It hit him harder than he expected. The old soldier looked like a man who had been told his family had died, for all intends and purposes he had been told just that. Carter felt a heaviness settle in him. Maybe it wad sympathy, maybe the echo of what he had buried back home when the Confederacy’s guns had fallen silent over scorched farmland.

Goddamn mess, he thought. All of it.

He cleared his throat lightly, easing forward in his seat.

“Colonel,” he said, raising hos gloved hand slightly, “any word on the Commonwealth’s stance in all this? Last I heard, they were keeping out of Old Continent affairs, is that still the memorandum of the day?”

Chronicles of Minadra

Jair son of Rensar

---

The road to Ealdormuda wound down from the high ridges in long, dust-bitten turns, its path basking with the day’s hot sun. By the time Jair reached the harbor’s edge, the scent of the sea was heavy in the air, the shipyards were visible, he had not been near the sea in many years now. For a moment he remained still as he looked onto the ever expanding and neverending sight of the sea. Soon enough his arrival into town did not go unnoticed, a lone rider of the Prathmava drew eyes wherever he went and the white headband with blue embroidery marked him plain as one of Tridanu’s steppe folk. He met the stares with the same stoic gaze he’d worn half his life.

Yade’s hooves clicked against the cobbles, her breath rising in pale wisps. She tossed her head once and gave a low, impatient snort.

“I know,” Jair murmured, “Too many walls.”

The mare huffed again, Jair answered with a faint smirk, the pair rode on through the town past dozens of curious and perhaps suspicious glares until they arrived to the docks.

Two locals sat on a bench by the roadside, pipes glowing dimly in the dark. Dockmen by the look of them, their rough hands, oil-stained tunics and faces weathered by salt were dead giveaways. Their talk dwindled as the rider approached and Jair halted Yade a few paces off and leaned slightly in his saddle.

“You’ve seen strangers come through lately?” His tone was leveled but courteous, as much as a lone steppe rider could be, “Not sailors... travelers. The kind who don’t linger long.”

The older man took his pipe from his mouth and squinted up at him, “Strangers, aye. Plenty of ’em since the storms eased. You’ll find your sort inside the inn up a-ways round that corner there,” he said, jerking the stem of his pipe toward the harbor inn. His companion exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke and muttered something that drew a crooked grin from the first.

Jair inclined his head in a silent thanks and nudged Yade forward. Behind him, the two resumed their murmured talk.

The rider guided his mare around the corner, stopping where the shadows from the eaves fell deep. He dismounted without tying her. Yade shifted, her tail flicking once as she looked toward the inn door.

“Patience,” he said softly, running a gloved hand down her neck. She whickered and once more he felt the echo of her thought, wordless prod of amusement that made him shake his head.

He stayed there a while, watching the lantern-lit windows, the silhouettes passing inside. The call of treasure and Turakindi ruins had reached far, but it was the draw of something else that held him, the hope, however faint that somewhere in the bones of the past, a man might find absolution. But habit born of years on the road urged caution; walk into a den of unknown blades and tongues and you might not walk out again.

Yade stamped once, as if in agreement.

After a time, two travelers passed him on their way into the inn. One was a tall man in foreign leathers and another cloaked figure whose gait seemed that of someone who was of a commanding stature. They vanished through the door and the hum of voices rose briefly to greet them. Jair exhaled, swung the reins loosely in his hand, and gave Yade one last look.

“Wait here,” he told her. She met his gaze, ears twitching once as she then lowered her head in understanding.

With that, Jair stepped from the street wall into the inn’s light, the scent of salt and smoke following him through the door. The inn was heavy with smoke and the smell of old ale. Jair’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim lamplight, picking out faces along the rows of chairs and tables as the noise of laughter and talk dulled to a murmur when the door closed behind him.

It wasn’t hard to find the ones he sought. A winged woman with amber hair sat with a Firindorian of striking grace, a pair of men, one foreign and one scarred and, most peculiar of all, a scale-skinned traveler whose voice hissed softly as he finished speaking. The others listened with curiosity rather than fear. That told Jair enough.

He lingered for a moment by the door, brushing rain from his cloak before stepping forward. His boots made little sound on the wood as he crossed the floor and stopped a respectful distance from the table.

“Sounds like you already have one guide,” he said, his voice even as his gaze flicked briefly toward the man who had called himelf Vashra, then to the rest of the company. “I won’t pretend to know all of Morgador… but I’ve ridden near every other corner of this realm once or twice, at least. If you’re heading into mountains or ruins, you’ll want a man who’s done more than follow roads.”

He rested one hand lightly on the back of a vacant chair, the other on his belt where the worn leather met the hilt of a well-traveled blade. “Jair, from the steppe lands,” he added simply, "my mare waits outside.”

Empire of the Clouds

James E. Carter & Itzi Ku

---

Carter stood near the helm beside Itzi, arms loosely crossed as Arkadios’s spoke to the room. He’d stayed quiet through most of the announcement, listening on and weighing the news intentively. There had been no incidents within the crew thus far and he hoped to keep it that way but his lingering suspicions kept at him.

Itzi, by contrast, was all spark again. Eyes bright and chin tilted toward the horizon. She murmured something about the dinner, how “it might be nice to see what nobles eat when they’re not feeding soldiers scraps.”

She then pondered with a grin that she might even drag Nuwa along, just to see him try and juggle in front of royalty.

Meanwhile Carter gave a small huff of amusement at the interaction between Zoe and the officer. His mind kept at the the mention of military commander and the war still raging somewhere beyond the clouds, then on the gold below deck that could decide the fate of everyone aboard.

Once Zoe gave a shrug Carter straightened slightly. “I’ll attend the morning meeting,” he said simply, “Reckon I’d like to know how things stand with Inbur and make sure our agreement still stands, while I’m at it.”

He cast a brief look toward Arkadios, “No offense meant, Captain. Just figure it’s best to be in the room when decisions start being made.”

He left it at that.

Chronicles of Minadra

@RevNorv
Like the app. What we're wondering about is what, exactly do you want Ardashir to be able to do? We just want to be sure he isn't outside of the broad power level of other characters.

@InfamousGuy101
Overall we like the app but there's a few things we aren't super keen on.

Breath of Eruherion - Eruherion is the deity. Why would they worship its breath? The Prathmava aren't supposed to be a primitive/superstitious people: they've just chosen not to settle. They come across as quite superstitious in some of what you have written, particularly around the curse (which isn't an actual curse?) though I am open to this being a particularly superstitious tribe that Jair comes from.

As for the powers of Jair's horse. It's a bit much. From a mechanical perspective I don't want the healing involved as it diminishes the role of healing characters, such as the @enmuni's character. I'm also not keen on the 'whispering storm' stuff - it looks like a Fomorian power set: those are the baddies. It also takes away from the distinctiveness of magical characters. If you stick to it being a faster, stronger, intelligent horse with a supernatural, psychic bond to Jair, that's cool.

@Dyelli Beybi

Edits are done.

Chronicles of Minadra

Jair So'Ren

Character Description

Name: Jair son of Rensar known also as Jair So’Ren
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Prathmava of the Wayfarers of Azure (Tridanu Plains)
Gender: Male
Age: 32
Languages: Central Valindorian (native), Arventian (fluent), fragmentary Sylpharim (picked up through traders and travelers)

Appearance:

appearance

Personal Effects:

• Rider’s Sword, single-edged, slightly curved; forged in the Tridanu for cutting from horseback.
• Steel Dirk forged with Azure markings and personally crafted oak handle.
• Short recurved bow and quiver of fletched arrows.
• Lamellar cuirass of leather and steel, with shoulder and knee plates added from Arventian trade armor.
• Azure headscarf marking his old tribe, worn in faded defiance.
• Traveling cloak and saddle-pack with dried rations, flint kit, rope, small tent, and an old bronze medallion depicting the Maidens of the Wind, once his tribe’s spiritual totem.
• Yade, a blue-grey Prathmava mare. Swift, loyal, and curiously attuned to her rider’s moods.

---

Background:

Role: Sellsword, wanderer, and guide. Formerly Sentinel of the Wayfarers of Azure.
Backstory:
Jair son of Rensar was born beneath the open skies of Tridanu, among the Wayfarers of Azure, a proud tribe of the Prathmava confederation. They were riders of legend, known for their herds and for their devotion to Eruherion’s Breath, a philosophy that taught that the wind itself was the purest expression of the Creator’s will. The Maidens of the Win would read the movements of air and storm as signs of Eruherion’s guidance. Among the Wayfarers, mares were revered for their strength and grace, and by tradition only the Maidens could claim them as mounts, no man could ever claim a mare.

From his father, a horse-tamer and poet, Jair inherited a restless heart and a fierce respect for the old songs of the plains. From his mother, a shieldmaiden of the Maidens’ court, he learned discipline and the harsh truth that honor was often the first casualty of tradition. By seventeen, Jair had served as a Sentinel of the Wayfarers, a scout on the windswept borders where the steppe met the Raxanor foothills.

When his elder brother fell defending a sacred herd from raiders, the Maidens decreed his death “the will of Eruherion.” To Jair, that answer was hollow. On the night after the funeral pyre burned down to embers, he went alone into the storm-lands, grief gnawing at him like frost. For three days he rode through sleet and thunder, searching for meaning — or perhaps punishment. It was there, amidst the howling plains, that he found her.

The mare was silver-grey, fierce and wild, the same that his brother had once tried and failed to tame. But when Jair approached her, he did not reach for the reins. He fell to his knees and wept. He spoke no command, only sorrow, and for reasons he would never understand, the mare did not flee. She came to him instead, lowering her head as if listening. From that moment, something passed between them — not of man and beast, but of two wounded souls recognizing each other. He named her Yade.

When Jair returned astride her, the sky darkened with swirling dust, and the Maidens cried blasphemy. To them, his bond was no miracle but corruption, man claiming a sacred connection forbidden since the elder days. They called it Eruherion’s Reproach, a curse born of arrogance.

By their judgment, Jair was given two choices: to take his own life and cleanse his name, or to slay the “tainted” mare and thus prove his soul loyal to the spirits. He refused both. When the tribe’s shieldmaidens advanced to carry out his sentence, Yade reared and struck them down, scattering the banners of the court in a fury of hooves and storm. The Maidens declared it proof that the pair were touched by the Wind’s Wrath as Jair’s soul had bound itself unnaturally to a creature of the divine, and that the wrath of Eruherion Himself would follow any tribe that took him in.

That night, the elders gathered in the circle of banners and pronounced Jair’s name accursed. He was branded Windbreaker by the elders, a Heretic by all means. They cursed him so that no other Prathmava tribe would ever take him in, for any who did would share in his doom.

Jair wandered the plains, and for a time, other Prathmava tribes took him in. Yet each stay ended the same with whispers, accidents, and fear that his presence invited ill fate. The word “Windbreaker” carried farther than truth and soon he became an outcast among all Prathmava. He turned west beyond the grasslands, taking work where he could. Sometimes a sellsword, sometimes a guide, sometimes a nameless hero in forgotten frontier villages. He fought for merchants and border lords, for the Empire of Varadaban, for men who would never remember his name. He suffered hunger and cold and loneliness in measures few could endure. Yet he always rode on, keeping to the code of his people: honor in trade, fairness in battle, never strike the helpless.

And through it all, Yade remained as the only witness to his better nature and his shame. In time, their bond deepened into something few could name. Those who fought beside him swore that when rider and mare moved as one, the air shimmered faintly with light, and wounds seemed to knit faster; that storms broke against them as if the wind itself were shielding them. Jair denied all tales of magic. “The wind remembers the free,” he would say. “That is enough.”

Now his road has brought him north to the port-city of Ealdormuda, where word spreads of a Sylpharim scout seeking companions for an expedition into the Grey Mountains. They say ancient Turakindi ruins lie buried there, filled with danger and old truths. Jair, weary of coin and conscience alike, listens in silence.

For the first time in years, he feels the pull of purpose, the faint promise of meaning. Perhaps it is the wind calling again, whispering of redemption. Or perhaps it is only the memory of home, and a man too stubborn to stop listening.
Character Intro: The inn smelled of rain and salt when Jair entered. The noise of the door dulled as heads turned, not from fear, but mild curiosity. The white headband with blue markings, the kind worn only by the Prathmava of Tridanu, was a rare sight this far north. He set his bow against the wall and ordered water for his mare before ale for himself. When he drank, he did not smile. The firelight caught on the azure threads of his scarf, and for a moment, he looked less a wanderer than a ghost of a people long forgotten.

Talk drifted between tables, of mountains, the Grey Mountains, and a winged woman calling for riders to brave them. Jair listened in silence, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug, eyes half on the rain that lashed the shutters. Beyond the wall, Yade stamped once, and he felt it before he heard it, a flicker of impatience that stirred behind his ribs like a whisper not his own. She wanted to ride. To move. To answer whatever call the wind carried.

“Mountains,” he muttered, half to her, half to the storm. “If the wind calls, I’ll answer. For once, it may carry something worth hearing.”

He rose, leaving coin enough for the ale and the water and stepped out into the downpour. Yade was waiting, silver-grey and restless, eyes gleaming like steel. He met her gaze as he padded her mane, the rain running cold down his face, and without a word between them, the decision was made.

The Power and The Curse

The Bond of Wind and Flesh
Scholars call it sympathetic resonance; Jair’s people once called it Breath-Shared. Whatever the name, the bond between Jair and Yade is a harmony of will between man and beast, they both seem to know where the other one is, if they're in harm or have been hurt. When they move in battle they do so with one mind, fighting as if guided beyond speech: the mare’s and rider's strengths are amplified, speed uncanny and devastating to anyone in their path, the mare's awareness is almost human. To see them ride together is to witness precision no training could teach.

Apart, they are ordinary; a weary man and his steadfast mare. Together, for fleeting moments, they are a powerful yet still mortal force, in perfect rhythm with the world.

The Curse of the Windbreaker
Superstition has a way of binding tighter than magic. The Maidens’ warning that misfortune would follow any tribe to shelter Jair spread until it became truth through fear alone.

He has lived under many skies since then, taken in by kind hearts and turned away when whispers caught up. To most Prathmava, his name is a story to frighten children, an ill omen. Because of this, Jair hides his lineage and his true self. Yet the secret carries risk as should a Prathmava recognize the mark or the name, it could turn allies against him or doom the company he keeps to mistrust.

In the silence between journeys, he sometimes wonders if the curse is real after all, or if the wind merely punishes him with solitude. He has stopped asking which would be worse.

Chronicles of Minadra

Jair So'Ren

Character Description

Name: Jair son of Rensar known also as Jair So’Ren
Species: Human
Race/Nationality: Prathmava of the Wayfarers of Azure (Tridanu Plains)
Gender: Male
Age: 32
Languages: Central Valindorian (native), Arventian (fluent), fragmentary Sylpharim (picked up through traders and travelers)

Appearance:

appearance

Personal Effects:

• Rider’s Sword, single-edged, slightly curved; forged in the Tridanu for cutting from horseback.
• Steel Dirk forged with Azure markings and personally crafted oak handle.
• Short recurved bow and quiver of fletched arrows.
• Lamellar cuirass of leather and steel, with shoulder and knee plates added from Arventian trade armor.
• Azure headscarf marking his old tribe, worn in faded defiance.
• Traveling cloak and saddle-pack with dried rations, flint kit, rope, small tent, and an old bronze medallion depicting the Maidens of the Wind, once his tribe’s spiritual totem.
• Yade, a blue-grey Prathmava mare. Swift, loyal, and curiously attuned to her rider’s moods.

---

Background:

Role: Sellsword, wanderer, and guide. Formerly Sentinel of the Wayfarers of Azure.
Backstory:
Jair son of Rensar was born beneath the open skies of Tridanu, among the Wayfarers of Azure, a proud tribe of the Prathmava confederation. They were riders of legend, known for their herds and for their devotion to Eruherion’s Breath, a philosophy that taught that the wind itself was the purest expression of the Creator’s will. The Maidens of the Win would read the movements of air and storm as signs of Eruherion’s guidance. Among the Wayfarers, mares were revered for their strength and grace, and by tradition only the Maidens could claim them as mounts, no man could ever claim a mare.

From his father, a horse-tamer and poet, Jair inherited a restless heart and a fierce respect for the old songs of the plains. From his mother, a shieldmaiden of the Maidens’ court, he learned discipline and the harsh truth that honor was often the first casualty of tradition. By seventeen, Jair had served as a Sentinel of the Wayfarers, a scout on the windswept borders where the steppe met the Raxanor foothills.

When his elder brother fell defending a sacred herd from raiders, the Maidens decreed his death “the will of Eruherion.” To Jair, that answer was hollow. On the night after the funeral pyre burned down to embers, he went alone into the storm-lands, grief gnawing at him like frost. For three days he rode through sleet and thunder, searching for meaning — or perhaps punishment. It was there, amidst the howling plains, that he found her.

The mare was silver-grey, fierce and wild, the same that his brother had once tried and failed to tame. But when Jair approached her, he did not reach for the reins. He fell to his knees and wept. He spoke no command, only sorrow, and for reasons he would never understand, the mare did not flee. She came to him instead, lowering her head as if listening. From that moment, something passed between them — not of man and beast, but of two wounded souls recognizing each other. He named her Yade.

When Jair returned astride her, the sky darkened with swirling dust, and the Maidens cried blasphemy. To them, his bond was no miracle but corruption, man claiming a sacred connection forbidden since the elder days. They called it Eruherion’s Reproach, a curse born of arrogance.

By their judgment, Jair was given two choices: to take his own life and cleanse his name, or to slay the “tainted” mare and thus prove his soul loyal to the spirits. He refused both. When the tribe’s shieldmaidens advanced to carry out his sentence, Yade reared and struck them down, scattering the banners of the court in a fury of hooves and storm. The Maidens declared it proof that the pair were touched by the Wind’s Wrath as Jair’s soul had bound itself unnaturally to a creature of the divine, and that the wrath of Eruherion Himself would follow any tribe that took him in.

That night, the elders gathered in the circle of banners and pronounced Jair’s name accursed. He was branded Windbreaker by the elders, a Heretic by all means. They cursed him so that no other Prathmava tribe would ever take him in, for any who did would share in his doom.

Jair wandered the plains, and for a time, other Prathmava tribes took him in. Yet each stay ended the same with whispers, accidents, and fear that his presence invited ill fate. The word “Windbreaker” carried farther than truth and soon he became an outcast among all Prathmava. He turned west beyond the grasslands, taking work where he could. Sometimes a sellsword, sometimes a guide, sometimes a nameless hero in forgotten frontier villages. He fought for merchants and border lords, for the Empire of Varadaban, for men who would never remember his name. He suffered hunger and cold and loneliness in measures few could endure. Yet he always rode on, keeping to the code of his people: honor in trade, fairness in battle, never strike the helpless.

And through it all, Yade remained as the only witness to his better nature and his shame. In time, their bond deepened into something few could name. Those who fought beside him swore that when rider and mare moved as one, the air shimmered faintly with light, and wounds seemed to knit faster; that storms broke against them as if the wind itself were shielding them. Jair denied all tales of magic. “The wind remembers the free,” he would say. “That is enough.”

Now his road has brought him north to the port-city of Ealdormuda, where word spreads of a Sylpharim scout seeking companions for an expedition into the Grey Mountains. They say ancient Turakindi ruins lie buried there, filled with danger and old truths. Jair, weary of coin and conscience alike, listens in silence.

For the first time in years, he feels the pull of purpose, the faint promise of meaning. Perhaps it is the wind calling again, whispering of redemption. Or perhaps it is only the memory of home, and a man too stubborn to stop listening.
Character Intro: The inn smelled of rain and salt when Jair entered. The noise of the door dulled as heads turned, not from fear, but mild curiosity. The white headband with blue markings, the kind worn only by the Prathmava of Tridanu, was a rare sight this far north. He set his bow against the wall and ordered water for his mare before ale for himself. When he drank, he did not smile. The firelight caught on the azure threads of his scarf, and for a moment, he looked less a wanderer than a ghost of a people long forgotten.

Talk drifted between tables, of mountains, the Grey Mountains, and a winged woman calling for riders to brave them. Jair listened in silence, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug, eyes half on the rain that lashed the shutters. Beyond the wall, Yade stamped once, and he felt it before he heard it, a flicker of impatience that stirred behind his ribs like a whisper not his own. She wanted to ride. To move. To answer whatever call the wind carried.

“Mountains,” he muttered, half to her, half to the storm. “If the wind calls, I’ll answer. For once, it may carry something worth hearing.”

He rose, leaving coin enough for the ale and the water and stepped out into the downpour. Yade was waiting, silver-grey and restless, eyes gleaming like steel. He met her gaze as he padded her mane, the rain running cold down his face, and without a word between them, the decision was made.

The Power and The Curse

The Bond of Wind and Flesh
Scholars call it sympathetic resonance; Jair’s people once called it Breath-Shared. Whatever the name, the bond between Jair and Yade is a harmony of will between man and beast, they both seem to know where the other one is, if they're in harm or have been hurt. When they move in battle they do so with one mind, fighting as if guided beyond speech: the mare’s and rider's strengths are amplified, speed uncanny and devastating to anyone in their path, the mare's awareness is almost human. To see them ride together is to witness precision no training could teach.

Apart, they are ordinary; a weary man and his steadfast mare. Together, for fleeting moments, they are a powerful yet still mortal force, in perfect rhythm with the world.

The Curse of the Windbreaker
Superstition has a way of binding tighter than magic. The Maidens’ warning that misfortune would follow any tribe to shelter Jair spread until it became truth through fear alone.

He has lived under many skies since then, taken in by kind hearts and turned away when whispers caught up. To most Prathmava, his name is a story to frighten children, an ill omen. Because of this, Jair hides his lineage and his true self. Yet the secret carries risk as should a Prathmava recognize the mark or the name, it could turn allies against him or doom the company he keeps to mistrust.

In the silence between journeys, he sometimes wonders if the curse is real after all, or if the wind merely punishes him with solitude. He has stopped asking which would be worse.

Empire of the Clouds

James E. Carter & Aden Robertson

Co-write between @InfamousGuy101 & @Terrans

---

Carter had drifted down the corridor with the low hum of the engines filling the quiet. The laughter and clinking glasses of the party faded to a faint echo behind him, replaced by the steady pulse of the ship. Maybe it was the drink getting to his nerves, the noise, or maybe it was the unease still gnawing in the back of his mind, but his steps had carried him further than he’d meant to go. Past the cabins, past the lower stairwell, down toward the hold.

He stopped at the last turn, the air was cooler here, behind the sealed door lay the crates of gold, every ounce of promise and trouble they’d dragged out of that castle. His fingers brushed the latch, hovering there as his thoughts turned. He could almost see the bars stacked in the dim light, each a possibility of new life. He recoiled then, turning around and ready to head back.

Then a faint sound broke the stillness, metal shifting, or maybe the thumping of a boot against the deck. Someone was in there. Carter straightened, the fog of drink thinning in an instant as his hand slid to the door handle, pushing it open just enough to slip through.

The hinges creaked faintly as he stepped into the hold, eyes adjusting to the lamp glows spilling over stacked crates. And there stood Private Aden, half-turned, the faint glow of a cigar in his hand, and his other hand near his holster.

Aden’s hand brushed the grip of the Krausser. The slightly worn metal and wood a second away from drawing.

Recognition and sense however took hold; the scout letting his hand fall away and sticking his cigar back in his mouth.

“Carter.” A few puffs as he eyed the captain.” What brings you down here? Away from the revelry you started?”

Carter’s gaze flicked briefly to the pistol at Aden’s side before settling back on the man’s face. He gave a small, easy shrug.

“Could ask you the same, Private. Though I figure you came down here to clear your head some. Can’t blame you for that.”

For a beat he went quiet, thumb brushing the edge of his belt before he spoke again.

“Listen,” he said, his tone softer, “about earlier with the toast. Didn’t mean to put you on edge if I did. Just words to pass the glass, that’s all.”

“Just words….” Aden let out a scoff. Gaze flicking from Carter to the gold. “Just like this is just metal right?”

Carter gave a low scoff of his own.

“Maybe,” he said casually, “Words only carry as much weight as what a man does with ’em. I got called a war hero back home, got medals, parades, speeches about sacrifice and honor. All hollow as tin when you know what it really cost.”

He took a few steps closer, his eyes moved past Aden’s to the open crate. The gleam of the bars reflecting in his gaze.

“Funny thing, though,” he murmured, half to himself, “men would bleed, kill, and build empires over it. But like you said, it’s just metal. Doesn’t feed a man, doesn’t keep him warm. Yet here we are, guarding it like it’s holy.”

He let the thought hang, then he seemed to wake himself up from his own thoughts as he looked back to Aden, "Any thoughts of what you'd do with your share?"

“Share?” Aden sounded surprised. “I’m a private of the Empire that owns this gold. Most likely I will exit this ship and be either charged for desertion or given orders for the front. Wherever it might lay.”

“Can’t fault you for duty, Private. World’d be a steadier place if more men kept to theirs.”

He glanced again at the gold, “Still, let’s not sell ourselves short. That pile there didn’t just haul itself out of the castle. If it weren’t for you and the others on this ship, it’d be melted down into bullets or sitting in some Communalist vault by now. That’s worth something, hell, if there’s any justice left in this world, it ought to count for more than a pat on the back and new orders.”

He leaned against a crate, “Don’t see you getting hauled up for desertion either. When I was in the city, most soldiers either bolted or switched sides soon as the tide turned. You stuck it out and are still here. That says more than any uniform ever could.”

Carter then made a snall shrug as his eyes moved to a longing distance, the faintest grin returning, “As for me… I’m no hero. Just a man trying to make right what’s gone wrong. Gold like this, my share of it at least, means putting food on the tables of the families my crew left behind and getting a fresh start of my own. New ship, clean slate, it's truly a breathtaking thought.”

“What’s your plan to get back? I don’t see you being able to buy an air ship so soon after disembarking.” Aden replaced the lid of the crate. Giving it a few shoves to ensure it seated properly.

Carter went quiet, his eyes tracing the lines of the cargo bay in thought.

“Fair question,” he said at last, “But that’s my business to sort once we’re on solid ground. All I want is my finder’s fee and I’ll see to the rest myself. Commonwealth’s got an embassy in Mitteland, and if not, there’s always someone who’ll trade coin for passage.”

He pushed off the crate, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve. “This isn’t my war, never was. I plan to keep it that way once we land. As charming as some folk on this ship can be…” he smirked faintly, “while others make a man remember why he prefers the sky.”

“Well you’ll be carrying a small fortune in gold.” Aden redid a latch. “Mighty tempting for whoever takes such passage. Especially with the times of today.”

Carter grinned slightly as he tapped the worn grip of his holstered Harlan .45 with the flat of his palm.

“Tempting, sure,” he said humoringly, "but I don’t carry this 45. for show.”

"Anyone keen to try their luck’ll find out quick I’ve got a stronger sense of ownership than they do of self-preservation, speaking of which... what's that there you carry?”

Aden glanced down slightly to his pistol.

“Krausser P-15.” Aden said unapparent the leather. Pulling the pistol out with a gunslingers twirl; a slight from in his face. A click as the magazine dropped out and the round chambered falling out to Aden’s free hand.

“Replaced my revolver a few months before the war.”

The pistol held butt first to Carter.

Carter took the offered pistol with a faint raise of his brow, it felt lightweight settling into his grip. He turned it over once, studying the shape. Slanted grip, tight precision at its lines, sharp knurling at the grip and the barrel stood out from the plate, a peculiar choice.

“Krausser huh,” he echoed, giving an appreciative nod, “Fine piece of work. Smooth balance, good weight for a sidearm…” he nodded to Aden’s earlier twirl, “Seen men lose fingers tryin’ half that trick of yours too.”

With that, Carter reached for his own worn holster, drawing the Harlan .45 with a smooth motion. The metal caught the light, scuffed but well kept. Holding Aden’s pistol in one hand, he deftly thumbed the mag release and cleared the chamber on his own with the same thumb, the motion crisp and unhurried, he had done it countless of times.

“Had this one since my army days,” he said, offering it to Aden grip first as well, “Swapped in a heavier recoil spring to keep her steady on the second shot, and filed the trigger catch for a cleaner pull. Old girl’s never jammed on me yet.”

Aden took the pistol. Giving it another gunslinger twirl and aiming it an imaginary foe on the bulkhead.

“Too much heft for me.” A test fire caused his brow to wrinkle. “Single Action?”

“Yep, she’s a big girl,” Carter admitted, “Single action indeed, the slide hammer cocks back on the follow-through though. Takes a bit of getting used to if you’re used to lighter pieces, but it gives you consistency. You can feel every shot and eventually control the kick and keep her steady.”

A hint of pride crept into his tone as he added, “Best of both worlds, if you ask me. Kicks like a mule but ain't nothing getting back up from what comes out the barrel.”

Aden thought back to the few times he had used his pistol. The desperation for the draw; the hasty jerking of the holster.

“Prefer just pulling the trigger.” Aden passed the pistol back. Both men ending up with their respective sidearms. “Besides I prefer hitting them long before I would have to use my pistol.”

Carter let out a quiet chuckle as he took the pistol back, loading it and sliding it neatly into its holster.

“Fair enough,” he conceded, “Can’t argue with a man who likes to keep his distance. Still, this is what the boys back in the Main swear by and it works for us, so I stick with it, simple as that.”

“Though now that I’m a rich man, or soon to be, maybe I’ll treat myself to somethin’ finer. Always wanted to see what the fuss was about the Equaterra hunting rifles, figure if I’m ever gonna hunt again, might as well do it proper.”

“Don’t think I’ll take up hunting.” Aden replied. Hand touching the pocket his notebook was stowed in. Among his journal entries and sketches was his shot log. Clean mathematical calculations of his shots taken.

And shots hit.

“Spilled enough blood so far. Don’t see any sign of it letting up soon.” Aden gave a sigh and another puff of the cigar. “Killed a lot of people for Inbur. And I’m not even Inburian. What a world.”

Carter’s expression softened, his posture easing as he leaned a little against the crate beside him.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I get that.”

He rubbed his thumb along the ridge of his nose, “Did my time for the Commonwealth. They called me a hero too... pinned a few bits of tin on my chest, threw parades, speeches, all because I dropped bombs on a city full of civilians...” He gave a long silent stare for a moment then a humorless smile, “Never felt like one, not once. I didn't come out of a war with pride, just a longer list of ghosts and things I wish I'd done different.”

His gaze shifted to Aden, "So yeah... What a world."

Chronicles of Minadra (High Fantasy RP Concept)

Huzzah!

Empire of the Clouds

James E. Carter & Arkadios Andreaou

Co-write between @InfamousGuy101 & @Dyelli Beybi

---

Carter’s mind continued to race, the liquor's warmth sharpening edges he might otherwise have ignored. Too easy to picture Volodar whispering poison into Arkadios’s ear, bending a fair man’s judgment toward the sort of highborn arrogance the elf wore like a second skin. Carter could still hear that first sneer, an "uncultured Mainer", clear as the day it was spat.

He knew better than to leap to conclusions but gold had a way of turning people into their worst and Zoe’s talk of ministers and royals, Itzi’s doubts, Mitunbaal’s own insight, it all wrapped in his head until the thought of leaving his cut in other men’s hands felt like a fool’s gamble. His share was owed, he felt it was at least, he’d done more than enough to earn it, same as the rest.

Still… Arkadios had shown himself steady, a cool headed leader amidst this disparate crew. It was best to speak plain with him before suspicion soured into something worse. Better that than jumping the gun, quite literally.

As fate had it, the two men rounded the corner just then, returning from wherever they’d slipped away. Carter straightened from the wall, smoothing his features into a casual half-grin that didn’t quite hide the qualms behind his eyes.

“Was beginning to think you two’d fallen clean off the side,” he said, tone easy with a bite of humor.

His gaze settled squarely on Arkadios, “Would’ve left us in a real sorry state without your hand at the tiller.”

Arkadios gave a slight shrug, his expression inscrutable, "I'm sure you would have managed to find your way to one of the cities in Mitteland. We are over the border now."

Carter pushed off the wall and gestured back towards the dining hall.

“Captain, if you’ve the time, I’d welcome you for a drink. Good to share a glass with the man steering us straight.”

Arkadios paused, then inclined his head politely, "I can have a drink, though I will keep to the one. I would like to have a clear head for once we are landed."

“Fair enough, Captain. I understand wanting a clear head, god knows I’ve spent enough nights with the opposite.”

Once at the bar Carter got a hold of a pair of clean shot glasses and unstoppered a squat bottle he’d tucked aside earlier.

“Nordisles stock,” he explained as he poured, the golden liquid catching the lamplight. “Half mead, half Inburian wine. Smooth enough to go down easy.”

He slid one glass toward Arkadios and raised his own, and tipped it forward with a quiet clink, “To your health, Captain and to the Communalists’ defeat.”

He downed his shot, savoring the warmth in his chest before setting the glass aside. For a moment he simply leaned on the bar, then he spoke.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask. I know you’re not a man to leave this continent or its fight anytime soon. But say one day the war is over, the Communalists gone to dust… what then? What’s a soldier like you plan to do when the guns finally quiet?”

"I'm a career soldier, Mister Carter," Arkadios remarked, "When this war ends I will retain my commission... provided we win... and I will return to barracks with the Regiment until such time as I decide to retire. I will try to ensure my unmarried sons and daughter find suitable matches and will live out my remaining days in my house in my village. I may even purchase an automobile."

Carter nodded along as Arkadios laid out his future in that steady, deliberate way of his. For all the liquor humming through his blood, he found himself almost admiring the man’s outlook. A clean vision, ordered, nothing more.

“Can’t fault that,” he said after a moment, “Sounds like you’ve got a damn sight clearer plan than I ever managed.”

“I was a soldier too. Commonwealth put me in uniform when the last war with the Confederacy boiled over. Got my share of medals for it too, but it didn’t take me long to realize I wasn’t cut for barracks life or marching drills. Figured I’d rather see the world than stay, so I signed on with traders instead...”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone stayed friendly, conversational, “Still… hearing you talk about your family, your sons, your daughter… can’t help but wonder. When you talk of providing for them, making sure they’ve got something solid to inherit, I reckon part of that must be what’s stacked down in our hold right now, isn’t it? That gold.”

"They have the education and connections to make their way in the world," Arkadios replied with little apparent concern, "As for the gold - I will take no share of it. I am an Officer in His Imperial Majesty's Army. It is my duty to collect the gold and return it to His Imperial Majesty's Government. I am already paid for the privilege of serving. I have no right to expect additional recompense simply because some of His Majesty's gold reserve passed through my hands."

Carter gave another small nod, “Can’t say I don’t respect that, Captain. Duty’s duty....”

He rolled his glass between his fingers before setting it down, “For the rest of us however that share’s no small thing. I’ve got debts to square with the Company for the ship I lost, and more important, families of my crew who never made it out, they deserve more than a letter and a prayer. That gold means I can see them looked after proper, and maybe even put down roots of my own. Shipping line, small but mine. Something worth building instead of just drifting.”

He leaned back a little, “You said yourself you’re paid for your service. Well, as a private man who was burnt from this war it only stands to reason that me and the rest get ours. We hauled that haul through hell. The vast bulk’s going back to the royals and ministers either way, and I’d wager it won’t be spent half as wisely as folk like you could manage.”

"You have personal debts for a lost airship?" Arkadios raised an eyebrow and chuckled, "Might I suggest filing for bankruptcy before you get paid."

Carter let out a dry laugh, "If only it were that simple, Captain. The ship itself was insured, the Company’ll write it off and slap the papers across some clerk’s desk but the fittings I put into her... reinforced gaslines, the extra lift valves, half the bloody engine work... those weren’t in the ledger. Came out of my own pocket to keep her skyworthy. The Company won’t cover a copper of it.”

He reached for the bottle, pouring himself another splash though he didn’t lift it just yet, “And you know how higher ups work, they’ll need someone to point the finger at when the insurers start asking why a full cargo’s gone up in smoke and the passengers are unaccounted for. Who better than the captain who signed off on the assignment?”

For a moment his eyes dropped, lifting up his brow with a sunker glare, “So yeah... My life’s in ruins unless I make it right. My crew’s families too, Evig’s not gonna look after widows and orphans... Not a chance. They’ll be lucky if they even get word of how their sons and brothers died. That gold… that’s the only way I can see them made whole.”

He finally took the drink, setting the glass down with a quiet clink, “That’s why I’ll fight tooth and nail for my share. Because if I don’t, there’s nothing left but ruin.”

"I would simply not pay," Arkadios replied, his expression deadpan, "Though I suppose you did sink some of your own funds into the ship which I would recommend against doing to any assett that doesn't belong to you."

Carter gave a short laugh, “Hindsight makes a fine damsel, doesn’t it? I should’ve left her the way she was but truth is, Captain, those modifications kept us flying when the work was lean and the competition was cutthroat. Extra lift meant we could haul heavier cargo than the next man, reinforced gaslines meant we could take routes through rougher skies without springing leaks every other week. Those jobs paid better, and those jobs kept my crew fed.”

He paused for a moment, “Maybe I was a fool for sinking money into a hull that wasn’t mine, but I’ll tell you what, it worked. Until the war rolled over Inbur and chewed us all up in the gears.”

Arkadios paused, looking confused, "Do you not get paid a salary? Are you saying you get paid on commission?"
Carter shook his head, “The Company kept us on a salary of sorts. Enough to keep the pantry stocked and the coal bins filled but nothing to set a man ahead. Regular pay’s fine for a man who never leaves the docks, but when you’re out in the wind and storm, risking the whole damn hull every trip, it don’t stretch far.”

“Where the real coin came in was commission work. Special hauls like fragile goods, high value cargo, or routes no one else wanted to fly. That’s where the modifications paid for themselves. We could carry more, get there faster, take jobs others wouldn’t touch. Inbur was one of those jobs as a matter of fact.”

"Are you saying your salary needed to cover routing vessel maintenance?" Arkadios looked astouded by this proposition, "And you installed modifications to do off-the-books work?"

Carter let out a short breath through his nose, “Not what I said at all, Captain. The Company handled basic maintenance, our wages weren’t paying for new gas valves or fresh canvas.”

He paused for a moment as he looked at the nordisles bottle, “What I did pay for were the extras. Reinforced lines, stronger lift cells, rigging modifications. Things that weren’t standard issue but made her fly better, safer, and most importantly, worth more to the clients. That’s how we got the commission work because we could haul more, go further, take the jobs others couldn’t. Nothing under the table about it. Just making my ship more capable than the next one in line. Some of us hoped we could eventually pay it off from the Company and go independent... Fantasy now.”

For half a heartbeat, he smirked to himself, off-the-books work, hell, if they only knew… but gave Arkadios a steady look, “Point is, it was an investment. It was paying off until the war chewed it all to pieces.”

"Be that as it may though, I'm glad to be of service to the Inburian cause even if briefly," He raised his glass to Arkadios, hoping for a clink.

"Thank God we all made it out of that city alive," Arkadios raised his glass in response

Carter's clinked with Arkadio's in that moment. The conversation had eased the edge off some of his doubts, the Captain was a good man, straight-backed and collected, the kind that meant what he said about duty and country. But Carter had lived long enough to know that good men didn’t always get the final say and still felt that once the gold reached the hands of admirals, ministers, and royals, honor had a way of turning into ledger entries and excuses.

He turned the glass in his fingers, watching the shallow remnant of amber light twist across the surface. Good man, that Arkadios, he thought. Shame the world don’t pay much mind to good men when there’s gold involved. Still the tension in his shoulders eased, he’d keep his eyes open, play his hand smart, and make sure he and the rest got what was due.