The decking jumped and lurched. Slipping on blood-slick timbers, Faramund went down on one knee, then all fours as the ship continued to shake and buck, like a beast of burden driven too hard for too long. Bodies flailed for purchase as the Vasdaya heaved skyward. Faramund saw more than a few unfortunate souls cast headlong over the gunwales. Mostly raiders, though one could never be too sure.

The officer was the only one he recognised, and only because he nearly ended up joining her over the side.

'Take my hand!' He yelled, trying to ignore how close they'd come to being gutted by the army of sentinel pines standing at attention below them. The Vasdaya tried dragging him away from the edge as it gained altitude. He held on stubbornly, an arm outstretched and grasping. 'Come on,' he shouted again as one of the ship's loyal hands came over to assist him. The Captain's voice cut a swathe through the rest as he bellowed orders and flight adjustments.

'She's healin' up!' A crewman would be heard to say as, together with the hand, Faramund helped pull the officer back onboard. 'Gauges are tickin', praise Taerah! Engines... Yes! Engines are reading strong and steady!'

Praise Taerah indeed, thought Faramund as he stumbled across to a deck hatch, eyes up and scanning. Now, where's that raider?
 
​
Up and up the ship did sail. Engines full with wicked wail.

Whilst three souls cant their hymns to stars, their voices reaching for moons deep scars. Chorus there in all the gloom, those threads of shroud that denied them doom.

Into the engines, with practiced rhythms. Fingers and palms whipped and smoothed. Raked and scraped across the form. That they could go on dreaming. That the stones and hammers, held strong their work.

Lungs did pump, as needles struck. Whilst muscle and bone pushed and pulled, turned tight relax.

Over the Old Woods the Vasdaya did sail, until the weavers work did fail.

Bebin, Syr Theros, felt there in, poison blade's deep touch. A spasm where the knife had ended, too much of his will worked to mend it. The pain pulled him down. Mouth twist to teeth and grimace. Heart gripped by cold steel claws. Onto a knee, the knight did fall. Head hung over the hurt of it all.

The Vasdaya rumbled. Its propellers slow. Wing-sails made to tremble.

Malik and Kerran strained to hold the shroud woven. Bound as they were in sympathies trance, Fingers flexed to claws. Jaws clamped down like vice.
 
The Vasdaya juddered as Faramund descended, leaving the clean-up to those who knew what they were doing. Deck by deck, he made his way down to the engine room, each breath the airship took sounding less laboured than the one that preceded it. To Faramund's untrained ear, it seemed as if the storm had passed. Nothing but clear skies and smooth sailing ahead.

If only they were so lucky.

The marines stationed outside the engine room bristled at his approach, though they quickly relaxed upon seeing his face. 'How fares the watch?' Faramund asked them, as if he hadn't just helped fend off enemy boarders. The men shared a look. 'All quiet,' the older of the two replied. 'Though, you might wanna get in there. Your mate looked none too peachy, last we checked.'

'That's just Bebin,' Faramund reassured them. He went in all the same. And a good thing, too.

'Bloody cold in here, ain't it?' Drawing tight his crimson cloak, the dawnling watched his breath turn to mist before his very eyes. Shroud permeated the stagnant air within the engine room, lines drawn, carved into the timbers, as if to lend direction, or else to bind. Faramund had seen its like before, many a time. The significance might have been lost on him, but he was still careful not to cross over or interrupt the pattern.

No point going through all this effort just to fuck it up now.

'On your feet, now, Syr!' Going to Bebin's side, Faramund placed his hand under the dusker's arm, helped him stand as much as he was able to, which wasn't much, admittedly. 'We're not safe yet. You have to keep going, for all our sakes.' Blood wetted the Pursuant's robes, Mund noted, a grimace hardening his features. 'Have you a Shroud Stone to draw upon?' He asked Bebin, becoming the man's legs for as long as it took him to regain his strength.

'That should put a little pep in your step, unless you feel like a good slap would serve you better?'
 
"Fool arse," Bebin hissed through his teeth. "Do you think them tablets of bitter powder?" he huffed a laugh through the cloud of red that hazed his sight. Shook his head. "No, it's up to them now,"

Bebin nod to Kerran and Malik, the two wide eyed as their hands held firm the weave of fingers and cup of palms that signed their mudras. Practiced movements flowed through with strained effort, as all the shroud about them whipped and whirled in colors of biting cold. Blue as ice, black as water, pale as snow clouds in the dead of night.

"Help me down, unto the locus ring," he said with a keel of his head. Worked unto the ring, he sat up as straight as he could. Filled his lungs with breath. "If I falter, keep me tall," he grunt, and pushed out. Bebin Took his left hand, reached over to the wound in his right side. Dipped fingers there into that blood, and smeared it over the rune-lattice.

It burned the hotter. Red and orange. The whispers of the shroud grew louder. Carried the voices of the young Weavers all the more as the shroud engine kept working, and chugging and ringing with all its remaining hammer pins.

Words of power poured from the Duskers lips. Sounds the knocked like river stones stirred from rest. Set to tumble by currents that cut through mountain and earth to spill out into great sea.

Where in the river flows, the world grows along its banks,
Life carried there, where across its currents, brave fins set to splash.
Like the leap it takes, like the stroke it breaks, up the river still,
With rotted flesh, and failing head, the braver dead, do spill,
Life there,

The two weavers at their side cant the words. The spell solidified once more. The engines hammered on. The shroud wove on.

Over the crackle of the Vox Crystal, "We are taking her down for a landing! Brace yourselves!" the captain called.

Down over a lake, the Vasdaya flew. Lower and lower it went. Its duck bellied hull cast its shadow over the crystalline waters, as smoke trailed from the overworked props.

The prow dipped in, the waters split and sprayed alongside its sides, and the beaten up old ship cut across the lake in a rush. All the crew and passengers inside and atop the deck were rocked by the slam of liquid against vessel. The weavers and Mund flung across the frozen floor of the engine room.

 
Collision put the dawnling on his back with a grunt. Powerless, he found himself unable to stop the slide that followed the Vasdaya's forced landing. Down, she went, then up, as if buoyed by the very waters into which she'd plunged. The three weavers rose with her, each sliding or slipping or flying towards the bulkhead Faramund currently found his feet planted against.

Kerran was the first to find his own. Malik's followed as the tremors subsided. There was a crackle, faint, like ice breaking underfoot.

'We are down,' came the Captain's voice over Vox, 'safe landing!' Faramund let out a sigh, his relief palpable. There was another burble of static as the Captain relayed instructions to the crew. The engine room's door creaked open. A head appeared in the breach. 'Syrs? Enginseers?' One of the marines? Of course. Even with the ship falling out of the sky, they had not abandoned their posts. Sitting up, Faramund cast about for his brother, shooting Malik a grin as the weaver fought to catch his breath.

'We're okay- we're alright!' Clambering to his feet, Faramund wobbled over to where Bebin sat, propped against one of the engine props. His clothes are damp, but that ain't blood staining them. Without magic to sustain it, the ice coating the decking had thawed rapidly, leaving them all soaked to their skins. Shivering in his robes, Malik waddled over to join Faramund, hands buried in the wide sleeves for warmth. 'Is he okay?' The weaver asked. Kerran joined them.

'I'm sure he can answer that question himself, eh, syr?'

Nodding, Faramund lent Bebin his paw.
 
Lay there in the steam of it. Soaked to the bone of it, and turban off-kilter, Bebin let his mind spin with it. All of it. The mess that had met them amidst the sky. The magitech arm spring-loaded and set to pop. The poison he could feel burn through his blood.

Pour out of his sides.

A breath in. A breath out.

A paw offered. A paw given.

Clasped at the wrists and pulled up with a grunt and no small effort. "I'll live," he assured the lordling, shift his weight with a twinge and sharp breath that drew the whole of him to one side. Brows screwed tight, lips down turned. Glad to have the Dawnling there for support.

"The more comfortable for it, if one of you see to this dreck coursing through my veins," he grit his teeth. Tried to right himself the more as they made for the sodden exit way. Muscle failed him and he sagged against his brother. Steam whistling. It swirled and misted all about the busted shroud engine.

He had never felt more connected to a piece of twisted metal. Bent and broken. So near to its ultimate failure.

Bebin shook his head. "We'll need to see if anyone still breathing can wrought that mess back together again,"
 
A grunt as Mund knocked on wood. 'We're alive, ain't we?' The engine room's door cracked open again, the marines stood guard parting to let the weary weavers through. 'I'm sure there's a seer or two left aboard this tub with the matter to get it moving once more.' From the waterways to the air, and on towards their final destination.

A day or more to effect repairs, another to see us safe, Faramund did the math, perchance skipping a few fingers in the process.

'Here, syr, let me help you.' Appearing at Bebin's side, Malik aided the injured knight, taking up the slack whilst Kerran wove a counterspell to drag the poison from Bebin's veins. Together, they made their way topside, towards light and the eerie cry of gulls circling overhead. Shouts and slings kept the scavengers at bay as sailors went about their duties. 'What now, Syr?' Malik asked, nose furrowing at the stench in the air. 'Should we search for the Doctor?'

'Not a bad idea, that,' Faramund nodded, adjusting his grip on the dusker. 'Kerran, lad, would you mind? I've got my hands full here.' And I ain't leaving Bebs or the boy alone again. Now nor never. 'Lost without me, you are,' he grinned, crossing to the gunnel. Water lapped gently against the hull as they gazed out over the lake. He looked to them, then, a grin plastered upon his face.

'Fancy a swim?'

FIN ​
 
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