Deadlands, South of Cindersend
Three years ago
Three years ago
[OOC: Survival, exploration, conflict. We've just survived an airship crash, but are now in an area where natural shroudweaving is near impossible, and shroudstones present dangers of their own. What do we do?]
They called it a „controlled descent.“
Zayad would've called in an undignified nosedive into the ass end of the world, but he was trying to be diplomatic. The Deadlands weren't much for sarcasm. Neither was the groaning frame of the downed airship, now sprawled across a shallow dune basin like a stranded whale. One engine gone. Hull cracked. Water barrels cracked worse.
Somewhere in the distance, crates of cargo lay scattered across the sand, breadcrumbs for scavengers whose eyes hadn't already dried out.
The engineers were optimistic in the way only desperate men could be.
„One, maybe two days.“ They said. „We can patch her up if nothing else fails.“
Zayad had heard that one before.
They had tools and talent, but not enough water.
Not for everyone. Not for a second failure.
And if he remembered the maps well, this wasn't just Deadland – it was the edge for the Ardent Fields, where armonium storms had been known to glass the dunes overnight, and maniacs calling themselves Flamebreakers roamed like humorless myths. Story was that you never saw their banners until it was too late. Just smoke, heat, and the sound of steel being impatient.
The nearest marked settlement? Cindersend. Days away if you were lucky. Dead if you weren't.
Getting there held its own dangers. It was a lawless place. And in their current condition they were likelier to be sold than helped. Maybe someone could reach it, or already had. Or maybe the worst thing wasn't the desert, but the decisions made in waiting.
Most of the shroudstones he had hidden around the ship were now lost somewhere in the sands. A blessing in that, perhaps. He wasn't sure it would've been smart to try squeezing the shards too tightly in the dead zone – it was asking to be drained in turn. In this moment of desperation, he finally understood the necessity of blood weaving. One was never truly out of resources, merely out of courage.
The airship still offered some shelter. A crooked shadow in the vast empty. But what came next – wait or walk – was going to need more than clever arguments and empty flasks.
Zayad stayed near the twisted loading bay, staring down at the cracked shroudstones he'd used to warm tea. No glow. Not even a spark. He clicked his tongue and turned to those nearby.
„Well... if someone has a miracle or a working canteen...“ A dry half smile to match the decorum.
„Now would be an excellent time.“