Open Three Crates and a Dream

[Dyvir D'Acard]

Night, the sky over the Kaikias Desert

"About time then." Dyvir intoned, pushing off the railing to grab hold of the Cranefisher's yoke, blinking his eyes to refocus them from squinting down at the sea of sand.

"Aye Captain." Jhrun, his Orkin first-mate responded, before bellowing out, “All hands, brace!”

Dyvir closed his eyes, let the sky fall away, aimed the Cranefisher towards the earth, and let the solid, reverberating wood of the deck and the controls in the calloused palms of his hands be his last tethers to the world. He sipped the cool desert air through teeth clenched in a grin as he felt his weight start to shift, his shoulders blessedly unburdened for the first time in weeks, the toes of his boots wedged into little metal scoops he’d personally nailed to the deck. He could almost, almost, even forget his business that night.

He was clinging to the controls now as great gusts of wind whipped past him, he could feel the air hollowing out the Cranefisher’s sails, felt how she shuddered at the speed of their dive.

Just a little longer, then we both breathe.

The Cranefisher groaned as they put on more speed, the wind deafening now, hurtling down towards the earth, careening down to oblivion.

Dyvir’s eyes flew open as he hauled back hard on the controls of the airship, one foot kicking at a lever that allowed buoyant gas back into the balloon envelope. There was a symphony of snapping sails, the whipcrack of taut lines, and his crew crying out to each other with glee and dismay as their dive turned into a shriekingly fast glide over the dark sand with naught but a soft scrape as the Cranefisher’s hull clipped the top of a dune below. Jhrun shut down the Cranefisher's twin whumpfing Shroudstone engines as they leveled off, and now they were truly a ghost in the air, an apparition heralding dismay and lost fortunes to those below.

In the space of a few breaths hurtling over the sands, the dark outline of their target suddenly came into sight, the Mirahj’Dahl mining camp illuminated in the darkness by a sparse few pinpricks of light from their torches and fires. Dyvir’s eyes flickered over the dark shapes below, mapping out their camp— tents and campfires off to the south, airship landing platform near that to gather up whatever shroudstone they found, dig zone in the center. Probably thirty workers and guards all told, they’d have to move fast.

Dyvir banked the fins to bleed off momentum, until they were hovering directly over the north end of the site in silence.

“Hold her steady, aye?” the half-elf tossed over his shoulder to Jhrun, one pair of tanned wind-scoured hands took over for another with a considered nod. Dependable-sort, only took a few touches careening down from the sky for them to not turn a deeper shade of green.

Still calls me mad though…

Dyvir hopped over to the starboard side of the airship, along with his handful of other chosen raiders. A few new hands there, scraped up from the bottoms of barrels, bottles, and streets of the Cindersend, but there was no shortage of desperate folk trying to make their way in the world.

Even if they had to ride straight down a hundred feet of rope to do it.

Dyvir cranked another lever and long ropes ending in hooks fell from the Cranefisher down to the sand, the top of the rope strung with a line of mechanical handles. With a nod to the rest of his assembled miscreants, he grabbed hold of the bottom clamp, and with a whirr of tiny wheels, he was zipping towards the ground.


Minutes Later, in the camp...

Dyvir swore under his breath as he fumbled with a length of thick chain, trying to get it cinched around a chest high crate loaded with shroudstone as his raiders did the same, snuffing the nearby torches and similarly working to prepare the other crates for a speedy abduction.

They had arrived before their prize had fully ripened, only three crates were half full of crystals, but that mattered little now that they were committed. On a raid, once landed, the matter at hand narrowed immensely to one point; getting out alive. And the best way to do that was to follow the plan, which Dyvir had found was excellent motivation to stay on-script.

A cry suddenly went up from the guards’ tents nearby, and the cold chill of adrenaline spiked through his veins. Quickly, Dyvir tossed his length of chain to one of his other crew members, and hopped down off the crate, shaking out his shoulders. This was fine, they were almost ready.

So it’d be a fight after all, and he'd see if the other scoundrels they'd brought into the fold were up to the task.

Dyvir reached for the hilt of his cutlass, palmed empty air, felt panic nudge at his throat.

Ah, relief washed over him, no, he’d thrown it on the other hip today, right, Jhrun had been telling him to try new things, "tRy A cRoSs DrAw".

Dyvir rolled his eyes and grabbed confidently at his other side, came up empty again. Fuuuuuuuck.

Come to think of it, he had felt a lot lighter since they landed, had put it on account of it being an auspicious day. Now he wasn’t so sure, as he saw the first guards starting to run towards them from the campsite, cold steel glinting in the light of their torches, and a drum started beating a rousing tattoo into the air. He ducked behind the crate just as an arrow splintered the wood next to him.

Not every job could go smoothly after all, that was life, but one would be nice.

 

[Sauvignon]

Sauvignon was retching up what was left of his dinner while others worked on securing the new cargo. It turns out he was not suited for suicidal aerial maneuvers. A lesson well-learned and hopefully never repeated. He'd regurgitated rather quietly as subterfuge was the task at hand. The stavesmith would've stayed onboard except he didn't trust a single one of these reprobates. Sauv needed to insure the quality of the soon-to-be-absconded goods. He doubted a pirate could differentiate fine shroudstone from a pebble.

One could say he was a partial investor for this little jaunt into the sands. Materials had become increasingly hard to come by and the prices of those available were exorbitant. Sauv's smithing was sacred artistry in its own right but even he needed to eat. The last order he took nearly drove him insolvent. Then a fortnight past, trouble truly found him. A request from one of the First Weaver's disciples, not something to be rejected.

Now here he stood in the company of scoundrels with a light stomach. Sauv figured they were about finished when cries erupted from the camp.

Sacred Sculptor save me...

He found the captain just as the twang of a second volley echoed in the night. Sauve wove words of power as he dragged his free hand in an upwards motion. A wall of sand intercepted a trio of arrows, blunting their speed but not entirely able to stop them. The projectiles landed lazily a few feet in front of them.

"Captain, I thought this was to be a quiet affair. I'd assumed that's why you didn't bring you blade..."

 

[Dyvir D'Acard]

"No hesitation, can’t be, and if you’re going to say something, say it with your chest.", that’s what his father liked to say. Granted, his father would say that and then shank someone from behind that he’d just been agreeing with. Life was complicated.

Dyvir watched with satisfaction as one of the new hands stepped forward, words of power echoing into the night over the din of the onrushing guards, and swept a curtain of sand around them. With a dulled swish, the next salvo of arrows fell harmlessly before them. And more importantly for a pirate temporarily sword-poor, shielded them from sight. He wracked his brain for a name to put to the magic; this was the wine man, with the sticks. Even still, it was but a moment before the first silhouette of a guard started to struggle to press through the barrier.

Life was complicated, but Dyvir’s next course of action was blessedly easy.

The pirate whirled out from his hiding place and started forward, yanking the arrow from the wood with a muttered “need this…” He shuffled towards the wall of sand, snapping the shaft in his hand so he was left with a good fistful above the metal arrowhead, and as the first guard started to clear the sand, blinking and disoriented, Dyvir rammed his makeshift dagger through his neck in a spray of dark ichor, his other hand shooting out to neatly relieve the dying man of his blade and pull it back through the sand triumphantly. “...and this.”

Dyvir flashed his best grin in response to Sauvignon, the one that got him into and out of trouble just about equally by his reckoning.

“You ever had an affair mate? If they’re quiet you’re not doing it right.” He gave his new sword an assessing spin in his hand as he heard the reassuring ‘whumpfwhumpfwhumpf’ of the Cranefisher’s engines start to reverberate through the night sky.

There was Jhrun, dependable as ever, dragging the lines that would carry them all back safety, gods willing. And, if any of them were cut down, no one in the Cindersend ever felt sorry for too long while they had a bigger cut of the winnings…

That was the last well-formed thought Dyvir had before a swarm of guards came shoving their way through the sand, and then he was growling, savagely fighting to clear space, writing his path back to the sky in bloody slashes and the end of other men’s stories.

 

[Sae Walsang]

Like the few on the crew who were used to Dyvir's particular brand of flying, more like nearly crashing, Sae settled herself against the rigging of the sails. Wrapping rope tightly about her wrists and twisting her foot in for good measure. She watched as a few of the new crew didn't make themselves so ready. They'd learn, quickly too. The wind whipped through her hair, the grin on her face at the thrill of the dive. At some point, she was sure they would crash into the sands, but why worry about something that may or may not happen today.

The Cranefisher arced as Dyvir leveled the vessel out, the move swift and sudden, but practiced. She felt her small body jerk against the ropes, yet she held in place as the ship skimmed low over the sands. On her back were a pair of short swords, ready to disembark onto the sands as they drew to a halt near the camp. Releasing her grip, Sae threw herself to catch at a hanging rope, sliding down the length until her feet hit the deck with a light thump.

As Quartermaster, it was part her responsibility to help lead the raiding crew, so with Dyvir she grabbed another of the mechanical handles on a different rope sliding to the sands. Once everyone was down, she lifted one of the hooks pulling it toward where the chests sat ready to be thieved. Only they weren't full. How unfortunate. Yet couldn't be helped as she started attaching her hook to the chest in front of her. Her small hands working the mechanics deftly, locking the hook in place just as an arrow buried into the wood next to her hands.

She reached out flicking the lever and the crate began to be drawn back to the ship. The diminutive woman drew her swords running toward the rest of the party. Just in time to see the Captain steal the sword from a dead guard. "Trying out a new weapon Captain?" She asked dryly as she darted under the guard of one of the Mirahj’Dan soldiers, thrusting one of the swords into a gap in the armor. The blood from the man, running down the blade filling in the runes carved into the surface. As is common within the people of Cindersend who use the shroud, Sae had learned to weave using blood.

 

[Sauvignon]

"No, in fact, I haven't."Probably because Sauv wasn't a sky-crazed gallivanting degenerate. Plus he suspected his idea of an affair was entirely different from the captain. Best to avoid any comparisons lest he drag himself into the muck.

The sound of the ship's engines was welcome but still ultimately untimely. Guards approached and blood was spilled.

Sauv swung staff in an admittedly crude form of defense. There was no time for incantations or trickery. He doubted his strikes were lethal but his attackers mental faculties would likely be questionable upon consciousness.

Now his unfortunate trust depended on the skill of these blackguards.

 

[Inqu]

A dying man slammed against a strong-box, his hand dug into a pouch at his waist, found the shape of runed stone. Blood high, breath shallow, he fed the stone from what life he had still to live. A groan turned to shout as he threw the overwoven crystal out at his attackers.

Crack and boom tore through the air, as if the mother herself reached through the clouds and had clapped her hands. A flash of blue light washed over the chaos.

On distant dunes, hidden behind the shade of a great slope, a pack of sand-skimmers lay rest upon the sands. Their pilots loitered about, half hidden behind loose cloaks. Rust red, and sunbaked stone. They stayed silent. Stayed waiting and ready as the desert's winds whispered across the sands.

Come the clap of thunder in the distance. They stirred to motion.

Six of the Takoumba’ni, two to each skimmer. A pilot and their weaver, who fed the engines to spark the stonehearts to life. A sharp whine with each stone set to sing. The skimmer-craft lifted, their broad heads spilled sand back into the desert, and their engines hummed with the steady flow of power that glowed bright along runes and channels.

Each craft shot forward like an arrow set loose from the string, banked wide around the dunes and set their noses straight at the mining camp.

 

[Dyvir D'Acard]

“Stick with us, it’ll happen sooner or later.” Dyvir managed to grunt back to Sauvignon in the midst of it all as he helped his newest staff-wielding, deeply concerned crew member fend off the guards closest to them. “Ain’t that right, Sae?”

"Trying out a new weapon Captain?"

“The man who keeps too tight a hold of his sword is blind to life’s other pleasures.” He quipped, watching as the first of their prizes, and one of their limited tickets out of this scrap, started to lift free of the ground, with the Cranefisher now parked directly above them, “Sauv, get on that crate-- Sae, with me!”

Dyvir’s boots traced shapeless whorls in the sand as he fought free, blood painting the ground around him in fulfillment of the oldest ritual of civilization. He surged forward, momentarily unnoticed in the mayhem, towards his crew members being forced back at spearpoint around the crate at the end.

Dyvir’s pilfered blade swung out to the left, hacking at a guard’s neck, before he used his free hand to wrench the steel free, and send it hewing into another guard’s shoulder, faster than a stolen kiss.

His brother, Arranis had always told him he could follow a fight just from the shape of the tracks left on the ground. Always told him his lunge was too far, recovery wasn’t quick enough. The sand would tell a story of how wrong he had been today.

Despite the momentum of his assault, instead of inciting panic in their ranks, Dyvir found he’d drawn the attention of a large, irritatingly nonplussed wall of a man.

He had a bad feeling as he traded an extended flurry of strikes and ripostes, could feel the shallow cuts through his leathers start to bleed as his opponent took the measure of him. Some of these guards were a lot better than the usual fare of day laborers out of Miraj’Dah; more determined, well- trained. Dyvir lunged, felt himself overextend as his opponent slipped aside, voiding his thrust, and he felt the cold chill of death suddenly looming.

Ah, I understand now.

He threw himself into a desperate roll as the guard’s sword whistled down through the night air like an avenging spirit, but Dyvir came up swinging, cutting at the back of his leg with a snarl before bounding backwa–

An explosion of blue fire echoed out over the dunes, engulfing them all in a flash of light and sound that left the entire lot of them staggering.

Dyvir’s ears rang as he clawed his way back to his feet, catching up another discarded blade from the ground and leaning on it as he stumbled towards the recovering fighters. A grim business now, sloppily cutting at the fallen as blood pounded in his head. This was too slow, much too slow.

“Time to go!” Dyvir called out, grabbing at a crew member’s jacket, turning them towards the remaining two crates, the line’s promisingly secure to the waiting Cranefisher, shoving them roughly towards it. He made it another few steps, pawed at another crew member who had barely risen from their knees, stunned, and Dyvir was screaming now, “get on the crates!”

“CRATE. NOW!” The pirate yelled into the face of a dead man with blood pouring from his eyes, and Dyvir recoiled as his brain put the pieces together, dragging himself towards the crates and the crew that were helping each other up.

There was so much blood. He could feel it around them, the energy seeping back into the earth, and the high pitched whine of unfamiliar engines on the horizon...

 

[Sae Walsang]

The half-orkin's eyes rolled as Dyvir's question. Not that he was wrong. Hang around the Lotus long enough and an affair would find you. Whether it was one that worked on in your favor, she'd wager that it wouldn't. Not many of them did in a place like that. The small woman followed after her captain, golden eyes narrowed as the camp guards charged toward them. Others of the crew stepped up to defend their haul until all was ready. The mechanics feeling extremely slow in moments like these.

While most of their opponents had a size advantage to the tiny woman, she was agile, quick, and ferocious. Her Captain engaged one of the guards and she picked out another. Small feet raced across the sands, the dual blades held in her hands as the guard swung at her, Sae dived feet first into a slide taking her right past them. Pressing up on her toes, she halted at his back. The swords slicing across the weak point at his knees. The guard went down with a scream. Not dead, but Sae was already on the move to the next.

Perhaps the first had just underestimated her or the second was just more ready, but engaging with them did not lead to a quick defeat. Weapons clashed, steel against steel. The slash of one of their strikes dragged against her arm, forcing the sword from her grasp. The weapon falling into the sand. The green skinned woman picked up a handful of sand throwing it in the face of her opponent who staggered back, wiping at his face in pain as he spit out sand and spit. She sheathed the blade in her good handpicking up the other. These weapons had cost her a pretty penny to get them engraved with runes that would enhance the wielding of the shroud through blood.

The coppery substance littered the sands, but more important as the guard she'd cut down earlier. Unable to give chase, but still alive. Blood magic meant using another life force as fuel. Either your own or another's and Sae wasn't about to use her own. The blood from the cut earlier had fed into the runes, connecting her to the guard. Pulling on the strings of life force, Sae increased her own speed, her own strength turning the battle so that she held the advantage as she leaped as her opponent swung his sword using the momentum to sling herself further upward thrusting her sword down and into where neck and shoulder met. There was a gurgle from the guard's throat as he collapsed in the sand.

Just about to throw herself at a third, when a blue flash illuminated the area. An alarm, the call to retreat came. Turning, she raced after the other pirates, releasing her hold on the other guard's life force. He should count himself lucky, she probably only stole a few years from him. The Quartermaster was one of the last to the crates, jumping as it lifted from the ground.

 

[Sauvignon]

Mayhem descended and Sauv wasn't sure that rogue pluck could stem the tide. Thus he'd little hesitation when it came to the captain's order to depart. The smith pulled himself onto the first crate as others bandied steel. Knowing when to take a step back was only natural, much like the ebb of the seas.

Rough hands yanked him over the Fisher's railings and into the bosom of temporary safety. Even as the mage hit the wooden deck, his saviors had moved to the next task. Sauv got to his feet only to find himself blinded moments later. Sharp azure light pierced the desert dusk. He'd fared better than most as his gaze was yet to meet level.

The two remaining crates struggled under the weight of their desperate passengers. Here did Sauv once again find a measure of value. Staff firmly planted on the deck, mana channeled deep into the wooden surface. The railings began to mold grotesquely until vaguely taking the shape of an arm. These simulacra found purchase on the crates' burdening riders and were similarly yanked as Sauv was not long ago.

"Captain!"he screamed to the dazed skythief. "Captain! Avail yourself of your bloody senses please. I believe we've crossed more than just a few campguards." Cries from the stern told the rest.

 

[Baku]

When the fighting first began, he'd been lighting white candles. Words sung in Mansabic echoed through the small walls of that space. Before him was a small idol made of brass with small crystals that made the eyes. Eyes that glowed eerily in contrast to the to the small lit wicks that danced around them. Steel clashed with steel and yet he prayed. Orders were given across the dunes so that they may drink of both invader and native son’s blood alike… and yet he prayed.

For the Skyweaver had gifted the desert’s children knowledge of Creation, Logic, and the calm of the heavens themselves. She who made it possible Aja’re’s gifts to be known and understood. May she reign over the heavens for an eternity and more…

He washed his hands in rose water and sprinkled the remaining droplets on his hands upon the brass idol. A small cube that sat close to the idol began to glow with blue runes. Baku, the brass sage leaned forward the take it into his hands. And then he emerged from that tent and into the fray.

Shapes moved quickly, making off with quite a chunk of wealth that had been mined by Miradi hands. The Suma wondered for a time if this was what he’d been sent to this camp to put a halt to… It couldn’t be. Soldiers might have been sent to face a threat like this, not scholars. All the same, it would be a strange thing to have to report to his superiors that he’d done nothing.

Baku held out a jewled hand from beneath his robes and the brass cube in his hand began to warp. The corners of the device morphed and what was once a small box had become a large falcon made of metal, perched on his arm and awaiting his command. It’s beak snapped and metallic feathers rustled as a bird’s might. But it’s eyes glowed blue and it’s points were sharper. And it was ornery until a calm voice gave it orders.

"Hey, hey... shh, shh," he whispered in a light voice. "Okay, you're alright. You're alright. Eyes on me..."

As high class engines on the horizon raced in, he pet her. She followed his command.

"You have plenty to eat, you do not have to worry. Look there."

The brass falcon snapped it's beak and flapped it's wings, dangerously taking off into the sky.​

 

[Inqu]

Skimmers raced across the desert sands, ancient engines howling like fiends set loose from the spells that bound them.

"Ready the arbalest!" one cloth wrapped Spider shout over the scream of the vehicle he piloted. The dune spat out behind them in billowing tail.

Their second, straddled upon the second's seat behind the pilot, nod, and let a mechanical arm fall free from their billowing cloak. The magi-tech limb shimmered and gleamed as it moved. Reached unto their back, and pulled free a long bodied weapon.

The arbalest was made from the bough of a muninga tree. Its red body laden with Mansabic scriptures. The metals inlayed there upon the rose colored wood, famabic texts. With one mechanical arm, the Takoumba'ni leveled the weapon. Its pointed snout, like that of a heron's, aimed up at the target above the horizon.

All the world blurred about the three skimmers. One pulled forward, its engine's song sank low, before it bellowed out a boom.

It's pilot drew a blade with mechanical arm, its weaver drew two. The craft banked as it drew nearer to the violence.

"They will take the glory!" One of the rear skimmer crew's called out.

"There is no glory in killing swine!" A pilot called out. Their skimmer's speed bled steady about the perimter of the mining operation. Their weaver, armed with an arbalest, slammed forward a latch with one of his organic arms.

From the arbalest sprang four arms with hiss of shroud smoke, like a spider ready to hunt. Gears clicked and clicked as the arms clocked themselves back. Famabic text ran along the golden inlay of the weapon. Burned bright blue as the shroud gathered within its well.

Death is Promised.

The arbalest bolt-weaver sprang its arms out and spat a blue bolt forward. It burned through the air like lightning. Crashed into the hull of the enemy's ship.

"Bring down the engines!" that same pilot called out. Brought his skimmer's speed to full with a burst.

The second skimmer behind it followed, their Weave-bolter drew readying their arbalest.

 

[Dyvir D'Acard]

A burst of adrenaline and a clutching grasp of limbs saw Dyvir scrabble his way to temporary safety among the crates and the rest of his crew huddled there. Arrows whistled by, bristling from the sides of their platform as the raiders took off with their shroudstone prize, cutting down at the few guards brave or enraged enough to launch themselves after them.

Dyvir wrapped a leg around the chain to stabilize himself, and threw a hand back through his hair, now lank with sweat and blood, and blew out a deep, shaky breath, trying to force his nerves under control as the crate swung back with the momentum of their engines ramping to speed. He looked around and saw several familiar faces peering back as they were winched into the sky, prow pointed west.

That had been bad. They had been expected, finally.

He needed to get aboard the Cranefisher, get control of things again. For cindersake he was on his third sword already, and he’d no doubt at least that many of his raiders had died in the scrap below.

Dyvir pawed through his hair again as he made a quick scan of the sky, flexing feeling back into his fingers as his eyes fixated on the skimmers knifing through the air towards them. They were beautiful, elegant, and fast as avenging spirits. It wasn’t their fault the people driving them were almost certainly about to try and kill them all for making a dishonest living.

He heard a voice yelling, barely audible over the rush of the wind, and looked up in time to see his ship’s own godsdamned railings coming alive and reaching for them, Sauv’s face visible on the deck and controlling them. As he was firmly lifted through the air, it was at that moment that Dyvir silently, solemnly, swore he’d find Sauvignon an affair upon their return if they lived through the weirdest raid he'd been on yet.

A bronze flash, caught in the corner of his eye and blazing in the light of the rising sun, screamed down towards him, and he threw his blade’s flat up reflexively, braced with both hands, barely in time for its talons to screech off the metal and spiral away into the sky again.

“What the fuck was that?!” Dyvir growled incredulously at Sae, his quartermaster similarly wrapped in railings and being pulled through the air back to the deck of the Cranefisher.

No sooner were they deposited on the deck, then an impossible force slammed into the hull beneath them, rocking their skyship underneath its canopy, listing them to the side. Dyvir could smell the expended shroud burning off the charred wound in his ship, and snarled, splinters digging under his nails as he scrabbled back towards his cabin in the back of the ship, already barking orders.

“Jhrun, take us up! Sae, get our ballista firing, Sauv, make sure we don’t lose that shroudstone!”

Miraj’dah had tricks today, hm?

The sky pirate shouldered his way through the door of his cabin at the back of the Cranefisher, stumbled against the shelves as another blast of energy hit their ship, and dragged free a strange metal chest banded in locks, it burned his hands to touch. Dyvir slammed it down on his desk, and fumbled the key into the locks, clicking them free. With each release, he could feel the contents hungrily start to pull at his energy, seeping free of the dunmetal chest that had been mined from the depths of the Deadlands, ore that was completely inert to the shroud, extremely brittle, and generally thought useless.

Unless you needed to contain a great deal of empty shroudstones; starving, desperately searching for any bit of magic they could consume.

Dyvir winced and smashed his back window with an elbow, and tipped the chest over onto its back, wedged against the frame, holding the lid closed as it sapped energy purely from proximity, the seal no longer strong enough to contain its greed. He could feel in the soles of his feet that the Cranefisher was rising, he could see the skimmers climbing to follow, slowing and swerving to avoid Sae’s ballista bolts, and he could see another coalescing of blue energy around their weapons, angry faces close and leering as they came in for the kill.

Now or never.

Dyvir let the chest’s lid fall open and nearly collapsed as the shroudstones, now fully released from their dunmetal prison, tore at his energy before tumbling through the air in a glistening, magic devouring cloud behind the Cranefisher, engulfing the skimmers and their crews.

 

[Sae Walsang]

The crates, were slow moving as the mechanisms dragged them upward inch by inch. At this rate, the guards would be upon them and they'd lose both cargo and life. Certainly not a fate to be favored. In an effort to help drag the crew out of the way at least, the engines roared as Jhrun tried to bring the vessel up to at least put the surviving raiders out of the reach of the guards, but Sae feared that even that would not be enough. The half-goblin woman clung to one of the chains to make sure she wasn't tossed off even as the raiders desperately tried to defend themselves while like sitting ducks. This raid was definitely going to shit quick.

Then the crate was being lifted quicker as what could best be described as a wooden arm reached down to bring the crates and those still alive onto the deck. A bronze flash blinding her for a second as something dived at Dyvir's head. The clang of the sword against whatever it was meant the Captain was luck enough in his defense, this time. Yet there wasn't time to worry about whatever else was attacking them. Not with the skimmers gaining.

The green-skinned woman hit the deck at a roll and was already to her feet as Dyvir's orders cut through the air. She glanced about, taking quick stock of the crew remaining, noticing two of the normal ballista operators were unaccounted for. Dead.

"Roland, Lihi, Venar, take the front. Imri, Doine with me to the back. Everyone else grab the bows and keep the railing free of hooks! Someone keep eyes out for whatever that is flying around." She shouted warning to the rest of the crew as she headed toward the back. Sae kicked open the chest that was bolted to the wooden deck where the ballista bolts were kept. The bolts were certainly to large for the diminutive woman to lift on her own, but that's why they works in teams. She normally would be directing the firing teams, but with the normal members missing that left a space to be filled.

She lifted the end of the large bolt and Imri lifted the other side and they loaded it into the ballista bolted at the stern. Scrambling onto the railing, Sae grasped one of the ropes with the sighting device in her other hand as she read the aim toward one of the approaching skimmers. "Set aim to elevation five and right three!" She called out the readings and the grinding of the wooden gears settled the ballista into place. She waited for the skimmers to get closer. "FIRE!" She called only for a moment later a dark cloud to obscure the line of sight. As close as she was, she felt it pulling at the shroud, as if trying to pull her from the railing. The success of the shot was unknown.

Gasping the half-goblin woman leaned out over the edge, noticing the Captain hanging half out a window below. He hadn't fallen out, so he was doing well enough. Jumping from the railing and staggering in her step, she stumbled over to help load another bolt into place so that they would be ready if the skimmers made it through magic sucking cloud. She'd be glad when they'd put enough distance between them and that cloud.

 

[Sauvignon]

All were on deck but that made for small comfort among the ensuing chaos. It was abundantly clear that this particular intervention hadn't been anticipated. Luckily the captain was quick to act, especially having nearly been skewered by...something. Sauv hadn't got a clear look but it certainly didn't seem to be any projectile he recognized. Granted, it wasn't entirely his field either. No time for further consideration as the entire ship shuddered under the impact of something for more sinister.

Orders were hastily given to the crew, and stavesmith for that matter."Captain, need I remind you-" Too late, the rogue was already headed elsewhere. Sauv did come here for the shroudstone so in this instance, orders aligned with interests.

Problems immediately presented themselves. He'd an idea of where the hold was located and was nowhere near it. Ideally he'd abscond a few deckhands to help him move the cargo but, rather noticeably, they were all fighting for their lives. Even if he had the extra hands, they'd likely get in the way of everyone else. He was also finding it quite difficult to think among the din of battle. He'd learned this day that ballistae were in fact, rather loud. Knowledge that would surely serve some purpose in the distant future.

The stavesmith eventually decided it was best not to complicate matters. Wood twisted and morph again, crates pushed towards the center like flotsam in the tide. There did they gather, but Sauv had one final touch. The deck embraced the shroudstone as its own, forming a shell over the crates. It wouldn't stop a ballista bolt but this way a stray spell would be much less likely to send them all into the Sculptor's arms.

This bit of handiwork may have somewhat compromised the rigidity of the deck flooring but Sauv considered that a minor sacrifice. Whether the captain agreed with this assessment was another matter. For now, it was best to persist in ignorance.

 

[Inqu]

Climb and climb the higher. Shroudstones screamed as the arbalest locked its arms back into place. Runes set to glow the hotter. Snapped forward to spit out a bolt of shroud fire that zapped forward. The air behind it set to sizzle with the fumes of shroud-stripped atmosphere.

Each shot had the crystal-lined runework and channels glow the softer. Pulls from the power of the shroud filtered and collected into the shard-hearts of the skimmer-craft.

Accounted for. Trained with. The pilots eyes could see the shift of the ship's artillery. Clunky. Slow. Barbaric. The glint of the bolt head caught the eye. The flap of gums and lips. A tilt of weight, a shift of the handles and the skimmer veered off line from the ballista bolt that careened over. The weave-bolter answered in kind. Super-heated shroud fired back. Not at the crew. Not at the guns. But at the engines.

The blue-black bolt struck the engine-housing, just as the shroudstones tumbled toward them. Ignite in a cloud of shroud devouring particulate. All power bled from the skimmers. All light left the arbalest, and like the stones they were carved from, the skimmers fell to the dunes below, crystals whining sharp with their hungry song as the shroud-warp-field fell away.