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It was midday, and the golden sun shone brightly in the sky over Albayza. From where she lay sprawled out on her bed Gwendolyn could hear the familiar shrill squawking of gulls down by the port. A soft breeze blew in through the window, causing the dark curtains to billow gently as glittering rays of sun pierced the musty din of the room beyond. Strewn across the floor of the space were countless little pieces of metal. Ball-bearings, screws, knobs, crystalline conductors, all sorts of technical junk. Rising from her bed slowly, Gwen clutched her chest as a ragged cough racked her slender pale body. Grimacing slightly, she tiptoed over the clutter to an ornate silver mirror across the room and gazed into its depths with tired eyes. The shadowy bags under her eyes had grown from her lack of sleep, and her pale face glowed slightly from the harsh sun filtering in through the window. Her mousy brown hair stuck up wildly in all directions, every hair seeming to have a mind of its own. With a sigh and a cough Gwendolyn did her best to tame the tangled mass with a tiny comb. Finally giving up, she tossed the rest into a ponytail and muttered, “Good enough.”

Gwen would have spent the entire day in her shaded room if it was not for the hunger that clawed at her stomach. Snatching a tiny bronze object off her bedside table she rushed out of the room and down the hall. Gwendolyn had been staying at L'Hôtel d'Albi whilst waiting for the ship The North Wind to make it to port. To her the ship held promise of adventure and most of all, answers. She had noted other members of the crew who were staying there, as there were often crowds of people around them gawking and asking questions. Gwen however had asked specifically for her name to not be mentioned, as she hated the prospect of becoming something akin to a zoo animal; a simple spectacle. Making her way down the stairs from where her room was, Gwen made her way over to the dining hall of L'Hôtel d'Albi. The delightful scent of something sweet wound its way over to her nose, and her stomach began to growl in longing. The architecture of the dining hall (as well as the entire building) was flowery and horrible. As she stuffed herself with unhealthy foods-pancakes, tea cakes, all forms of cake-she pulled out a small brown book from the dusty coat hung around her waist. It was common for Gwen to suddenly get ideas for new designs, and for this she always carried around a tiny journal to keep track of her scattered thoughts. After completing a brief schematic for some sort of stabilizing component she stood up and began to trudge her way back to her room.

For the rest of the day Gwen sat in her room tinkering with different ideas she had come up with. Different ways to capture and use the inert magical energy of the world. As the shadows lengthened and eventually faded to blackness she continued to toil late on into the dark of night, only the soft orange glow of a lantern guided her spindly fingers. At last when she could work no longer she crawled back into bed with heavy feet, her eyes refusing to be open any longer.

When morning came it brought with it a rainstorm. The sun was completely covered in clouds, and soft sheets of warm rain had begun to fall slowly over the port city. However this was no ordinary morn; this was the day when The North Wind was set to arrive to take her crew away on the adventure of a lifetime. Unfortunately for Gwendolyn, the darkness and the soft lullaby of rain kept her in bed for the majority of the day. At last after hours of sleep she awoke, looking lazily over at the clock on her bedside table. Her eyes shot open, and with an exasperated groan she hopped across the room hastily gathering up her things. Not even bothering to do her hair, she jumped out into the hallway and slammed the door behind her, wheezing as she did so. Taking a small puff of her inhaler she sputtered,

“Aw dang it,” she said with another hoarse cough, “I’m late!”

---

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The North Wind was really something to behold, especially to a twenty-something monk who had only really studied such vessels on the pages of weathered books. Yes, a ship as grand as this felt unknowingly fake to Deimos, especially for their first few days aboard its decks. They had wandered from bow to stern over and over again on the first day, watching the clouds around them shift and melt as they strode confidently on the sailing winds to the next few islands. Something about traveling in such a majestic boat made Deimos feel a bit powerful. They could taste a thousand different winds and, when they stared up at the sky at night, they could trace galaxies to the distant horizons. The world was at their fingertips, and all because some Western lady found Deimos' skills useful.

Deimos thanked their God one million times that night, whispering grateful songs until they eventually fell asleep among the piles of scrolls and books they had laid out as nightly reading.

And so here they were, hiding in the crow's nest and admiring the majesty that was The North Wind. Above them clouds fluttered, glistening white against an afternoon sky, and below them the captain was preparing to let the rest of the crew on board. Of course, the thought of even talking to new people, let alone now sharing a room with half of them, sent anxiety crawling across their skin. Deimos preferred the solitude that came from hiding up at the very top of the ship. Here they could read and write with only the gulls and the wind to keep them company, and it was far easier to scope out their new maps thanks to the fantastic view this spot gave.

Still, Deimos knew of this spot's real job. They were far from a look out, and did not possess a voice loud enough to even travel down a hall let alone back down to the deck of the ship from this point. Deimos was content with giving up the crow's nest eventually, but for right now they would hide and observe. Below, people had begun to gather at the other end of the gangplank, and Cap'n Zeph was greeting them all as he had greeted Deimos and the First Mate before: confidently. Such a characteristic drew Deimos fruitlessly to follow Zephyr's every word, and they found inspiration in the captain's very steps. They had even dedicated a few pages to doodling Zeph's likeness into their journal, along with a few other sketches of the bare crew they had traveled with after Baleine.

Just as they were getting ready to pull out their journal, however, the softest of darkness swallowed the sun, and a sudden rain storm manifested. Deimos worked quickly to shove all their open maps and books back into their small bag, glaring up at the weeping sky with something akin to half-hearted distaste. Such a dark expression melted away, though, as Deimos imagine what effort it took for this rain just to materialize. Everything has a purpose. Everything has a place. Right now, this rain's purpose was to fall, and it's place was above their wonderful ship.

The sudden gusts of wind, however, were not exactly ideal, even if they were doing as fate requested.

Deimos cowered against the storm and thought, briefly, of descending down onto the deck. Bracing a storm seemed better than bracing for conversations, however. Besides, the rain was warm enough to be pleasant. Distant memories of training beneath freezing waterfalls steel Deimos' mind enough for them to curl up against the mast of the ship, defending their books from the onslaught of soaking rain that threatened their delicate pages.

Silently, they decided they will head down in exactly thirty minutes if the rain does not let up. Deimos knew, however, that their anxiety was prepared to hold out until nightfall if it had to. And such was life.

That was Deimos' purpose, and their place.

Godomar, last scion of house Vandame, looked out across the docks and felt content, an unusual emotion for him. The hot, humid air of the port was pleasant and the light swaying of the deck beneath his feet was oddly comforting, considering what it reminded him. If he closed his eyes, he could've been back at the academy, steering a skiff through one of the nearby waterfalls to drench his crew-mates. For a few seconds he revelled in those memories, not happy ones exactly but recollections of a simpler time when he knew what he wanted and how to get it. The benefit of two years out of education had given Godomar a little perspective on his school days and he reflected they might not have been so quire terrible. After all, what that had been required from him then was determination, a dogged refusal to give and a sharp tongue where as today... today, things were different.

His idle musings ended as his eyes slid open and surveyed the scene before him again. The more punctual and, perhaps, professional of the crew members they were docked to collect were already waiting for them on the quayside. Besides them were a small crowd of excited looking locals, pointing at The North Wind and exclaiming or chattering. A little spring of satisfaction blossomed in his chest, though Godomar knew he had had no influence on the purchasing of the vessel nor on its design as one of the premiere examples of ship-craft on the Archipelago. Still, it was hard not to feel pride when small children looked up at you with awe in their eyes and even leathery old sailors were eyeing up the ship with an appreciative eye.

Godomar itched to set himself to work, perhaps inspecting the state of the rigging or the engines, but he had already checked every inch of the vessel over several times in the relatively brief time since he'd been aboard and found everything to be perfectly in order. All that was left to do was to stand around and greet the members of the crew as they boarded the ship. He nodded to a few and fixed others with a steely gaze. Already he anticipated being the only one on the ship with any sense of discipline, as half of those now boarding greeted his appraising gaze with friendly nods or didn't notice at all. A lack of discipline would suit the ship's captain down to the ground though, Godomar wryly reflected.

He was in two minds about Zephyrus, the laughing young man who would be his commanding officer for the coming voyage. There was no chance that he was educated by an academy, that was for sure, and seemed to lack any sort of official learning whatsoever. However, the other man had a quiet strength and subtle self possession that spoke to Godomar of the confidence of command and self control. He knew he would be a fool to underestimate the man chosen by Madam Le Fèvre to oversee this journey and to direct this incredible ship. And moreover, Godomar was aware that Zephyr had spoken up in his favour during the process of first mate selection. A debt was owed there, no matter what the captain might say as he airily tried to wave it away.

With that in mind, Godomar resolved to reserve judgement on Zephyrus and, by extension, the rest of the crew. There would be plenty of time int he coming weeks for them to show their mettle and for him to show his. A journey such as the one they were to undertake was no small feat and would see them all tested. Until that time, the last son of house Vandame would watch and wait.

Tarybris.

---

Day in and day out, rain fell intermittently on Albayza and had wet finally the void itself. Familiar port ships ceased to waver as they flocked into the port town, wavering slightly upon the cascading masses of wind that pulled into the ill-defined bay. Now and again, with thick clouds veiling the sun, a faint glimmer of soft light would pierce the gap, revealing some ship that came to rest in the harbor. The torrential rain seemed endless in the summer, seeming the cradle the mass of ruins that stood in the center, ringed by shining towers that ribbed into the clouds. The flow of people remained somewhat constant, at least with regard to the working people who flocked The Plaza. Somehow it felt an appropriate setting for the journey they would all soon undertake, penetrating the depths of Cumulus’ dream.

The break of dawn had brought a familiar pitter-patter of rain down upon the port town, and Tarybris cradled the small package in her breast, ducking under a striped awning of some shop as she nodded pleasantly to the vendor. Turning, she wedged her fingernails into the viridian parcel, and tore enthusiastically into the steaming tuber inside, burning her tongue as she devoured the yam. The skin was wrinkled and slightly unpleasant - bitter like macerated Bridesend tea burned in an iron kettle. Cooked over smouldering coals, the yam and its piercing sweetness was tempered by the cloying taste of fragrant smoke and earth. This, Tarybris thought (though she would hardly admit it aloud), was cuisine truly befitting of the city that stood in the shadows of ancient ruins - not the overly decadent pastries and imported sweets from the Isles off Luciole. L'Hôtel d'Albi had reminded her much of the cheap paintings that had decked The Morneau - all blinding pastels and rough depictions of mustachioed men accompanying elaborately-dressed women through sunlit beaches as they politely sipped tea. The proprietor of the fine establishment had, upon meeting her, rather forcefully invited her to drink Baleienese wine in the crowded sitting room.

After spending enough time quizzically studying the patrons that filtered into the eating quarters - noting the presence of a few who stood out from the gaudy dress of some of the others - she had tried to tried to spend as little time in the public areas of the hotel as possible. Her last post had ended unceremoniously a few weeks back, and she had taken a supply ferry directly from L’Aigue to Albayza. Leaving her to mostly wander around the city, making excited conversation with those who seemed to be somewhat regular to the port. To wonder about her shipmates, who surely were all here, somewhere. To eat. All in all, it was a nice city, she thought, steadying herself as the rain tugged against her skin, tangling her skirts about her shins. The rain was warm, at least. But Tarybris hungered to begin the expedition, feeling it was the most important thing she could do in her position, which felt more and more superfluous by the day.

It was with this that she headed back to the hotel - for as stubborn as she was in avoiding it, she was now drenched in rainwater. Moreover, the North Wind was close approaching, if the hand-addressed letter the Madame had sent to her meant anything. By now, her case of clothes should have already made its way to the port. The pangs in her chest, emphasized by the sting of the now-devoured sweet potato, stuttered with the clack of her shoes as she made her way along.

The stars seemed closer on the edge of a precipice. Without an island to cloud the view, the sky seemed to stretch far beyond the great void. From here, where Rahab stood, it dipped into the vantage point just beyond the billowing clouds of the Calamity. Juxtaposed against the backdrop of an endless, churning void of lighting and peril, the stars seemed to glow all the brighter. The blackness of danger lit the sparks in the night sky into endless, burning candles.

With the heat of a summer shower wafting from the sparse grass in Albayza, it created a still life of the world for Rahab. It felt like he could reach out with a wet brush and blur each color together. These feelings don't find him often enough. Chaleur didn't have much opportunity to enjoy the splendors of life as it should be enjoyed. Instead, currency and status clouded even the prettiest of vistas to twist them into another grab for money or reputation. It soured Rahab's taste to the outside world and to the art and culture that tried to strive beyond the confines of Chaleur's social scheme.

In shifting perspectives and coming upon many vast revelations in his own handful of adventures, Rahab took a curious interest to the culture and beauty of past civilizations. Great monuments torn and turned into ribbons of stone and vines would always look better as he saw them, rather than as depicted before the mystery that wiped the past empire clean. Nothing compared to the very nature of an island reclaiming her lost bounty in the rubble of stone pillars and stone walls. No art work came close to topping the stubs of feet wrapped in vines and cobbled with dirt erected in grassy courtyards.

These were things Rahab yearned for; they brought him to Albayza with a purpose that shoved all thoughts of family to the side. He was making history far more interesting than featuring as a simple name in scholar's workbook.

It was why he woke early that morning to the smell of summer rain filtering in through his cracked window. A streak of wetness, tiny little water droplets, formed a solid rectangle along the windowsill before falling in streaks down the hotel wall. Rahab forced the window shut before gathering what all he packed. There would have been no use in unpacking when he'd only be in the hotel for a day, so each case remained tightly sealed and ready to be carried swiftly out.

With such an eager expression lighting his face, Rahab bypassed any morning ritual he might have had. Excitement and adrenaline carried his feet one, large step at a time and it spared little time for trivialities of society. If Rahab stopped for just a second, he'd find himself going back: he needed to fix his hair, needed to wear the right set of jewelry, needed to put on proper clothing, needed to look fresh and like royalty.

In reality, he needed only one thing: to board that ship into oblivion.

Warm rain greeted him the moment his foot went from marbled floors to hard pavement. It was welcome, as it gave Rahab an excuse to look as rundown as the rest of the riffraff plaguing the docks. He'd arrived early and would likely wait the longest. Among the locals, Rahab would still stick out with his many cases of luggage pressed against him in any way he can manage. Yet, the man still held his head as high as he could, with a bright smile filled with a row of stark, white teeth - straight enough that it garnered sneers from people who caught sight of him. Many a hotel patron offered to have it shipped to the port by noon, but he wouldn't trust anyone else with his possessions. Call him selfish or an elitist scumbag, he knew his stuff best and knew how best to handle it.

So he forewent assistance and preferred looking cumbersome and ridiculous in the downpour of rain. Rahab made little contact with those that came to stand by him in, though he thanked a portly man for keeping him upright during a particularly heavy gust of wind. The railings wouldn't help if he had enough momentum and weight to topple himself into the void. Whether those that gathered by or around him were his shipmates, Rahab made no actual effort to find out. It was an inevitability, one he wanted his absolute, fullest attention to focus on. People he could likely die with (how exciting!) deserved at least that modicum of respect.

When The North Wind finally docked (most definitely late), Rahab jolted onto the deck of the ship first among the new crew members. He made for the underbelly of the ship only to stop half-way. It would be entirely rude of him to not greet anyway, and yet he had so many things to carry. The predicament forced him to stand upon the deck, wobbling in the heavy wind and warm rain.

"Greetings! It's a fantastic day for an adventure, isn't it?" he shouted over the gale roaring in his ears.

The hard-wooden wall of her alcove bruised Searc’s temple, and Searc curled further into herself to find that small shred of sleep again. Sleep alluded her, however. The sway of the airship and patter of rain frustratingly left Searc disturbed and sick to her stomach. Crust broke around the slit of her eyes, flaking down her cheeks and oil caused her eyes to water – opening her eyes were useless, Searc couldn’t see her fingers even if they were pressing against the feather strands of her eyelashes. If she concentrated hard enough, though, Searc could see an outline of a cow in the darkness and red blisters on vibrant inflamed skin.

The airship jolted again and Searc inadvertently let out a whine. Anxiety quelled in her stomach and burning acid scorched her insides. Searc hated storms, even light ones like this.

When the ship is docked is the only time its moderately safe for Searc to visit the kitchens. Most of the crew are gone at that time, running errands or bumbling on deck. Searc knew what day it was. More members were joining today, which meant more people Searc must avoid. Getting food will be harder from here on out.

Food runs were a delicate business. Searc always took only what she needed for now, and the food was always the undesirable in some way or another. Stale bread, cheese eaten with mold, curdled milk. It avoided suspicion – they won’t miss what they don’t want. But with new crew members, with more risk, Searc can’t make as many food runs as she did before.

Searc’s hands fumbled in the dark, numbly pressing against hard surfaces until a door gave way and small slivers of light burned her eyes. Time was of the essence, unfortunately, and so Searc spilled out of her nook. The floor thudded underneath her knees and palms – sharp needles ran up and down her legs and arms and her back ached from being curled in such a small place for such a long time. Searc stumbled, getting unsteadily onto her feet and making her way to the kitchens sluggishly.

The kitchens were empty – Searc thanked any deity looking out for her – and she rummaged in the bottom cabinets. She had to take more food than she would have liked – stock up in order to avoid more kitchen runs; both were risky business. She rummaged through the food, reaching in the back to find the expired meals, and felt a sack of baguettes.

“Hi, food, time to come home with me.” Her voice sounded unfamiliar, croaking into the still air and scratching unpleasantly on the back of her throat. Searc talked to herself sometimes – to inanimate objects, sometimes – it kept her from going crazy, to make herself feel less alone.

The walk back to her hideaway unsettled her stomach and frequent tripping caused splinters to slide into the callouses of her heels. A cold sweat beaded her forehead, globules of salt damping her unwashed hair, and Searc licked her dry lips. The airship bobbed. Searc could no longer hear anything except for the sounds of rain, slapping against the ceiling above her head. The acid began to crawl up her stomach and bile rumbled against her throat.

Searc scrambled towards a bucket in the hull, leaning over it and acidic bile coughed out of her and into the bucket. There was no food in her stomach, so it was only stomach muck and frothed saliva.

Searc crawled the rest of the way to her hiding spot and curled in on herself, attempting to ignore the way the sweat felt like rain on her back.

---

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Above the whistling gale of the storm and the sharp patter of rain and cloud, Deimos heard the tell-tale cries below of their presence being summoned. Captain Zeph's voice shot above the dimming storm sharply, and Deimos almost had to hold back the sigh of disappoint as they realized their crow's nest alone time would surely be ending now. Though the storm has severely dampened (literally and figuratively) Deimos' mood already, the thought of having to climb down and interact with another human being brought a newfound anxiety to their mix of cloudy discomfort. Still, Deimos liked Zephyr, and disrespecting an order went strictly against their obtained code of honor and trust. The storm swirled above, lessening as time went on and they imagined how long it would take for them to climb down, and by the time they actually moved to commit the act of descending the wind and the barest of rain showers was all that remained.

Deimos stood slowly and shimmied to the ladder, descending down the mast as slowly and carefully as they could manage. The wood, turned slick and cold from the storm's torrential showers, threatened to drop Deimos at any moment if they had the guts to make any wrong move. Oddly enough, though, Deimos felt no anxiety at the thought of falling. Perhaps living at the monastery had schooled their fear of heights into something more useful. Glancing down they felt nothing but thrill. It swooped within their stomach and echoed waves of excitement through their limbs and summoned an urge to release the bars and just fall, but, of course, Deimos had no use for a broken body. So they descended, and as soon as their feet touched solid wood the anxiety of human interaction returned.

Approaching Captain Zephyr and the newly boarded stranger felt as if Deimos was walking towards some sort of rabid animal. Frightening shivers traveled up and down their spine, and their heart pounded with unfounded panic. Years of minimal to no human contact made speaking to strangers unbearable, which might be understandable but… Deimos wished they had as much skill with words as they did with maps. Eventually all the space between them and the two other people was filled by Deimos’ worried footsteps, and they started up at the taller man next to Zephyr with an oddly intense glare.

“Hello…” Deimos said quietly, voice barely heard above the gales of the storm, “M-my name… My name is Deimos.” They bowed politely, and when they rose they made direct eye contact with their feet, refusing to look up at the man standing next to Zephyr. A long second passed between the three of them before Deimos turned to their captain, staring at his chest with a bit more confidence. “How can I be of use, Captain Zephyr?”