The sun was high over the sands surrounding Cairo, dunes painting shadows with undulations of differing hues; blues and purples mostly, casting their irregular shapes across the Sahara. The view from above was spectacular. One could look in certain directions and see no sign of human presence, just beige-white sand stretching to meet the sky in the distance, alternately hazy in the heat or as clear as spring water while moderately cooling breezes swept across. Looking back to the city, it had all of the industrious appearance of a well ordered anthill, alive with the personal and commercial comings and goings of people from many, many walks of life.
The Nile cut its way northward, the oldest and most permanent highway of northern Africa. It was this landmark that the dirigible followed, its swift but remarkably smooth flight running parallel to the great river. The craft itself was not particularly large, about the size of a fishing skiff without the large, multichambered, hydrogen-filled inflatable above. There were structures that resembled fore and aft castles, were it a larger ship, though the fore was mostly for shelter and sleep, while the aft was a passable engine house. It launched rather quickly at the behest of someone important back in Cairo. The object was to head northeast, into the verdant grounds of the Nile River Delta and to the city of Port Said for proper outfitting and provisioning before the big push halfway across the Mediterranean Sea to the island of Cyprus. From there, the dirigible's only two passengers had the option of securing alternate transportation or staying with the balloon overnight, its eventual destination far north in Anglican country.
The master of this particular vessel was an older man, approximately seventy-five to one hundred and ten years of age to look at him. A slender, stork-like fellow who constantly wore a raincoat and had a lit pipe in his mouth, speaking around it in such a way as to make his precariously garbled accent sound even less like he was an Englishman, which he claimed to be. Though he smelled lightly of elderberries, the old man had a firm handshake and glint of hardened steel in his eyes. He spoke with confidence in himself and his craft, and insisted that he was ready to fly, and on the immediate. It was all they needed to know. His two passengers were on board before the manifest's ink was dry, joyous about the opportunity awaiting them in England.
It was a chance at a new beginning for Aziza, and chance to try again at life. Regroup, gain influence, and maybe, just maybe have a decent shot at getting her son back. It would also be a new beginning for Harry; a long life of quiet study and reflection if he so desired, far away from the guns and bombs of his past. There was hope riding along with them, high above the water and sands of Egypt.
A half hour out of Cairo, the pair of them were vaguely aware of sudden turbulence. The winds seemed calm and they were puttering forward at a decent clip thanks to the dirigible's main, rear-facing propeller. But still, the dirigible seemed to be shaking and listing starboard. It was very strange. The shipmaster was nowhere to be seen at this time. He couldn't have gone into the forecastle, that would have meant passing Aziza and Henry - a thing which he most assuredly did not do. But he was the authority on this boat, such as it was. If there was a problem, he should know how to handle it. Harry assured Aziza that he would locate the man and see to the difficulty, so she needn't worry. What happened next...
Harry was about five or so feet from the door to the aftcastle when he noticed the smoke. It was only a wisp or two, curling around the doorframe. Nothing much. But in there was also where the shipmaster kept the canisters of compressed hydrogen, and if one of those ignited? The two of them would learn firsthand whose holy book from their childhood was correct. Bravely, Harry grasped the doorhandle and pulled. Then he immediately wished that he had not.
The elderly shipmaster was located. He was a foot and a half from the door, laying unmoving on his back. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, teeth cracked and broken around the stem of his pipe which was still held firmly in place. One hand reached for the door while the other was twisted into a rigid claw, grabbing at his chest as if he might tear out his own heart. He was aflame from the knees down, but that was purely because the rest of the room was from that point back. The engine bucked and sputtered, thick with oil-based residue set alight by unknown means. The hydrogen canisters were present, all the way in the back of the room and while not burning, they were beginning to visibly swell in the heat. The door's sudden opening gave the fire inside a flush of new air to fuel itself, flaring up and sending Harry stumbling backwards into the main, open area of the skiff body. Shock kept him from feeling the horrid burns that marred much of his exposed skin, a tiny blessing in the grand scheme of things.
He tried to call for Aziza. Whether or not his words were intelligible, she dashed to be by his side immediately. The fire had grown to fully encase the engine room, dashing hope of getting to the tanks with any chance of survival. Fear set in. They were vastly too high to jump, nothing to slow their descent. It was merely a question as to what would take them first: The fire, or the unforgiving mistress known as gravity. Harry looked to the dancer, a woman who, even facing clear mortality, was the most heavenly creature he had ever known. They had gotten out, damnit. They were going to make it. They would have a life and a love for the ages. Live in a grand estate. In time, they would raise beautiful children. Harry wanted a daughter. He would name her after his mother, and she would have the same eyes as Aziza, same bronze skin, same lovely hair. They all would face whatever problems that fate threw at them together, standing strong and proud of who they were. But he had never even gotten the opportunity to tell her that he loved her. That he didn't care how little of a time they had known each other, she had come to mean so very much to him.
If ever there was a moment in this lifetime, it was now. His voice croaked out something garbled, barely even heard over the roar of the flames behind them. Ropes began to snap, released from their moorings by the fire. The dirigible shuddered. Time was running out. Harry coughed, gasping slightly at how much it hurt to do so. But he would not be denied this
one thing, not for a lack of trying. Trembling hands reached up to caress her face, one horribly marked by heat. Determination rose within Harry, and even though his body protested the use of his voice, he pushed through every letter of every word that he possibly could. Tears streaming from his eyes, he was finally able to rasp out:
"Aziza Tarek, I lo-" The sound of compressed hydrogen expanding into fire is deafening. Neither one of them even had time to scream.
Reginald Keystone
Location: The Museum (Archives)
Skills: N/A
Reginald was aware that Josephine was speaking to him. He could very clearly make out the words "Crate", "Symbols", and "Bastet", which would have been more than enough to work with on any other day. But today was special, apparently. Regardless of his ordinarily sharp mind's ability to process new information, he just couldn't seem to keep a rational thought in his head. He was not senile, nor was he stupid. The Lord Major was a crack pilot, not to mention a superior mechanic and a man well-learned in the sciences of Engineering and Aeronautics. He had earned the position he received, it was not handed to him because of his parentage. Ok, his becoming an officer might have been handed to him that way, but his advancement was a product of his own accomplishments, paid for many times over with inspired service and blood. Yet for some reason, this educated, decorated man of experience couldn't retain a single line of words spoken more or less correctly in his native language. This was not the best day ever.
The sound of a crash snapped Reginald out of whatever mental hiccup he was having at that moment. This was not the noise of a person who had dropped a single teacup. This was
loud. But oddly, for a sound quite as scattered and noisy as a crate full of archived materials finding its way earthward, the initial slamming sound upon the floor seemed like it should have been louder. Peculiar happening, that. In the distance, he could barely make out that it was speech but nothing more. Josephine had just posed another query, one that he was able to pick up and to which he could respond rather readily.
"Why, I've not the foggiest what happened. It sounds like quite the disturbance, does it not?" And then calling louder, so that his voice might be heard across the Archives,
"Oh I say, is everyone still functioning? I should hope that everything is still in order, lest the Museum have someone's head over it!" 
