The world of Eberron is one where magic fuels invention and ancient powers simmer beneath the surface of progress. A place where steel meets spell, where elemental-bound machines streak across the sky, and where the scars of war still bleed beneath the glamor of modernity.
For over a century, the continent of Khorvaire was locked in the Last War—a brutal conflict that shattered the once-unified Kingdom of Galifar. Nations rose and fell. Millions perished. Trust fractured. And then, without warning, it stopped.
On a single, terrible day, the proud nation of Cyre was consumed by a blast of bright light, and then a rolling wall of gray mist. Cities vanished. Forests withered. People died without a sound. The skies are said to have burned so brightly that even soldiers stationed miles away were blinded by the sight of it . That day became known as the Day of Mourning—a tragedy so horrifying that it brought even the most hardened generals to the peace table.
The Treaty of Thronehold brought peace… but not closure. Not truth. Not answers.
Now, just four years later, a new era dawns—an arcane industrial revolution. Lightning rails whistle across the land. Elemental galleons carve through the clouds. Warforged soldiers, once created for slaughter, now seek identity in a world no longer at war. Magic is no longer rare—it is commerce, convenience, and conquest.
And it is in this fractured, electrified world that you fly.
Each of you has your reasons—buried, bitter, hopeful, or hungry. You leave your past behind as your eyes turn toward Khorvaire, a land of secrets, opportunity, and the unknown. Whatever brought you here, whether for the first time or simply back after time away, you now share the same vessel: The Stormrider.
A state-of-the-art elemental airship, the Stormrider is suspended in flight by a bound fire elemental—its hull crafted from gleaming soarwood, its arcane ring pulsing with controlled flame. The ship is sleek, beautiful, and alive with energy. Passengers line the open decks, mingle in the lounge, or sip drinks in the touristy tavern onboard. The sky stretches infinitely in every direction, a sea of clouds painted in gold and violet.
At the helm is Captain Jovik Cindralis, a charismatic half-elf known for simply being the best there is at what he does.
Among you are merchants. Scholars. Refugees. Mercenaries. Each with their own baggage—some literal, some dangerous.
But for now… there is calm. You find yourselves scattered somewhere on board— some may be seated near the bar or pacing the deck— suspended between continents, between identities, between destinies.
You do not yet know it, but this is where your story…your REAL story begins.
“When the fire breaks, and the skies scream… Even the stars will forget their names. The pattern will fray, and the unwritten shall decide the fate of all.” Everything is about to change.
Stormrider Directory
✦ The Bar Deck An open-air circular bar with glowing crystal panels and the Warforged bartender, Gears. Perfect for drinks and casual mingling beneath the skies. There are wooden tables, shaded canopies, and passengers playing games or swapping stories over a mug of something strong.
✦ Upper Viewing Lounge Elegant and exclusive. Plush seating, private tables, and breathtaking views; reserved for upper-class passengers.
✦ Lower Viewing Lounge Cozy benches and shared travel stories. A more humble but comforting space for the everyday traveler.
✦ Tea Room A warm, wood-paneled space lit by lanterns and packed with books, plush chairs, and small round tables. A haven for quiet conversation, tea, and calm.
✦ Interior Lounge Rooms Small, semi-private nooks with sofas and lantern light, perfect for one-on-one chats, naps, or contemplative cloud-watching.
✦ Passenger Cabins Rooms fitted with basics: cot, trunk, and a porthole window. You need to pay extra for private room vs a shared space.
✦ Cargo Hold Heavily secured, full of crates, luggage, and whatever mysterious items make the Stormrider's journey possible.
✦ Engine Core Home to the fire elemental that powers the ship and accessible via a door in the cargo hold. Off-limits!
✦ The Bridge The private domain of Captain Jovik Cindralis. Maps, charts, swords, and secrets dwell here.
✦ Observation Nook A peaceful, tucked-away area at the bottom of the ship where passengers can sit quietly and take in the views through windows.
✦ Bathing Rooms Communal yet private stalls enchanted for warmth, water, and cleaning comfort. Self-drying runes included.
Bar Menu Highlights
Signature Drinks: Captain"Brelish Brass" Ale: A hearty, nutty beer served in a tankard shaped like a griffon’s head. Captain"Aundairian Arcana" Cocktail: A sparkling, lavender-colored drink that changes flavors every sip, thanks to a simple enchantment. Captain"Mourning’s Shadow" Stout: A pitch-black beer with smoky undertones, served with a swirl of silver mist over the top, referencing the Day of Mourning. Captain"Searing Heights Shot": A fiery cinnamon whiskey served with a small flame hovering above the glass. Captain"Highrider Special": A tropical fruit punch with floating pieces of enchanted, glowing ice cubes.
Snacks & Gimmicks: Captain"Thranish Sunbread" : A golden, lightly sweet bread served warm with honey. Captain"Zilargo Poppers": Spicy stuffed peppers that sizzle slightly due to alchemical spices. Captain"Dragonshard Cookies": Sugar cookies shaped like dragonshards, with edible glitter.
Meals for Travelers: "Karrnathi Ironplate": A savory platter of seared meat strips, smoked cheese, and dark rye, served with pickled roots and buttered herbed potatoes. "Skyraider’s Stew": Hearty beef and vegetable stew, slow-cooked with floating dumplings and spiced with lightning pepper. "Sharn Skewer Sampler": Assorted grilled meats and vegetables on enchanted skewers that keep themselves warm. "Vegetarian Verdancy": A fresh salad bowl with enchanted greens that shimmer faintly, tossed with nuts, berries, and citrus drizzle. "Breland Breakfast Anytime": Fluffy eggs, crisped ham, fried tubers, and a biscuit with jam, available even at midnight.
Location: Engine control room adjacent to Engine Core Race: Dark Elf & Human Class: Artificer & Rogue Equipment:
Scratch NA Val NA
Attire:
Scratch Dark brown, knee-length coat Black waistbelt Grey button-up shirt Dark brown trousers Heavy leather boots Val Off-white shirt Red ribbon tied around left arm Brown hooded coat Brown trousers Leather boots Goggles on her head
Gold: 30 Injuries:
Scratch NA Val NA
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Scaerthrynne flicked his eyes over to the clock sitting near the edge of his workbench. Its long hand jerked across its face, dragging its shorter companion forward with every revolution. His brows arched. Time was running out, and still Vallena had yet to return. She was late. Very late – he had expected her to be back a few hundred ticks ago, but he wasn’t concerned. If anything, he was amused. The ghost of a smile tugged on his lips. He was going to have a very interesting conversation with the girl later.
But for now, he had more important things that required his focus.
He reached over and turned the clock to better face him before looking down at the partially-disassembled pistol laying on his workbench. The plate covering its lock had been removed. It, along with the six screws that had held it in place, now sat on a thin rubber mat beside the pistol. Scaerthrynne’s shoulders hunched as he brought his face closer to the weapon, peering into the cavity carved out of the stock, at the intricate mechanism within. Soot blackened every gear, latch, and spring, but only in a fine, dusty later.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
It was a sign that the pistol was due for a cleaning, but it wasn’t so dirty that Scaerthrynne thought it worth worrying over. He slowly turned the weapon, scrutinising every minute part, looking between every minute gap, his wine-red eyes narrowed in concentration. The weapon had presented with a heavier-than-normal trigger pull, and there had been a slight delay between depressing the trigger all the way, and the hammer snapping forward. That suggested problems with the physical linkages within the trigger group. And that in turn meant that he could ignore the firing mechanism itself.
Good. That narrowed things down.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Another glance at the clock. Not much longer, now.
Chewing on his lip, he looked around the benchtop for a pair of pliers. He found one still lodged within one of the old pieces of machinery – an arcane regulator – he had been scavenging for parts before his official duties had called him away. He tapped his index finger on the benchtop, in time with the clock’s ticks. That had been almost a month ago, and he had been kept busy enough since then to have forgotten about it up until now. He made a note to recover the runic circuit by today. That would be the trickiest, and so also the most interesting part to extract from the regulator.
With a bit of effort, and a lot of jiggling, he pulled the pliers free. As if on cue, a shudder rippled through the floor. He froze in place, body still leaned over the benchtop and fingers pinched on the pliers, and let out a frustrated huff. Such incidents weren’t uncommon aboard an airship, but they always were annoying when they interrupted his work. Very slowly, he sat back in his seat and covered the pistol’s exposed mechanism with a hand. The engines whirred, almost screaming as their whines rose high above the ambient thumps and rumbles of machinery that surrounded Scaerthrynne here in the engine room. Everything shook. From the way his stomach floated, Scaerthrynne knew that the airship had dropped a fair distance. Then, it rose again. It had wandered into a pocket of low pressure, it seemed.
The shuddering gradually lessened, and then it died out entirely. Scaerthrynne immediately spun around in his seat, running his eyes over the wall of gauges directly opposite his workbench. He paid no attention to the ones related to elemental and arcane components – his ears had told him that the problem was strictly mechanical. The engines’ whines were quieting to dull drones, but Scaerthrynne managed to find the four gauges he needed – the ones for engine temperatures and driveshaft speeds – before everything returned to normal. All had their needles twitching dangerously close to their absolute limits.
Scaerthrynne frowned. That wasn’t normal. Not after such a brief period of increased stress.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He shook his head and returned his attention to the pistol. It was almost a certainty that the engines’ Runic Autonomous Control Interfaces – or rackkies, as he liked to call them – were faulty. Either crossed circuits or malfunctioning runes doing something they shouldn’t were causing the rackkies to transfer far too much power from the engines to the driveshafts. That made them spin faster than usual, which in turn resulted in more friction, and thus more heat. It wasn’t too major an issue; so long as the airship remained at cruising speed and didn’t push the engines too hard, Scaerthrynne could wait until they were docked to crack open the engines and either replace or repair the necessary components.
Simple explanation, simple fix. And neither at all interesting.
Very carefully, he picked apart the pistol’s trigger group with the pliers. He placed each piece on the rubber in neat, orderly rows. There wasn’t much need for him to dismantle the weapon to such an extent for what he sought, but he found it good practice. It would also give Vallena something to work on, later.
With speed borne from experience, he soon wiggled the trigger spring free from its mounting pins. He held it between his thumb and index finger and gave it a squeeze. To him, its stiffness felt right – just enough to hold the trigger in place, but not so much that pulling it was a chore. But he could see how, to a young girl, it might be a little too stiff. Replace it with a lighter, more pliable spring, and all would be well. Again, it was a simple solution to a simple problem. There wasn’t even any need for any creative machining. More likely than not, he already had such a spring sitting in a box of spares, somewhere.
Well, that was one problem taken care of. He placed the offending spring on the rubber mat and moved on to the next, the delayed hammer. This one was easy. There were only a few reasons why a hammer would be slow in action, and one of those reasons was, again, a faulty spring, albeit one that needed to be stiffer, rather than looser. But that didn’t seem likely – the trigger and hammer worked in tandem, so it was typical for both springs to lose tension at roughly the same time, so if the trigger spring was still stiff, then it didn’t make much sense for the hammer spring to be otherwise.
Another possibility was rust physically slowing the mechanism, but Scaerthrynne quickly dismissed it after a cursory examination of the parts. They were dirty, but definitely nothing more. He would never allow any weapon of his – or Vallena’s, for that matter – to be poorly maintained enough to become rusted.
That only left one other reason. He examined the linkages between the trigger and firing mechanisms, and found his answer. The notch in the shear plate – a metal sheet which held the hammer in place until it was time for it to snap forward – was cut just a touch too deep. Pulling the trigger didn’t release the hammer as much as it simply put it in position to slip free. A new shear plate would do the trick.
The clock’s alarm went off, a shrill ring made all the shriller by the engine room’s enclosed space. Its brass walls threw the sound between each other, like children with a ball, making it grow louder and sharper with each pass.
Scaerthrynne allowed the alarm to go on for a while before reaching over to grab the clock before it rattled itself off the workbench. He turned a dial on its back to silence it and placed it back on the benchtop. Then, he took some time to arrange the pliers and pistol neatly, as well as to straighten the rows of parts lying on the rubber mat. He even wiped his hands clean on his dark brown coat, and brushed strands of white hair away from his brow. If he was going to discipline a child, he may as well look proper doing it. “Vallena.” His measured voice echoed through the room. “Time’s up. You can come out now.”
The sound of hurried footsteps drifted through the floor. Scaerthrynne turned in his seat just in time to see a skinny arm push a hatch up and open further down the room. With several grunts, Vallena hauled herself through the compact hole in the floor. The goggles sitting on her head was askew, as was the tail she had pulled her dark, wavy hair into. “I couldn’t find it, Scratch,” she said, kicking the hatch shut. “Sorry, but we’ll have to tell the Captain to get another…Another one of those manifold thingies.”
“And by we, you mean me,” Scaethrynne said, meeting her sheepish smile with a small one of his own. He spied the frayed, dirty edges of a bandage peeking from under the right sleeve of her shirt. “Grab that and come here,” he said and flicked his eyes over to a stool standing by the wall of gauges. “And let me take a look at that arm of yours.”
Vallena dragged the stool over. “It’s fine, really,” she said as she sat down. “You don’t have to look at it.”
“I could do that.” Scaerthrynne half-turned and plucked a satchel from a hook riveted into the wall over the workbench. He turned back around, set it on his lap, and extended a hand towards Vallena. “Or you could do as you’re told and let me take a look at that arm of yours.”
She grumbled something beneath her breath, but rolled up her sleeve anyway and held her forearm out to him. He took it by the wrist and pulled it closer to him, and thus pulled a surprised squeak from her as well when she almost fell forward into him. “Come closer,” he said. Vallena shifted in the stool, its legs scraping loudly against the floor as she moved it with her weight. Scaerthrynne frowned as he took note of the dark splotches on the bandage. “I remember telling you to be careful with this, and I definitely remember telling you to keep it away from anything wet.”
“I did!” Vallena exclaimed quickly. Then, she saw what he was looking at and averted her eyes. “I-I mean, I tried…” she mumbled and looked down at her lap. “It was two days ago, I was trying to refill engine three’s lubricating oil and I guess I accidentally splashed some on me. It wasn’t on purpose, I swear!”
Scaerthrynne sighed. “Look at me, Val.” She did, and he flicked her between the eyes with a finger.
“Ow!” Vallena yelped and pressed her left hand to her forehead.
“Oh, stop it. You and I both know that didn’t hurt.” Scaerthrynne rolled his eyes as he undid the knot holding the bandage in place and carefully unwrapped it. Aside from the oil stains, and the odd patch of dust and dirt, there weren’t any other stains. Particularly, no red stains. That was good. “I’m sure you didn’t do it on purpose,” he said as he unrolled layer after layer of linen. “You’re not…Well, you’re not that stupid. You just have terrible judgement. If I tell you to stay away from liquids, and you have to move something that is a liquid, like engine oil, for example, then I expect you to ask me for help.”
Vallena swung her heels against the stool’s legs. “I didn’t want to disturb you, is all. I know you don’t like it when you’re disturbed.”
“I don’t like being disturbed unnecessarily,” Scaerthrynne corrected her. He peeled back the last layer of the bandage, revealing a long, angry red patch running along the outside of Vallena’s forearm. Its edges were dry and jagged, whilst a few spots in the middle still glistened under the engine room’s yellow light. “I don’t know, Val, but this doesn’t seem unnecessary to me.”
“Okay, Scratch,” Vallena said and tried to pull her arm back. He didn’t let her. She groaned. “Aw, come on, Scratch! It’s not that serious!”
“It’s still wet,” he said. “Which means it’s still healing, which means that yes, it is that serious.” He reached into the satchel and fished out a small vial of a clear liquid – sagerose spirit – and a cotton swab. Keeping a firm grip on Vallena’s wrist, he picked up the vial with his free hand and uncorked it with his teeth. Then, he wetted the swab with its contents before placing it on the bench.
Vallena winced in anticipation of what was to come. “That stuff stings!”
“Should’ve thought of that before being careless around steam pipes, Val,” Scaerthrynne replied. He glanced up from the wound at her. “You’ll be fine,” he said, the edges around his words noticeably softer, his tone a touch gentler. He rubbed his thumb over her wrist and up to her palm. “This isn’t anything we haven’t done dozens of times before, Val, and you’ve been doing fine so far. I’ll be quick as always, so don’t worry about a thing, alright?”
Vallena bit her lip and looked at him. She nodded. “Alright. I trust you, Scratch.”
“I know you do,” he replied. He tilted his head, taking another look at the wound before pressing the swab against it. Vallena flinched and drew a sharp breath through her teeth. Scaerthrynne ignored her, as he did when her arm tensed. Moving quickly, he traced the wound’s edges before spiralling inwards with frequent and gentle taps. He repeated the process a few more times, wetting the swab with more sagerose spirit as necessary, making sure he cleaned every last inch of the wound. Vallena looked away, her mouth clamped shut and eyes squeezed tight, all throughout the process. Only the kicking of her legs and a hissed breath every so often gave away her discomfort.
“Good girl,” Scaerthrynne said at last, tossing the swab onto the workbench. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Vallena nodded hesitantly. “So…Is it all done?”
“Nope,” Scaerthrynne replied without missing a beat. He dug his hand back into the satchel and pulled out a fresh roll of bandages. “And you know it’s not. We’ve to wrap it back up.”
She looked at the bandages, then at him. “Can’t you leave it open? It gets so itchy sometimes and it drives me crazy that I can’t scratch myself. The wound’s almost healed, too! I remember reading somewhere that wounds can heal better if you don’t wrap them up all the time.”
“So you have been reading. Interesting.” Scaerthrynne placed the roll at the top of her wound and unrolled it towards her wrist, covering the length of it with a single strip. Vallena grumbled, but didn’t resist. He then coiled it back up her arm. “You’re not wrong, Val. That is a popular idea in some parts of the world, and I’d be willing to give it a try if we didn’t spend most of our time in an airship’s engine room. But unfortunately, we do spend most of our time in an airship’s engine room, and engine rooms are…” He trailed off. Vallena looked at him expectantly, and he stopped what he was doing to look back at her. “Engine rooms are…?”
“Oh!” She took a moment to think. “They are…Dirty?”
“Good.” Scaerthrynne nodded and continued to dress her arm. “And if your wound gets dirty…?”
“It can get infected?”
“And when wounds get infected…?”
“They can rot?”
“And what happens if they start to rot?”
Vallena shifted uncomfortably, looking at her bandaged arm. “Then…Then we have to amputate?”
“Exactly,” Scaerthrynne said. His lips pulled into a smirk. “And while I know that there’re plenty of amputee characters in the books you love so much, you’ll find that they’re all missing legs. Not arms.” A blush crept over Vallena’s cheeks as she looked at him with surprise on her face. Scaerthrynne kept a straight look as he met her gaze, his brows arched. “Captain Quinnan Fair, corsair extraordinaire? Sky pirate who goes on plenty of adventures but does very little actual pirating? Accompanied sometimes by Aedalynn Scamall, or Senna Tache? Personally, I think Aedalynn’s a better fit for Quinnan, even if it’s clear that the author wants us to support pairing him off with Senna. I can see why, but I think their personalities are just too–”
“You’ve been reading them when you should’ve been studying,” he said with a grin. “Face it, Val, you can’t sneak things by me that easily.”
“What do you mean?”
Scaerthrynne didn’t reply immediately, instead taking his time wrapping another layer of bandages around Vallena’s arm. The girl whined and nudged him with the toe of her boot, but he ignored her. “Well,” he said slowly when he finally deigned to respond. “I noticed you reading the texts I gave you rather intently these past few weeks, and it got me curious. You see, I distinctly remember handing you this airship’s operations manual and a few engineering and medical treatises. Dry stuff, to be honest, and yet you seemed to be so captivated by them that you were reading them every day for hours at a time.”
Vallena huffed. “W-Well, what if I was? You should be proud!”
He shrugged. “Maybe you were, for the engineering and medical stuff, but I know for a fact that you hadn’t been reading the airship manual. You were on the same few pages for days on end, and that either means you can’t actually read, in which case I’ll have to admit that you’ve fooled all these years, or you’re reading something else behind the manual.”
“O-Or maybe I was re-reading it!”
Scaerthrynne scratched his chin, as if considering the possibility. “That does sound possible,” he mused in a serious tone. A look of satisfaction grew on Vallena’s face and she huffed triumphantly. “Remind me, that thing I sent you down there to find, what was it again?”
“You mean…The…” Vallena’s face scrunched as she thought hard. “The…Type two-ten runic manifold?”
“Ah yes, that thing,” Scaerthrynn confirmed with a nod. “The funny thing is, the type two-ten is specific to a unique engine, the Thurri type two-seven-nine. This airship was built with those engines, but most users of the two-seven-nine had them replaced…A year or so ago, I believe, when it was discovered that a severe defect with their elemental-mechanical interface unit would lead to catastrophic failure under high load. It’s riveting stuff. I have a copy of the article if you’re interested. Anyway, what that means is that this airship’s not using the two-seven-nine, and so it wouldn’t make any sense for us to have a type two-ten manifold in our storeroom.”
“But you told me–”
“Intentionally wrong information,” Scaerthrynne cut in.
“So it was–”
“A test.”
Vallena’s face fell. Her shoulders sagged. “And I–”
“Failed.” Scaerthrynne spoke that word as a cold, unforgiving fact. “You should’ve called me an idiot when I asked for a two-ten. That, or you shouldn’t have spent so much time down there searching for something that doesn’t exist.” He paused to tie the loose ends of the bandage into a knot. “Anyway, going back to the original question, I saw the books in your bag the other day and everything fell into place.” He finally let go of her arm. Vallena pulled it back and held it close to her chest.
“Sorry, Scratch,” she said in a small voice. “I tried to study, I really did! But I–”
Scaerthrynne stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Save your apologies for when you’re older. That’s when you’ll really need them.” She looked away. He sighed. With eyes the colour of blood, and a face that wasn’t exactly the friendliest sight, or even just an approachable one, Scaerthrynne wasn’t unaccustomed to people averting their gaze when speaking to him. Vallena was amongst the few who usually didn’t, and only did when she was well-and-truly apologetic, ashamed, or both. “You’re still a child, Val. That gives you an excuse to be stupid. Enjoy that while you still can.”
“Hey!” Vallena protested, snapping her head around to look at him. “I thought you said I wasn’t stupid.”
“No, I said you weren’t that stupid,” Scaerthrynne replied. Vallena started to argue, but he quieted her with a raised hand. “But you’ve got it in you to be smart, I’ll say that much.”
That got a smile out of her, and Scaerthrynne found it hard not to smile with her. “You mean it?”
“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
Vallena ran her fingers through her hair. “And…Does that mean I’m not in trouble?”
“In your dreams.” Scaerthrynne’s response was immediate. Vallena whined. “But don’t get it wrong. I’m not punishing you for reading. I like what you’re reading, too. They’re nice. And I’m not punishing you for trying to hide it from me, too, although I’m quite confused why you felt the need to. What I am punishing you for, though, is that you didn’t learn even the most basic information about this airship. We’re engineers. What engines this airship is using should be the first things we know about it.”
“Yes, Scratch.” Vallena frowned as she rolled her sleeve back down.
“Good, with that out of the way…” Scaerthrynne stood up from his chair and beckoned for Vallena to come closer. “Sit,” he told her, and she did. “I’ve already taken apart your pistol,” he explained, sweeping a hand over the benchtop. “And I’ve even arranged everything neatly for you. The heavy trigger pull can be solved with a new trigger spring, and the delayed hammer stems from a problem in a shear plate. That’s as much as I’ll tell you. You know where we keep the spares, right?”
Vallena settled into the chair, looking over everything with furrowed brows. “I think–”
“Perfect.” Scaerthrynne picked up the clock. It clicked loudly as he manipulated its dial. “You have an hour, then I’ll be back to check on your work. Remember the issues you told me you had with it. I expect them to be fixed, and the weapon reassembled to satisfaction.”
“And what’ll you be doing, Scratch?” Vallena looked at him over her shoulder.
“Reading your books, what else?” Scaerthrynne grinned at her. And even though Vallena was being punished, she still giggled. “I wasn’t joking when I said they’re nice. I’m at the part where they’re fighting dark elves, too. Can't wait to find out which of my people they’re beating up next.”
Race: Warforged Class: Warrior Location: Airship; Top Deck Interactions: A kind young girl Equipment:
☼ Tower Shield ☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.) ☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook. ☼ Aged Leather Satchel ☼ Worn but cherished scarf ☼ Maintenance Kit . ☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself). ☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake. ☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.
Attire: ☼ Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents. ☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies. ☼ Worn scarf Gold Balance: 10 gold Injuries: ☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.
Top Deck – The Morning After Ascent
The wind was light this morning. Just strong enough to tug on the edges of Bastion’s worn scarf as he stood near the rail of the upper deck, motionless in a way few organics ever were. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t pace. He simply stood, anchored like a statue, as if he had always belonged there.
He watched the birds.
They had been trailing the airship for the past hour, gliding along the slipstreams like living kites, their feathers catching the morning sun. Bastion’s glowing eyes tracked each one, every twitch of a wingtip, every little course correction. He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. A soft hum pulsed behind his eyes as internal systems calculated their patterns, logged their velocities, and silently admired their precision.
They made more sense than people.
Birds didn’t lie. Birds didn’t speak in riddles or say one thing while meaning another. They flew because they wanted to. They ate when they were hungry. They migrated because the world told them to. They existed in a harmony he had never understood, but always admired. Bastion often wished people operated the same way. Predictably. Honestly. Simply.
This was his first time on an airship. He had heard the term “skysick” tossed around earlier, murmured between pale-faced passengers clinging to rails and barrels. The sway of the vessel in the open sky had left more than a few stomachs uneasy. Bastion did not experience nausea, or fear, not in the way they did. He was not immune to danger—his calculations had confirmed that much. If this machine were to fail—if it tumbled from the clouds like a wounded bird—most on board would perish. His own internal risk assessment placed his chance of survival at 47%.
That number seemed low. Unacceptable. Concerning. It was the sort of statistic that should cause fear, or at least discomfort.
But it didn’t.
Instead, it settled in his mind like a fact of weather. Present. Impersonal. Immutable.
He tilted his head slightly and turned from the birds to the passengers mingling across the deck. He observed how they stood casually during conversation, how they shifted their weight from one leg to another, how they laughed with narrowed eyes and waved their hands when excited. He watched how some winced at the movement of the ship, how others scowled at the sky as though it had wronged them. He studied it all.
Then he tried to copy it.
He placed his hands behind his back like the old captain nearby. He tilted his head to mimic a sailor’s laughter. He furrowed his metal brow plates—not that it did much. He was... rehearsing. Practicing. Performing something close to humanity. He adjusted his stance in subtle increments, shifted his shoulders, bent slightly at the knees to mimic weariness.
It felt like mimicry. But it also felt like... hope.
“Are you okay?”
The voice startled him. Not because it was loud, but because it was directed at him.
He turned, blinking with a soft whir. A small dragonborn girl stood beside him, her scales a shimmering shade of lavender, her eyes wide and unafraid. She was hugging a ragged toy shaped like a griffon, the seams at its wings barely holding together.
"...Yes," he said after a pause. "I believe I am."
She tilted her head, tail swaying behind her. “You looked weird.”
"That is... very possible," Bastion replied. Then, with a flicker of something close to amusement: "I was practicing."
“Practicing what?”
He thought for a moment. "Being like you."
She beamed, clearly delighted. “I’m Kaelira. What’s your name?”
"Bastion."
“That’s a cool name,” she said, and reached into the little satchel slung at her side. From it, she withdrew a small, folded paper airship—slightly crumpled, but crafted with care. “Here. You can have it. I made it myself.”
He accepted it like it was made of glass, holding it delicately between his massive fingers. "Thank you." He turned it over in his hands, noting the care in the folds, the uneven symmetry, the soft creases from where she had clearly pressed hard.
There was a brief silence. Comfortable, at first.
Then: “What does it feel like to be dead?”
Bastion looked at her, surprised again. "What?"
Kaelira shrugged, looking up at him with curiosity. “My daddy says you people aren’t really alive. That you can’t be alive. So that means you must be dead, right?”
He was quiet. Then, softly: "I don’t think I’m dead. But... I thought I was. A few days ago."
“But I thought you people didn’t sleep.”
“We don’t,” he said. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was... gone. For a while. I thought I was gone forever.”
“Why?”
He opened his mouth to answer.
And then—
“Kaelira!” a gruff voice barked across the deck. A dragonborn man strode toward them, eyes narrowed and posture rigid. “Get away from that killer!”
Kaelira frowned. “He’s not a killer, Dad. His name is Bastion.”
“They’re all killers,” the man growled, taking her arm. “I don’t want you near them. Not now, not ever.”
Bastion didn’t move. He watched as Kaelira glanced back at him, her little fingers fluttering in a hesitant wave. “Bye, Bastion…”
And as she walked away with her father, he heard her soft voice behind him: “Okay, Dad. I’ll stay away from those people.”
His head tilted slightly, like a curious dog hearing a strange sound. He watched her disappear down the stairs.
Then he looked back to the paper airship in his hand.
He raised it slowly. Lined it up with the breeze.
And tossed it.
It wobbled awkwardly at first, but then caught the wind and glided—a fragile little creation drifting through the sky beside the airship, dipping, turning, dancing for a few seconds before spiraling gently downward and vanishing beneath the clouds.
Bastion watched until it was gone.
His fingers closed slowly into a loose fist, as though trying to remember the shape of the airship. Of the moment. Of the child.
✦ Antler Headdress – Elegant branching antlers wrapped in vines and blooming wild roses and other flowers, dangling with purple crystal teardrops. ✦ Thick Magenta Hair – Flowing in long, heavy waves with many braids, tiny beads and blossoms braided throughout. ✦ Forest Bralette – A natural fabric top adorned with layered leaves, hide, flowers, and shimmering gem accents across the bust. ✦ Arm Jewelry – Vine-wrapped armlets and bracelets studded with glistening stones in violet and turquoise hues. ✦ Green Cloaklet – A light green cloak clasped with a gem like amber—crafted from flora and fauna ✦ Layered Skirt – Flowing petal-draped skirt with high side slits, woven from cloth and flower petals ✦ Waist Adornments – A golden vine belt holding a satchels, feathers, and a charm pouch of herbs and trinkets. ✦ Leg Jewelry – Beaded anklets and thigh cords with gemstone charms ✦ Nature Tattoos & Paint – Faint tribal markings or nature-inspired body paint peek beneath her outfit
The morning sun caressed Phia’s skin with all the tenderness of a long-lost lover as she stepped onto the upper deck. Warmth kissed her shoulders, and she welcomed it with outstretched arms as if to return the sun's embrace, her eyes fluttering closed. For a few seconds, she simply stood there, smiling and basking, before her golden eyes opened to the breathtaking view: clouds drifting not only above, but below them, like waves on the sea.
She had no words for the marvel beneath her feet. This giant, humming wooden beast that sailed through the sky like a bird with no wings. The very idea that she could now dance among the skies she had always gazed up at felt like a miracle whispered straight from the spirits. With a delighted giggle, she lifted her staff high into the air and released a wild, euphoric cry. Birds from below and above responded in kind, their calls swirling around her like an enchanted chorus(much to the confusion of those nearby).
She twirled... then paused mid-spin, remembering her original mission: food.
Menzai had still been asleep when she slipped away, so she'd left him a scrap of cloth with the word “hongry” scrawled across it in a barbaric, chaotic script. Hopefully, he'd get the message.
With hunger now guiding her steps, Phia turned on her heel and began making her way. However, then her steps slowed, her bright eyes suddenly drawn toward an unfamiliar-looking figure standing near the deck's railing. Her smile softened, lips parting slightly with surprise and gentle curiosity. At first glance, the being seemed carved from the earth itself, shimmering like stone beneath the sun.
She paused mid-step, head tilting inquisitively. Her gaze traced over his metallic body, noting the glowing lights of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. Her eyes widened slightly in realization: it was alive.
Wonder filled Phia’s expression as it turned its attention from the sky to her. She hesitated, but then a decision bloomed inside her and she beamed at the being kindly before continuing toward the bar over yonder. Her pace quickened again, footsteps light, but her thoughts lingered on the fascinating stranger she had just encountered. Phia practically danced across the deck up to the bar, each step accompanied by the jingling of gemstone charms and anklets that adorned her legs.
Phia noticed yet another curious figure standing behind the table. This one was slimmer than the other rock being. It had features that suggested a feminine grace. Her gaze traveled over the warforged bartender, absorbing every shimmering detail, before she finally stepped up.
Biting her lower lip in concentration, Phia rummaged through her pouch, its contents softly clinking. Without much finesse, she began placing shiny marbles, polished stones, and tiny crystals onto the counter one by one. Each item was meticulously chosen and arranged as if it were a precious offering.
She lifted her gaze to meet the warforged bartender’s glowing eyes.
