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: "Brelish Brass" Ale: A hearty, nutty beer served in a tankard shaped like a griffon’s head. "Aundairian Arcana" Cocktail: A sparkling, lavender-colored drink that changes flavors every sip, thanks to a simple enchantment. "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. "Searing Heights Shot": A fiery cinnamon whiskey served with a small flame hovering above the glass. "Highrider Special": A tropical fruit punch with floating pieces of enchanted, glowing ice cubes.
Snacks & Gimmicks: "Thranish Sunbread" : A golden, lightly sweet bread served warm with honey. "Zilargo Poppers": Spicy stuffed peppers that sizzle slightly due to alchemical spices. "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.
⋆ Lots of Clothes ⋆ Arming sword ⋆ Battle-axe ⋆ Mace ⋆ Daggers ⋆ Bow & Arrows ⋆ Shortsword ⋆ Leather Armor ⋆ Half-plate Armor ⋆ Hide Armor ⋆ Toolkit ⋆ Camping Equipment ⋆ Locked chest filled with old trinkets that ARE NOT FOR SALE ⋆ Magnifying glass ⋆ Diary ⋆ Sketchbook ⋆ Pencils ⋆ Dried and Cured Meats ⋆ Nuts ⋆ Second Locked Chest with self-care products ⋆ Bag of holding
Attire: beige trousers, brown tunic, and worn brown boots Gold Balance: 5 Injuries: None currently Current Persona: Wendel
“Ugh…”
Wendel somberly peered down at the brown coin sack and an open hardcover book at his table whilst he sat comfortably in one of the Upper Viewing Lounge’s plush seats.
Plan: Purchase tickets for the Stormrider airship to Khovaire. We should buy out a single room with multiple cots for privacy and so there won't be any problem when things change. Let's keep it to a maximum of four changes, please.
-Nessa
Used the rest of the funds to purchase three private rooms on the Stormrider. The keys are in our bag. In the event of any sudden changes, try to use a second room. The third room should be left vacant for me if I happen to make it onto the airship. It's a suitable reward for my thoughtfulness. Keep the maximum changes to three. Thank you.
-Lady Eleanor Meridian
Also, replenish the pouch. I cannot afford to live on five gold coins.
The gruff old dwarf let out the lowest of groans, his shoulders slumping down at the poor decisions that were outside of his control. He wasn't sure if he'd rather not be the one to deal with this dilemma or if he simply wished Eleanor did not have to be such a spoiled brat. He nearly grumbled a foul insult aimed at the woman but noticing his cup of tea returned him to his center. Grabbing the cup while wishing it was mead instead, Wendel took a careful sip before setting it back onto the table.
“Damned girl.” Wendel was unable to keep himself from cursing. Tea was wonderful, yet it had its limits. These seats aren't even all that great, and I’m sure the view is better from the bar deck judging from its positioning… Wendel turned his head, only to make eye contact with the elven couple side-eyeing him again. Sighing, he collected his things. And I’m tired of these snobby youngins staring at me like I'm a rogue or a stowaway. I paid for this ticket. The proof’s in my sack! And with a mild gruff, the old dwarf made his leave from the Upper Viewing Lounge with his warm cup of tea in hand and his journal tucked beneath his opposite arm.
And so, Wendel toured the airship, without rhyme or reason to his path. He just took in the scenery, on and off the vessel that carried everyone aboard to their desired destination of Khovaire. He had missed his home continent for quite some time and was happy to be in a familiar place where he could rely on the societies he knew like the back of his hand.
Every so often, he'd stop in place to take a short sip from his cup followed by an exhale of satisfaction. Still, he yearned for his tea to be mead. Just a taste wouldn't hurt. As long as he did not let sweet alcoholic nectar take hold of him, he would not invoke an unwanted change. However, Miris and Nessa had written out the rules quite clearly. No drinking. No fighting. No overworking. No making a butt of yourself. No violence. The last one was specifically for Vrexen who'd never read it in the journal. Still, it was scribbled bold and large on the page.
After five minutes of his deepest contemplation, Wendel reached the top deck with his eyes set on the bar serviced by a… Warforged!
“Ah… Ooh… Magnificent!” He said under his breath but his excitement was impossible for one to miss. Stopped in his tracks, he marveled at her from afar. Wendel had always found these beings to be rather extraordinary from the first time he set eyes on them. He took a step forward before noticing something bigger. Not just big in proportions but in terms of a finding. As he laid his eyes on Bastion, a heavily reinforced towering warforged, Wendel found himself smitten with joy. Unbeknownst to him, he was walking a fine line between remaining as himself and changing into someone else.
“I knew it.” Wendel said as he walked over to approach Bastion with the warmest smile he could muster. “I knew it I knew it. I knew it! I knew it was the right choice to leave smug folk on the Upper Lounge. Just look at you!” Wendel exclaimed looking up at Bastion. “You’re a fine sight to behold, young man- hmm…” He squinted closely at Bastion's frame before piping up again. “Apologies. The wear and tear tells me you might be my peer… or scratch that, you might be my senior! You wear your age well, my friend. Far better than I.” He chuckled and leaned his side against the railing to keep the journal tucked as he extended his hand out. “My name's Wendel. Mind if I join you? The view is much better from here.” He took a short look at the birds flying alongside the airship, not only happy with his decision but also with the thought of only having five gold coins to his name far from his thoughts.
Attire: ⋆ Outfit/satchel ⋆ Hair Gold Balance: 10 Injuries: Scars on body, old chain marks on wrists, ankles and neck, tattoo on wrist with number
Arya sat quietly at the bar. Her figure was cloaked beneath a dark and hooded poncho. Its deep blue fabric, worn from travel, draped loosely around her petite frame. It hid her from the curious gazes she hoped to avoid. Her silver-white hair was mostly concealed beneath the hood in a half-up braided hairstyle, with only a few strands falling softly forward, and framed her anxious features.
She shifted uneasily in her seat, gently tugging the cloak tighter around herself, one hand nervously gripping the worn strap of her satchel. Beneath the cloak, her ranger attire peeked through and showed a hint of leather padding on her thighs and worn gloves covering her fingers.
An audible growl escaped her stomach. Arya blushed furiously beneath her hood. Her gaze darted toward the warforged bartender busy with the other patrons. Arya bit her lower lip softly, glancing downward. What if she was too loud? What if speaking up caused her to be seen-to be noticed, and for the authorities to be alerted? Each time she gathered the courage to raise her hand, another confident voice cut in front and thus, left her hungry and overlooked. It was as if she were at home, except there weren’t angry voices belittling her existence.
A girl’s voice nearby piqued her curiosity. She noticed a vibrant flash of color from her peripheral vision. She looked over to observe a woman with long magenta hair standing at the bar. Her antlers poked out and reminded Arya of her own horns. This woman dressed in an outfit adorned from leafy garments. The way she dressed and her demeanor astounded Arya.
Arya's eyes widened slightly beneath her hood in quiet fascination. The woman carefully placed an assortment of marbles and stones on the counter. Was she trying to pay with them? A soft smile played at Arya's lips, intrigued yet envious of the woman's carefree confidence. Some day, she hoped to mirror it; perhaps when her family was truly free. Her heart ached – were they still alive? No. She could not let herself think this way. Arya clutched her cloak and waited for whatever happened next.
Race: Yuan-ti Class: Rogue Arcane Assassin Location: Top Deck Interactions: @Apex Sunburn Scratch and Val Equipment:
🌸 A finely crafted katana 🌸 A concealed dagger laced with paralytic venom 🌸 Throwing needles coated with different poisons 🌸 Black silk combat outfit reinforced with hidden Mithril chainmail 🌸 Soft-soled boots that allow for near-silent movement 🌸 Smoke bombs and illusion charms for quick escapes 🌸 A set of forged documents under multiple aliases 🌸 A tea set and an assortment of teas 🌸 Incense
Attire: Kimono Gold Balance: 30 Injuries: None currently, but has numerous faded scars on her body
Meiyu sat on the top deck, her figure draped in a flowing kimono, its black and gold fabric shimmering in the soft glow of the light. She was ensconced in one of the plush lounge chairs, a small porcelain cup of tea held delicately in her hands, the steam rising in thin tendrils as she read a well-worn book. The weight of her curved sword sat beside her, the blade hidden under the folds of her robe, a silent reminder of the quiet danger she carried with her.
The deck bustled with people—voices murmuring, laughter echoing, the occasional clink of glass or scrape of chairs. Yet, Meiyu was alone in her corner, detached from the crowd as her sharp eyes observed those around her, always watching, always calculating.
A dragonborn and his young daughter caught her attention. The father’s demeanor was harsh, his voice barely a whisper but cutting all the same as he looked with barely concealed disdain at the large warforged man standing near the bar as he led his daughter down the stairs. Meiyu could almost taste the tension in the air between the two. She was well-accustomed to prejudice, having seen it many times before and even experienced it herself.
Across the room, a half-elven woman with striking magenta hair moved with an air of curiosity, her eyes scanning the room as she approached the bar. Meiyu couldn’t help but admire the woman's seemingly carefree attitude, the way she held herself, as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She could already tell there was something beneath that fae-like calm, a story that begged to be told.
Then there was a cloaked figure, perched by the bar like a shadow among the brightly lit patrons. Their hooded presence stood out, as though they preferred not to be seen, yet drew Meiyu’s eyes all the same. Not many were cloaked and even less seemed to be trying to hide their face like this person was. The soft rustling of their cloak suggested more than just concealment—they were hiding something. Meiyu’s lips curled slightly, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. There was always more than met the eye in places like this.
And now, an older dwarven man had come up the stairs and approached the warforged, his hearty laugh ringing out above the murmur of conversation. Though the conversation was too distant to hear clearly, she could sense the dwarven man was delighted by the warforged presence. What a refreshing contrast to the previous interaction with the dragonborn.
A light tap at her pocket brought her back to the present. Her fingers moved with practiced speed, seizing the wrist of a young boy, no older than thirteen, attempting to lift something from her. His eyes widened in shock as she pulled him into full view, a calm smile still playing on her lips.
"You've chosen the wrong target," she said softly, her voice like silk, but carrying a weight that made the boy freeze. "In some parts of the world, if someone is caught stealing, they lose a limb."
The boy’s face went pale, panic creeping into his features as he glanced at her sword. He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat as Meiyu’s grip tightened around his wrist.
"I’ll be generous," she continued, her voice still calm, "and allow you to keep your limb. But you must learn a lesson. You need to be wiser on picking your targets and understand there are consequences to being caught."
His eyes darted to hers, wide with fear. "W-wait, what are you going to do?"
Without another word, Meiyu twisted his arm, her movements swift and precise. The boy let out a strangled cry as his arm broke with a sickening snap, his face contorting in pain. Meiyu pulled him gently down, her demeanor oddly soothing as she sat him next to her, the broken limb resting in his lap.
"Shh," she murmured softly, her hand gently pressing his trembling shoulder, as though comforting him. "No need to make a scene."
Her eyes flickered over the room, then she called out, her voice carrying in the quiet space. "Doctor!" she called, her tone as even and serene as before. "It seems this young man has fallen and broken his arm. Do hurry, please."
The lounge grew quieter for a moment as the people nearby took notice, but Meiyu remained the picture of composed elegance, her delicate fingers resting on the boy’s trembling shoulder, her eyes scanning the room for any who might dare to challenge her calm.
Race: Aasimar Class: Paladin Location: Stormrider; Top Deck Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute. Attire: Clothing and gloves Gold Balance: 30 Injuries: Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.
It was easy to spot a necromancer.
A hollowness behind their eyes. A sallowness to their skin. Death clung to them; it raised the hair on the back of one’s neck, sent a shiver down the spine, and made the pulse quicken- things people could ignore or pass off as a ‘bad vibe.’
Ezekiel was far too familiar with necromancers not to notice one. He caught the subtle odor of decay that clung to the elderly man as he walked past. No matter how much they bathed, what oils and fragrances they used to try to mask it, the smell of death always lingered on their skin.
His head turned, and his eye caught a glimpse of the man’s face. Time slowed.
Ezekiel saw that same face, now with its wrinkles gone, as if time had reversed. A man still in his prime, posture straightened, dressed in the red and black of Karrnath, commanding a legion of undead soldiers. That subtle whiff of decay he'd caught on the man amplified. The air became thick and suffocating with its sour scent. A cloying rot that clawed down his throat.
Ezekiel’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. An airship was not the place to bisect a likely retired Karrn general. The war was over. It was possible that the elderly man had given up necromancy. There were quieter ways to end a life. A tumble off the side of the ship could look like an accident. His head began to throb just behind his eye.
He watched the man walk past a towering warforged. For a moment, his hawk-like focus on the necromancer vanished, and he studied the machine with a softer expression. There was no mistaking the warforged origins; the elegant machine was of Cyran design. The sight of that warforged, of a Cyran brother, supplied a warmth that stung beyond words.
Warmth fanned the fire, hatred burned brighter, and the glow of his eye intensified. Those who held a hatred of the warforged had it wrong. The machines were not the monsters of The Last War; that title belonged to the undead forces of Karrnath.
And every horror caused by the undead came from the hands of necromancers.
The world could do with one less twisted mage toying with death.
Snap!
The sound of bone breaking drew his attention away from the elderly necromancer. He turned and spotted a child, his expression a mix of pain, fear, and shock, who sat cradling his arm on his lap. Above the boy, a woman in a dark and decorated kimono attempted to comfort him with a hand on the kid's shoulder. The woman called out for a doctor and a couple of concerned passengers went to fetch the ship’s physician.
Ezekiel headed down the ship’s deck, the opposite direction from the necrommancer's path and toward the woman and the injured boy.
“I’m not a doctor, but I can do some healing magic.” He gave the pair a respectful nod of his head before kneeling down to the boy’s level.
“It’ll hurt and take a few sessions, but I can expedite the healing for your son’s arm.” He offered, his eye flickered from the boy the woman standing over him. “Get you back to enjoying your voyage as quick as possible.”
Ezekiel waited for their answer and returned his attention to the child. “Ever broken a bone before?” He asked the boy, trying to distract him from the pain.
Location: Engine control room >> Top Deck Race: Dark Elf & Human Class: Artificer & Rogue Mentions:@Tae Meiyu; @Helo Ezekiel Equipment:
Scratch Medical bag Tinkerer's kit Arcane spindlelock (shortened) musket Spindlelock pistols x2 Hand axes x2 Val First-aid bag Tinkerer's kit Spindlelock pistols x2 Steel daggers x2
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: 35 Injuries:
Scratch NA Val NA
“Bridge to engine control. Bridge to engine control. Anyone there?”
Scaerthrynne let out a long, resigned sigh as the crackling voice buzzed through a speaker mounted in the ceiling. It seemed a natural law, almost, that everytime he felt he could snatch a few moments to relax and go about his own business, the bridge would seek him out. “Is there a light up there that flashes whenever I take a break?” He wondered aloud, looking up from Vallena’s book and at the rack of tools before him.
“I thought you liked work, Scratch,” the girl replied in a mumble, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she carefully reassembled her pistol.
“Interesting work,” Scaerthrynne corrected. He waited for a moment, and when he heard nothing else from the speaker, he made himself more comfortable in his chair. Its wooden frame creaked as he leaned back, kicking his heels up and onto a corner of the benchtop. “The stuff the bridge has us doing most of the time tends to be remarkably uninteresting. Not that I blame them. Any engineering issue major enough for them to notice would likely be first noticed by us, and with the sort of passengers we’re carrying these days, any medical emergency would likely be settled by a healer of some kind.” He nodded his approval of whatever he read in the book before turning a page. “The author’s done their research. Never thought anyone other than a Dark Elf would know that Dusky Ear moss is hallucinogenic. Captain Fair’s going to have a–”
“Hey! No spoilers!” Vallena snapped. Scaerthrynne glanced up at her. She looked back at him, her hickory eyes meeting his blood-red ones. He raised a brow. She attempted to glower at him, but she couldn’t hold back the amused smirk tugging on her lips, and ended up giggling. “I’d never have guessed that you’d like stories like that, Scratch.”
“Stranger things have happened,” he replied simply and went back to reading.
She set her tools down and stretched, pushing her hands out in front of her as far as she could. A shudder rattling the airship’s frame pulled a surprised yelp from her, and almost sent her sprawling to the floor. She caught herself just in time, bracing herself against the benchtop. “That felt strong.” Fearful worry was thick in her words. “S-Should we ring the bridge, Scratch?”
“No need,” Scaerthrynn replied. He hadn’t moved, and neither had anything else around him. “It was just a bit of minor turbulence, nothing more. It only felt bad to you because you were off-balance.” Vallena’s face reddened and she quickly returned to her work. He turned another page. “If it were anything more serious, we'd have the Captain screaming our ears off by now.”
The speaker crackled to life again. “Bridge to engine control. Bridge to engine control. I know you’re there, Scratch. Respond immediately.”
Vallena looked at Scaerthrynne nervously. He scowled and shook his head. “They just don’t know when to give up, do they?” With another sigh, he closed the book, slid it onto the benchtop, and carefully swung his boots back onto the floor. “Don’t worry, Val,” he said, patting her on the shoulder as he squeezed past her, and approached a box attached to the wall beside the gauges. “They wouldn’t be asking for us so nicely if it was a real emergency. I’d bet half my pay that it’s nothing worth too much of our attention.”
“Like what, Scratch?”
Scaerthrynne shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe someone broke something, or someone’s got a complaint.”
Vallena paused and looked at him, grinning. “Was that a serious bet, Scratch?”
“Why not? You’re on, Val. Half for half.” He chuckled, then held a finger to his lips before pressing a bright, red button on the box. There was a soft click, and the microphone taking up the top half of the box buzzed to life. Scaerthrynne cleared his throat, coughing into a fist, and leaned against the wall. “Engine control to bridge. Engine control to bridge. Sorry for the wait. We got caught up gossiping with the elemental. Should try it yourself, some time. They know quite a lot of stuff for someone stuck down here all the time.”
“Very funny, Scratch,” came the deadpan reply. “Anyway, Captain wants you up on the top deck. We’ve got a child who broke their arm, by the sound of things.”
Scaerthrynne groaned. “Didn’t you look at the passenger manifest? You’ve got at least one healer up there who can do a much better job. You don’t need me.”
“Maybe, but they’re not there right now. And besides, the Captain’s not asking you to head up, he’s telling you to. You’re not talking your way out of this one, Scratch. Bridge out.”
The speaker clicked off. For a while, the control room was filled with only the sound of rumbling machinery and that of Scaerthrynne’s sighs. “Well, you heard him,” he said and faced Vallena. “How’re you doing with your pistol, Val?”
Vaellan spun around and held the reassembled weapon towards him. “All done!” She beamed ear-to-ear.
Scaerthrynne leaned over, inspecting it from end-to-end, and top-to-bottom, with a keen eye. He saw none of the usual errors – screws left loose, an improperly placed trigger, misaligned sights, to name a few – as well as none of the less usual ones, too. Vallena looked at him with confident eyes, but the slight trembling in her arm gave away her nervous anticipation. “Relax Val,” he said, perhaps a little unhelpfully, as he took the pistol from her. He turned it muzzle-down and gave it a few shakes. Nothing came out.
He then pulled the hammer back, listening to each individual click. Nothing wrong, there. Slowly, he peeled his thumb away from the hammer. It stayed in place. Nothing wrong there, either. And finally, he pulled the trigger, using his off hand to ease the hammer forward instead of letting it snap. The trigger felt lighter than before and it released the hammer earlier, as it should. “Well done, Val,” he said and returned the weapon to her. “A bit more practice and I might let you handle all of our weapons’ maintenance on your own.”
“Really?” Her excitement was clear from just that one word. “Thanks!”
“But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Scaerthrynne squeezed around her and grunted as he squatted low to pull out a bag from under the workbench. “We’ll need our medical and engineering kits, I imagine, so go get those ready, Val.” With another grunt, he stood back up and threw it onto the benchtop. It landed with a loud thud. He unbuttoned the flap, flipped it open, and started taking out items one-by-one to make sure it contained everything he would need, and some things that he wouldn’t need, but wanted to have on hand.
Vallena watched him and tilted her head. “But the bridge told us to deal with a broken arm, Scratch. I don’t see why we’d need tools and stuff.”
“That’s what they tell us now,” he replied drily. “Just give them a while to think.”
“What do you–”
As if on cue, the speaker buzzed and crackled to life again. Scaerthrynne finished sorting out the bag and slung it across his body. He pushed past Vallena and stood by the box. “Bridge to engine control. Bridge to engine control. While you’re up there, could you swing by the bar and check the lights? A few passengers complained last night that some of them were flickering.”
Scaerthrynne pressed the button. “Engine control to bridge. Engine control to bridge. It can’t be that bad of a problem if nobody told us about it at the time when it happened.”
“Would you have gone up if we did?”
“Probably not.”
“And that’s why we’re asking you to take care of it now, Scratch. You’re going up, anyway. Oh, and another thing. The Captain wants you to check in on Gears, too. It got caught out in that squall a few days ago. He wants you to make sure it’s got no moisture damage.”
Scaerthrynne pinched the bridge of his nose. When he spoke, it was with barely contained irritation. “Did it ever occur to any of you up there that if Gears was hurt or feeling unwell, she’d come find me herself? You know, like the sentient, not-a-piece-of-equipment being that she is?”
“Just do your damn job, Scratch.”
He rolled his eyes at that, so hard that they could have fallen out of their sockets. “Alright, master. Should I make you and your friends tea while I’m at it?”
“Thanks for the offer, Scratch. I take mine–”
“Oh, piss off. Engine control out.” Scaerthrynne pulled his finger off the button. He stood in place for a little while longer, taking the time to calm himself. It was normal, he had to keep telling himself, for some people to be prejudiced against Warforged. But then again, that didn’t mean he had to simply accept it, especially when that prejudice was targeted towards one whom Scaerthrynne had, by now, worked with for at least a handful of years. He saw her as a colleague, more than anything else.
“Well, I think Gears is a cool lady,” Vallena said suddenly.
That got a chuckle out of Scaerthrynne. He pushed himself off of the wall. “That, she is. And you know, I’m pretty sure we’ve got another Warforged aboard.”
Vallena gasped. “Do we? Cool! Can we try talking to them?”
“Sure,” Scaerthrynne said with a grin, patting Vallena on the shoulder. “To borrow the words of the ones up top, we may as well while we’re up there. Get yourself kitted up in walking attire, Val. Let’s get this done as quickly as possible.”
For Scaerthrynne and Vallena, ‘walking attire’ meant looking like the average adventurer who had spent all their coin, and that of their friends, to book a passage on the Stormrider. That meant a plain shirt, a pair of plain trousers, and a plain coat over all of them for Scaerthrynne, along with pistols, pouches, and axes on his belt, and a short musket across his back. As for Vallena, she was similarly dressed in her work clothes, which consisted of a white shirt, dark trousers, and a hooded coat. Her daggers and pistols were sheathed and holstered on her hips, and of course, she had her goggles sitting on her head.
As the name suggested, they used such attire for when they needed to walk across the Stormrider’s decks quickly, and without distractions. Looking like armed adventurers kept most passengers away. Few people would want to get in the way of anyone who looked like they had either been in many fights before, or that they had no qualms about starting one. And those who didn’t give them a wide berth – mostly other, actual adventurers – didn’t think of them as crew, and so didn’t stop them to ask questions which, to be perfectly honest, neither Scaerthrynne nor Vallena could answer to begin with.
The pair marched through the crowded top deck, Scaerthrynne taking the lead and Vallena just half-a-step behind him. A woman cast a lasting, worried gaze at him as he passed, worried eyes glued to the wooden stock jutting out over his shoulder. He gave her a sardonic smile. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said, his words dripping with mischief. “It’s just a really fancy walking stick. I’m almost five hundred years old. I’m allowed to have one.”
“Over there, Scratch.” Vallena tugged on his sleeve and pointed at a small commotion.
Scaerthrynne followed her until they reached the edge of the gathering crowd. “Hold on tight,” he said and made sure Vallena had a firm grip on his coat before pushing his way through curious onlookers and, if he had to be honest, people who had nothing better to do. “Excuse me, ship’s surgeon and assistant coming through,” he repeated, each time his words growing louder and more annoyed. Vallena echoed his words, but her small voice could do little to help. Eventually, Scaerthrynne simply started physically shoving those in his way, out of the way.
A strange scene greeted them on the other side. On the floor was a young boy – he couldn’t be that much older than Vallena – with an arm that was quickly purpling. A clear sign of a break. The injured limb rested in the lap of a woman dressed in strange clothes, and with an appearance that reminded Scaerthrynne of a land he might have visited several decades ago. That, or he was remembering drawings from one of the many books he had read before. A man knelt beside the boy, trying to comfort him.
“Good morning, everyone, I’m Scaerthrynne Airresh, Stormrider’s surgeon.” His words came out one after the other at a rapid pace. He had no intentions of staying any longer than he needed to. A cursory glance was all it took to tell him that this was another straightforward, and thus uninteresting problem. “This is my assistant, Vallena,” he continued and gestured to the girl.
She waved. “Hello!”
“So if you’d excuse the two of us…” Scaerthrynne said and trailed off, kneeling beside the boy. There was no tearing of the skin in the forearm, and no broken bones protruding. That meant an interior fracture, and that wasn’t something that needed his level of skill to handle. “Vallena,” he called out, scooting over to give the girl some space. She squatted beside him. “What do you see?”
She tilted her head. “No broken skin, no visible bones. The break’s all on the inside, Scratch.”
“Well done,” Scaerthrynne replied. “So what must be done?”
“Oh, I know! This is an easy one!” Vallena giggled. “Set the bone, wrap it with a splint, and keep it still until the bone heals itself.”
“You might want to knock him out first, otherwise the pain might kill him.” Scaerthrynne nodded to the boy, then quickly added, “I mean that as a figure of speech. You’re not actually going to die. It’ll probably hurt a lot, but she’ll give you something to numb the pain. That, or it’ll put you into a nice, deep sleep. Hard to tell what that stuff does to a person until it…” He trailed off as he swept his gaze over the boy’s arm again, this time his brows furrowing. There were no abrasions. No other bruises, not even a scratch.
In fact, now that Scaerthrynne looked at him from head-to-toe again, the boy wasn’t hurt anywhere else.
“Wait,” he said sharply, holding out a hand to stop Vallena. Something wasn’t right here. And that was very interesting. Without a word, and without caring for anyone else, for that matter, he hiked the boy’s trouser legs up, until the ankles were exposed. No redness. He pressed his fingers hard against each joint. There wasn’t any swelling, either. “Vallena, check his other arm and the back of his head for swelling, abrasions, or cuts.” He gave the order swiftly.
“Got it.”
Scaerthrynne looked up from the boy at their surroundings. The top deck was a wide, open space, and the boy was lying far from the bulwarks. It was thus reasonable to assume that he had broken his arm around this same area. But unless the boy had a habit of running full tilt into everything arm-first, Scaerthrynn saw nothing that could explain how he could break a limb.
“Nothing, Scratch,” Vallena reported. “What is it? What’re you thinking?”
A smile crept over Scaerthrynne’s face, and he turned to the boy. “Congratulations, boy,” he said. “I hereby pronounce you as the oldest person I’ve ever diagnosed with brittle-bone disease. I’m personally amazed that you haven’t accidentally killed yourself, or gotten killed yet. I hope you don’t have any grand ambitions or dreams, though, because you’re probably not going to realise any of them. That, or I hope your parents love you very, very much, because you won’t be able to do much of anything at all.” Startled murmurs and shocked gasps rippled through the crowd.
“Scratch!” Vallena exclaimed. “What’re you–”
“What? It’s the only explanation for how a limb could break for no reason.” Scaerthrynne waved his hands over the boy’s body. “He has no other bruises, no cuts, no abrasions. I don’t know about anyone here, but a force hard enough to break a bone would likely throw a boy of this size hard enough to leave some other mark on his body. His ankles are perfectly fine, which means he didn’t trip. He has no other wounds on his arms, which means if he fell, he has the reflexes of a snail and didn’t even try to protect himself.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “So if he didn’t trip, didn’t fall on his face, and didn’t fall on his back, then I really struggle to find a reason as to why his arm, and only his arm, would break.”
His smile widened as he met the boy’s gaze. “But then again, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you don’t have the disease. Because you see, brittle-bone disease weakens the bones, but it does nothing to dampen pain. A boy breaks an arm, and yet doesn’t scream, doesn’t yell, and doesn’t cry for attention? That’s a very, very strange thing indeed. A very interesting thing. I might even say that it’s an unnatural thing.”
Scaerthrynne paused to look at the faces in the crowd, then the man kneeling by the boy, then the woman cradling his arm, and then finally, at the boy himself. “You didn’t break your arm,” Scaerthrynne stated with a self-satisfied smile, the sort he reserved for when he figured out a puzzle. “Someone broke it. And I think that someone is still here with us, or it hasn’t been long since they left. Am I right?”
Race: Yuan-ti Class: Rogue Arcane Assassin Location: Top Deck Interactions: @Apex Sunburn Scratch and Val, @Helo Ezekiel Equipment:
🌸 A finely crafted katana 🌸 A concealed dagger laced with paralytic venom 🌸 Throwing needles coated with different poisons 🌸 Black silk combat outfit reinforced with hidden Mithril chainmail 🌸 Soft-soled boots that allow for near-silent movement 🌸 Smoke bombs and illusion charms for quick escapes 🌸 A set of forged documents under multiple aliases 🌸 A tea set and an assortment of teas 🌸 Incense
Attire: Gold Balance: 35 Injuries: None currently, but has numerous faded scars on her body
Meiyu barely flicked her eyes upward at the man approaching her, though she had already noticed him long before he spoke. The faintest glow of magic in his eye, the way his hand lingered on his sword hilt, it was clear this was a man who knew battle. And yet, for all his vigilance, his first assumption amused her.
She glanced down at the boy, whose arm still rested in her lap, trembling slightly from pain and the weight of the situation. “He’s not my son,” she said smoothly, her voice carrying an undertone of mirth. “Merely an unfortunate soul who stumbled into my path.”
The boy let out a shaky breath, his eyes flickering up to Ezekiel. “B-broken a bone before?” he stammered, swallowing thickly. “Yeah. Once. My ribs.” He shifted slightly, wincing, but his expression was hard to read—part pain, part something else.
Before Meiyu could speak further, another voice cut through the scene with far less politeness than the first.
Meiyu turned her head slightly, catching sight of the dark elf forcing his way through the gathering onlookers, dragging a small girl in his wake. The contrast between the two was striking—his rapid, blunt mannerisms against the girl's much softer presence. As they arrived, Meiyu leaned back slightly, folding her arms over her chest, allowing them to work uninterrupted.
She watched with interest as the surgeon moved with quick efficiency, his eyes scanning, assessing, and questioning in a way that set him apart from the usual healers she had encountered. Unlike Ezekiel, he did not immediately offer a solution. No, he examined, he tested, he doubted.
Meiyu remained silent as he listed his observations—no abrasions, no cuts, no sign of a fall. The girl, his assistant, followed his instructions diligently, checking for further injuries, confirming his suspicions.
And then, the conclusion.
"You didn’t break your arm. Someone broke it."
A slow, satisfied smile crept onto Meiyu’s lips, her amusement barely concealed as the dark elf finally turned his sharp gaze on the boy, then on her. Clever. The murmurs in the crowd grew louder. Whispers of "Who would do such a thing?" and "What kind of monster—" flitted through the air, accompanied by scandalized gasps and indignant glares.
Meiyu sighed, almost disappointed by how predictable people were. She unfolded her arms and stood gracefully, adjusting the folds of her kimono before speaking in a voice that carried just enough steel to settle the growing unrest.
“Please,” she drawled, casting an unimpressed look at the gathered spectators, “let’s not pretend any of you actually care. A child breaking a bone is hardly the most shocking event in the world. Unless, of course, you plan to spend the rest of this voyage gasping at every misfortune.” She waved a delicate hand toward the stairwell. “Move along. The ship’s entertainment will return to its regularly scheduled performance soon enough.”
A few bristled at her words, but more than a few hesitated, glanced at each other, and then, one by one, the crowd began to dissipate. Nothing ruined gossip faster than being made to feel boring for indulging in it.
Once the noise had died down, she turned her gaze back to Scratch, her golden eyes glinting with something like approval. “Well done,” she murmured. “Your attention to detail is admirable. Far better than the good sir over here who assumed the boy was mine.” She inclined her head ever so slightly toward Ezekiel.
Then, she exhaled softly and addressed the more pressing matter.
“Yes,” she said simply, her voice even. “I broke his arm.”
The boy stiffened slightly at her words, though the pain had already numbed his initial fear.
She continued before anyone could interrupt. “The boy is a thief. A rather sloppy one, too, considering how easily I caught him. Could I have instead alerted the ships authorities? Sure, but I wonder what actions they would have taken?” She tilted her head, glancing at the dark elf, then Ezekiel, then finally at the boy himself. “The way I see it, they would have handled it far more harshly than I did. You see in my experience, people like the ones aboard this ship—wealthy patrons who expect safety and comfort—do not like the thought of someone sneaking into their pockets. If word got out that a thief was among us, no matter how simple and untrained, the crew might have taken more… extreme measures to ensure their passengers felt secure.”
She crouched slightly, looking the boy in the eye, her expression unreadable. “A broken arm is painful, yes. But it heals. I chose this over the possibility of you being thrown off the ship.” She tapped a single finger against his forehead. “Remember that, next time you think to steal from someone who sees more than you do.”
She straightened, her voice returning to its usual lilt. “Now, I do believe the boy needs tending to. Whether it be from the one offering magical healing or not, I could not care less.” Her gaze flickered toward Scratch and then Ezekiel as she grabbed her tea once more and took a sip.
Race: Silver-Wolf Shifter Class: Arcane Mystic Location: Center mast perched to bar Interactions: @Princess Phia @Potter Arya Equipment:
🐾 Special Magic Item: A magically enchanted Haori garb of snow🐾white fabric made of a mix of various creature materials and what few rare magic crystals scrounged. It enables the haori’s internal temperature to be adjusted to keep the user at the optimal temperature within a feasible degree and minor elemental resistance of the basic 4 elements imbued. 🐾Oruna tribal moon bracelet: a charm bracelet made in pairs sharing a deep bond. Those of the tribe share them with a close friend, cherished family member, or lifemate that holds a fanged tooth, one for each of those most trusted and loved. 🐾Small pouch holding emergency dried meat and any fresh fruit picked 🐾Small pouch of freshwater 🐾Sewing kit 🐾Small tool kit 🐾Small gold pouch (8) 🐾A partially started personal journal 🐾A personal dear drawing hidden on his person
The gentle flap of singing birds. A gentle salty sky spray tickles the air. Fluffy white wispy clouds within ever-reaching claws brushed delighted tips. The ever-constant rocking from the great soaring automaton. A rumbling of immense magic thrummed from deep within coursing up the trembling flapping of wooden mast beneath ten owl talon perched snow-sharp claws clinging in its firm steadying pose.
Wind billowed and whipped its harsh biting chilly sting peppering snowy pale skin brushed by a touch of sun’s warmth tingling with a rising bouncy goose-pimply thrill; a solitary wolf stood in a windy rush of rustling fabric flapping in a fervent white flurry of snow dappered white fabric glittering beneath the fiery circling unceasing raw charged inferno carrying the pair forever bound on its unknown destiny.
One, whose destiny was given unknowingly and a past buried willingly yet accepts with primal innocent curiosity. The wolf, charged ever her faithful protecter, keeper, watcher with twin moon promises to chain his heart to the oblivious elf who simply breathes and smiles with sunny life into his snow-buried and battered body long since turned to a still icy lake only ever reflecting her glowing beauty; a driven need to ensure her happiness above all, his blood-stained paws ache and will ache across this boundless thorny road now freshly set upon them with the innocent charge weight bears upon his back. Each step heavier than the last, taken willingly and without hesitation, her warmth, her jungle sweet scent, and twinkling smiles; ever increasingly painful yet a buried wondrous fascination of the new, the unknown, and mysteries of the realm forever thought denied him with a perilous timed mourning loss that wracked the lands and his life shattered completely.
And yet, here he stood glowering at the heaven’s perch; an impossible vantage of infinite freedom and rich possibilities swimming in this magical ocean of strange and the weird; a gathering and risky mingling of new enthralling prey; his drug, his vices his ever predatory hunger to observe, to study to know to understand with a cacophonous storm of curiosity pounding his heart with a sensation since frozen, frost melting off his long numbed flesh, a raging fire bursting through him in a
Rigid Spine tingling
Snow-white fluffed ears in earnest listening
Innocent snowdrop nose sniffling
Frosty fabric dusting
Closed hurt and loving eyes dreaming
Tender pink-tipped claws quivering
An invisible predatory gleeful grinning
A face of neutral stone draped in shadowy hiding
A caged monster stirring in wicked hungry thrashing
A lost pup empty with lively scents inhaling
Chest fulfilling, heart pounding, exhilarating, scintillating, elating, arousing, perfume thick coughing, whipped winds tear-inducing, foot bobbing, upbeat knees bouncing, hunter claws itching, wolf snarling smile let loose in a silent howl of appreciation for all those sharing in this chance of what his body dug, clawed, cracked, broke, built, honed-
All preparation for this day; a deadly road bound on a forced path but here, now in the expanse of the sky only word came to mind, made easier to carry and spurn.
*Adventure!*
Stable and controlled owl touch upon its toes bouncing in the rhythm of the mighty ship’s creaks buck and tilt, the gentle limbs of arms until the stalking predator and great carrier breathing in unison. Closed eyes opened revealing the eclipsing roaring orange ring reflecting in deep ocean blue eyes where jagged crimson glints faintly crackled with suppressed bestial fury, starry fascination glittered in his wave-rippling gaze studying the fiery magic mass in joyful child-brimming awe contained barely bouncing gleefully with each sway, bounce and creak of his mighty metal steed, his senses drowning in overwhelming wondrous thrills.
A Slight guilty raise of the brow feeling the rustling tickling paper held between two loving delicate fingers flapping his missing elven charge message hastily scrawled in primal childish impatience that brought a quiet chuckle to his blank.
“ Hongry!”
Pulling the wolf from his guilty indulging delay to drink in this once thought forever out of reach feasts of mysteries and unknown euphoria. A calming of the wolf’s nostrils catching fringes of Phia’s scent tickling in a reminder of his mission gifted in a little hunt for the elusive elf playing her innocent sneaky games whether knowingly or unknowingly.
His eyes took in the crudely scrawled word or letter, its messily and feral rough strokes left its meaning lost on the prowling wolf though the loud O and Phia impatient curiosity made discerning simple enough.
Cloud soft fluffed ears twitched and flicked like turning radar dishes, nose singling in on Phia scent forever memorized and cherished that even in this ocean depth thick sea of distractions, a lone jungle flowery scented trail wafting visibly only to one of shifter senses. Alluring and ever calling it began to draw his gaze downward with eagle sharp eyes, body leaning a perched wide-eyed owl, body stiff and prepped a snowy pink flamingo stalking in unbroken balance.
Deep Aqua blue eyes crackling with a crimson searchlight prowed the airship deck below, the life-filling respite, brief and desperately wondrous, now must be set aside and buried once more. A slow exhaling emotional burying, soothing the furious feral monster once more; too dangerous to hunt his way back to her side until his predatory blood burned anew with ravenous, hungry, salivating life chilled once more.
To appease his still overly-stimulated mind had allowed a metallic glinting smell to catch his sniffling gaze until they rested upon the familiar warforged he had noticed briefly flying in the ship’s trail during his venturing climb and a delighted little flick of the ears now able to see the great metal creature unobscurred. Momentarily distracted in bright awe taking in the master craftsmen and intricate work, shapes, and curves of hard unbent, undamaged bulk of the giant warforged, their bird gazing eyes hinting its kindred kind soul, a sun for a heart powering a cold body that cannot feel or love..in the way most can. A magical masterpiece with countless questions of his origins and make and more but kept on closed lips in silent appreciating delight.
His eyes slightly panged taking in the scenery and glimpsing a departing dragonborn girl. Their conversation was muffled by the whipping winds and distance though, through focus and touch of arcane could afford him to listen in with concentration, but the wolf was never one to pry unless signs of threat/danger, choosing to study the tense vibe, the metal giant slight downcast tilting pose teasing a likely potential encounter as aqua eyes scanned the Dragonborn face evidently hinting disgust and gave a gentle disappointing subtle head shake with a shared offered grievance.
A curious twitch and raise of the brows when turning back to the warforged to see a dwarf wandering over. His brows shifted to queer confusion as he studied the burly, stocky dwarf whose boastful voice shouted with matched enthusiasm and sharp eyes that recognize the behemoth’s unfathomable craftwork in design. At least what he saw a dwarf, but multiple vestiges of scents seemed to hover ever so faintly that without a close and cleaner sample could not figure out what made this blacksmith equally captivating for no dwarf has yet carried a strange phenomena of scents?
*Crack*
Before he could think on it more, however, the faintest familiar snap of bone cracked through a booming crowd of footsteps and sounds that carried a harsh pain his ears knew too well. Gentle rolling eyes gliding to and fro towards its unsettling spine-tingling source, seeking through the various chatting faces in conversations or arguments until they rested upon the whimpering pained child’s face clutched in an exotic snake glittering beauty’s hands.
A momentary rankling bestial rise seeing what appeared at first a cruel attack on a child, but as he continued observation could see she had done so without malice, the lack of killing intent the impression something deserved. Not an approving way to handle, but a likely harsh and needed one to foolishly target such a…dangerously exotic hunter in their own right.
Sensing no need to intervene, more so after hearing a hard, stony voice stepping force with aid, no hesitation at the injustice even if a tad overly done punishment. A holy figure that were he to view in full in his unprepared glowing stature would be blinding and grateful for the distant view to keep his seeking eyes scanning their rough emotionless features, a lone orange glowing eye burning in unbending justice.
The chain of events led him to see richly exciting prey to study, but then again his nose caught a hint of Phia’s scent; his hunt drawing nearing its end as his eyes stalked towards the bar, closer, almost there…
Gliding along the opened bar counter; a brief pause at a hunched cloaked figure shifting in hiding fashion. A slight head tilt, unable to discern more chose to move on for the hungry elf’s scent now brushed his nose as if already before him, a playful hovering peek until.
*~ Found you~!*
A delighted gentle airy growl, a releasing pouncing hop forward sending the snowy-white garbed wolf flying in elegant grace towards the bar, air rushed and flapped about his falling form, stoic gaze honing on his turned elven charge’s turned back with eagle sharp focus as his body glided in a long arc, long flapping sleeves catching and slowing descent slightly allowing for manageable controlling with every shift, twitch and turn of his limbs to keep his path flying truth.
Faint pinkish crackles, a tinted faint glow of lavender reflecting in the wavey blue eyes. Electric pink mana charging the lines of his snowy-draped form, gradually charging energy channeling and concentrating with calculating and with a gentle lift of his left foot in mid-walk and altering five paces behind, twin red marks locked on-
-Blink step-
A quiet crackling lavender pink flash warping on magical currents moving at a blinking speed, then without warning the white-haori robed wolf would suddenly appear out on a burst of electric lavender pink breezy flourish fluttering pink petal flairs as his lifted clawed sole continued its mid-walk touch on a graceful elf’s touch and quietly walked the five paces precisely in a casual comfortable gate.
Stalking his way towards the counter with elegant, gentle strides nary a rustle of the sleeves in his wake unable to help his stealth habits as the loud rumbling of his stomach alerted him to Phia’s intent and in one simple bumping nudge to nudge a golden coin from its hidden compartment within the left sleeve, the cold metal trinket gliding effortlessly down into timely closed waiting finger, delicately pinched between pointed tips.
“ There you are, sweet Phia. Apologies for the delay, the message though cute…perhaps include a drawing of meat for future clarity?” The wolf softly spoke with a soothing, smooth deep voice with a slight gruff rasp uttered on a chilly brisk breath of snowdrops tickling skin in place of warmth. His clawed right finger lightly tapped the crumpled paper he had casually placed in front of Phia upon the counter getting her attention with a slight playful irritation in his posture.
A second rumbling from the hungry elf prompted him to place a gold coin atop the paper.” And this should be served with the meat. As much as the young miss wishes though I must ask to add some vegetables.” Turning his studying gaze to the warforged bartender, her feminine design both strangely unorthodox and fascinating and took a second to take in the beauty, whetting his curious thirst for now, and turned back to his sneaky elf companion.” You need to keep a balanced diet, sweet Phia. And I do hope you haven’t forgotten my tips on what we use to pay outside the village, yes?” An inquiring raised brow thankful to see she had yet to attempt to barter one of her precious shiny rocks.
He was preparing to sit down when another rumbling stomach caught his ear's attention, stronger and crying in desperate need impossible to be mistaken for anything but a starving need for a helping hand. A quiet second nudge and lowering of a gold coin set on its edge; calculating eyes peering down the counter, a gentle priming nudge in the opposite direction, a precise and measure little timed flick of fingers sending the endlessly valuable golden metal given freely to roll across the counter to land in front of the cloaked (Arya) figure with a faint thump.” And whatever the starving young maiden wishes as well.” The figure though cloaked, their scent offered some hints that roused his excitement to the possible tiefling; one such race rarity he had yet to witness outside books. Only more reason to give up what was might as well be fool's gold to him while an almighty tool that gave need of it.
With that, the wolf satisfied, gave a whisked slide onto the barstool sitting in quiet patience with folded-sleeved hands resting gently against the grained hard counter and gave three pondering taps.” When their orders are served, may I request some tea…something calming, hm, extra strength, this chest seems to ache particularly fierce this morning. At your soonest behest, madam barmaid, if you please.” A light polite bow of the head following his request then sat in idle waiting, his eyes simmering with adventurous excitement.
☼ 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: 15 gold Injuries: ☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.
Bastion turned his head slowly, arcane servos purring faintly with the motion. His gaze, still fixed on the horizon only moments before, now locked with the kindest and most excited eyes he’d ever experienced. But as soon as the strange half-elven woman’s attention graced him, it departed. For a moment, Bastion lingered there, watching her approach the bar, for the first time he took in the Warforged bartender plying her trade there. The kind girl and Warforged both pulled his interest, but before he could start heading that way he was approached by another individual.
He regarded the dwarf before him with a polite nod.
The wind tugged at his scarf again as Wendel spoke, the fabric flapping gently behind his shoulder like a quiet echo of motion. Bastion’s glowing eyes blinked once in acknowledgment, soft blue lights adjusting as he processed the man’s enthusiasm.
“I am a fine sight to behold?” he asked, voice even but touched with something that could almost be described as... curiosity.
His gaze dipped down to the offered hand.
There was a pause—not of hesitation, but of observation. A handshake. He had seen it done countless times. He had practiced it, even.
His large, armored hand extended carefully, fingers shifting with subtle clicks and mechanical grace before enveloping Wendel’s much smaller one. His grip was firm, but not crushing. Measured.
“Well met, Mr. Wendel. I am called Bastion.”
He released the handshake gently and turned his head toward the birds still gliding alongside the ship, taking a moment to recalibrate his attention.
“The view is better here,” he agreed, a soft nod accompanying the words. “There is... a serenity to this height. And the birds—” he gestured toward them with a slight motion of his chin, “—I like those birds.”
There was something nostalgic in the way he said it, though the tone remained even and quiet. A pause followed, not awkward, but contemplative. Bastion looked back to Wendel before continuing.
“You speak with a joy I do not often encounter, Mr. Wendel. I like that, too.”
Another beat passed between them. The wind picked up again, and the scent of distant cooking oil drifted from the galley vents. His olfactory sensors picking up in the shift in aroma. He did not smell in exactly the same way humans and the other races did, but it was among his sense all the same. Below them, the deep groan of the airship’s arcane engine pulsed like a heartbeat. Birds, the ones Bastion had been watching, cried in the sky.
Bastion’s faceplate shifted into its closest version of a smile.
“You are welcome to remain. I do not mind company. Though, I was intending to go over there.” He said, raising a massive finger to point towards the bar. “Would you like to join me, Mr. Wendel?”
The Stormrider was humming with that gentle morning vibration—arcane engines thrumming through the wood like a sleeping beast’s heartbeat. Gears stood behind the skyship’s modest bar, polishing a glass that was already spotless. Again.
She didn't need to breathe, but she let out a little puff of steam anyway. Habit. Ritual. Something to fill the silence. Behind her, bottles of every shape and color were perfectly arranged. She’d just reorganized them this morning for the third time that week.
She set the glass down, hands twitching once as she reached for a rag that wasn’t there. Then she froze. Heard something.
A jingle.
A very jingling jingle.
Her head snapped up—too fast—a leftover habit from war days, and her eyes locked on the approaching figure.
A woman, if Gears was guessing right. Covered in clothes made from leaves and eclectic little charms. She was pretty, and had gold eyes for pity’s sake. Gold. The Warforged couldn't believe the sight in front of her.
Gears straightened as the stranger approached, glancing once to make sure nothing on the bar could be knocked over. She plastered on her usual greeting face, the one with a faint smile and slightly raised brows that read welcome, but please don’t be weird.
Then came the marbles.
Clink. Clatter. Plink.
Tiny polished stones, crystals, marbles, and gods know what else—began appearing on the bartop like offerings at a shrine.
Gears blinked.
Twice.
The woman looked up at her with bright, hopeful eyes and said, “Can I… trade these for meats?”
There was a silence. One tick, two. Then Gears made a soft noise, something between a chuckle and a wheeze from a dusty bellows.
“Oh, hon,” she said, voice metallic and syrupy with that drawling accent, “you are just somethin’ else, aren’t ya?”
She reached out, gently nudging one of the marbles with a finger, watching it spin in place. Her tone softened as she spoke again.
“Now don’t get me wrong, these are real cute and all. Prettiest little rock collection I’ve seen since… well, ever! But ah—” she leaned in a bit, conspiratorially, “—I gotta tell ya, sugar, these knickknacks aren’t gonna getcha very far around here.”
She tapped the bar twice, then gestured behind her. “What you want is meats, right? You’ll need some actual coin for that, darlin. You know—money? Gold? Silver? Nothin’ too fancy, just... not this.”
Still, she didn’t sweep the stones away. She left them right where Phia had set them, even slid one a little closer as if to admire it again.
“But tell ya what,” she added with a wink. "If you are hungry, I’ll pour you a cup of somethin’ warm on the house while you go figure out where your coin purse wandered off to. That sound fair?”
Just as she pushed the drink forward, a jolt of wind swept through the bar—followed by a blink of light, a shimmer of lavender and pink like a cherry blossom storm, and suddenly there was a wolfboy in a robe striding toward her counter with the confidence of a prince and the grace of a dancer.
Gears stiffened, optics flaring slightly as her hands darted toward the edge of the bar—out of habit, not fear. Just making sure nothing broke, or worse, spilled.
The white-garbed figure moved like a ghost, a whisper on the wind. He didn’t so much walk as glide, and somehow produced a coin from his sleeve with a casual flick that landed perfectly between his fingers. It was either masterful sleight of hand or sorcery—probably both.
She watched the two of them interact—the wood elf in her tangled menagerie of trinkets and the snowy wolf who smelled like lightning and frost—and blinked again. Slowly.
Well, weren’t they a pair.
Gears crossed her arms, one hip cocked slightly. If she had eyebrows, they’d be halfway up her foreheadplate.
“You two from a traveling circus, orrr...?” she asked dryly, though there was a teasing note in her voice, like she half-meant it.
The gold coin thunked onto the counter beside the paper, and she gave it a firm but approving nod.
“Alright then. This I can work with,” she said, sweeping it up. “One order of meats—extra vegetables for balance—and somethin’ strong for the chest, mmkay. Got just the thing steepin’. Hope you like tea that kicks like a mule. It’ll calm ya for sure…just not right away.”
Race: Gnome Class: Socialite interaction: Watching @FunnyGuy Wendel Location: Airship Attire: See picture above Gold Balance: 30 Injuries: None Equipment: ⋆ Walking Stick Shillelagh ⋆ Small Trinkets & Stolen Baubles ⋆ A Collection of Miniature Cheese Wheels ⋆ Pocket Mirror ⋆ Ornate Deck of Cards (for tricks & misdirection) ⋆ Small Disguise Kit ⋆ Critter ⋆ Bag
The Stormrider soared like a whisper over a sea of clouds, its elemental ring casting warm orange light over the Bar Deck as evening approached. The scent of alchemical spices and enchanted citrus mingled with laughter and drifting harp music, lulling passengers into comfort.
Which made it the perfect time for espionage.
Bobi the Believable—legendary socialite, accidental thief, and 1st Ranger of the B.E.A.R.D.—stood motionless near a glowing crystal panel. One hand rested lightly on his polished shillelagh. His other scratched absently at his belly button, a nervous habit made only stranger by the tiny slurp sound from beneath his patchwork coat.
“Easy now, Critter,” he muttered without moving his lips. “Papa’s working.”
His glowing green eyes flicked toward a nearby table where a merchant had left a half-eaten plate of Karrnathi Ironplate. Cheese. Glorious, glistening cheese.
He licked his lips.
“No. No. Focus. You promised B.E.A.R.D. you wouldn’t do this again.”
Critter let out a tiny burp and promptly vanished back into Bobi’s coat, leaving only the faint scent of brimstone and breadcrumbs. Bobi sighed and slowly, gracefully, stepped forward—his movement so fluid it could’ve been a trick of the light.
A nobleman in flowing robes turned toward him briefly—then frowned, confused.
“Was that…?” he murmured, blinking.
But Bobi was already in full Gnome Mode—standing beside a decorative pillar, arms behind his back, gaze serene, looking like a particularly eccentric lawn ornament. The man shook his head and returned to his drink.
Bobi whispered to himself as he carefully plucked a loose coin purse from beneath a bench.
“Nothing personal, darling. It’s for the network. Khorvaire’s full of secrets, and secrets need seed money.”
A tourist stumbled by, bumping into the table and knocking over a glittering goblet. Bobi gasped softly and caught it mid-air with one hand, placing it upright and bowing slightly.
“Your chalice, madam,” he said with a flourish.
“Oh! Thank you, kind sir—how courteous!” she beamed.
Bobi leaned in conspiratorially, voice low and silken.
“Courtesy is just mischief in a velvet glove.”
She laughed nervously. He bowed again, eyes twinkling.
Then, without another word, he melted back into the crowd, pocketing a lace handkerchief that smelled faintly of lavender.
Mission: progressing.
And somewhere below deck, behind locked hatches and security runes, lay the cargo that had drawn the attention of every major house in Khorvaire.
“Secrets are like cheese,” Bobi whispered to himself as he nibbled a stolen sliver, “Best when aged, rarely shared, and always worth stealing.”
He turned—
And froze.
Across the deck, leaning against the railing with arms folded and eyes too alert for a tourist, stood a dwarf.
White hair. Braided beard. Heavy boots. A gaze like a whetstone scraping against steel.
Bobi narrowed his eyes. His stomach twisted. Critter chittered from inside his coat—then fell eerily silent.
The gnome ducked behind a barrel of glowing punch and peeked out with all the caution of a cheese addict in a dairy trap.
“Oh no no no no,” he whispered. “Absolutely not. They let a dwarf on board? Who’s in charge of screening passengers—blind goblins?”
He watched the dwarf closely. The man didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t even sip anything. He was staring toward the Cargo Hold with the patience of a predator.
Bobi hissed.
“I bet he’s cursed. That’s a curse-beard if I’ve ever seen one. Probably brought bad luck with him. Or mushrooms. Probably mushroom curses.”
He rubbed his belly button, fidgeting.
“I knew the wind smelled off today. You can’t trust a dwarf. That’s just basic fieldcraft.”
He muttered under his breath as he backed into the shadows, cheeks puffed in offense and arms crossed tight.
“Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable. We’re above the clouds, and they let one of them up here. Mark my words, Critter.” He pointed a dramatic finger from the shadows.
“That dwarf is up to something. And Bobi the Believable is going to find out what.”
⋆ Lots of Clothes ⋆ Arming sword ⋆ Battle-axe ⋆ Mace ⋆ Daggers ⋆ Bow & Arrows ⋆ Shortsword ⋆ Leather Armor ⋆ Half-plate Armor ⋆ Hide Armor ⋆ Toolkit ⋆ Camping Equipment ⋆ Locked chest filled with old trinkets that ARE NOT FOR SALE ⋆ Magnifying glass ⋆ Diary ⋆ Sketchbook ⋆ Pencils ⋆ Dried and Cured Meats ⋆ Nuts ⋆ Second Locked Chest with self-care products ⋆ Bag of holding
Attire: beige trousers, brown tunic, and worn brown boots Gold Balance: 5 Injuries: None currently Current Persona: Wendel
One might imagine the experience of shaking a giant, cold, metallic hand discomforting, but Wendel could not help but widen his smile while shaking Bastion’s hand. It was by far the firmest and heaviest handshake he'd ever had in his life.
“Bastion… Bastion is a strong name. The name of a defender…” Wendel slightly shifted his body to face the birds flying alongside the airship, finding the pastime of the Warforged a reflection of his nature. It was then he figured this Warforged that had stood strong and tall by his lonesome, was as gentle as the fabric of his blue patterned scarf. “The name of a protector.” He added, finding a word that more suitably matched Bastion's character.
The moment of serenity beside the gentle spirit houses in a mechanized frame was blissful, yet short. To sip tea alongside someone who could be a friend was a rare moment for Wendel. Each and every persona had something they coveted or craved. This… For Wendel, this was a treasure. Murmurs and whispers filled the air on another part of the deck but Wendel simply ignored it, at least at first. He’d seen enough in his life to not be drawn by a small crowd. He figured someone might have collapsed from air sickness or inebriation. It wasn't until he heard a raised voice chastise the gathered passengers that he stole a glance, and my was it a sight his eyes were lucky to catch. His glance nearly became gawk but he caught a hold of himself while eyeing the beautiful woman draped in a black kimono amongst what he could only assume was the airship’s medics and a young man requiring their attention. He turned back to face the sky, his ears now tingling with warmth
Again he was reminded his decision to come to the top deck was a good one. Warforged, a splendid view, beautiful women, and a bar. He gave an affirmative nod at the pleasant circumstance.
“You are welcome to remain. I do not mind company. Though, I was intending to go over there.” Wendel followed Bastion’s pointed finger toward the bar, completely saving him from stealing another glance to confirm the beauty of the mystery woman.
“Ah… the bar.”
“Would you like to join me, Mr. Wendel?”
“Of course, Bastion. I have been in the mood for some mead for a bit now. Let’s go, my friend. We can get acquainted with another Warforged and maybe some others.” Wendel nodded at the bar’s current collection of customers before he moved from the rail and rolled his shoulders to ensure they hadn't stiffened up from his leaning.
Alongside Bastion, he walked to the bar but stopped mid-stride as he saw the available open spots at the bar beside two young women. One dressed similar to a nomad with remarkably pink hair and the other had a cloak concealing her form. Making a gamble, Wendel took the vacant spot to the right of the cloaked woman. He figured he'd be fine since she was so covered up. The safe option. Sure, he could have placed Bastion as a buffer but he knew of the prejudice the Warforged suffered and didn't want to cause any unnecessary panic. And though the bartender was a Warforged as well, the desire for a bar’s refreshments likely overrode the enmity one might feel toward whoever served them.
“Here!” Wendel took a seat on a stool, resting his journal and tea cup on the bar counter. With the cup’s contents both scant and lukewarm, Wendel decided to take a big swig of it to finish it off. “Hello, barkeep. I am lucky- no, I am happy to say I have met two Warforged today. My name's Wendel and this fellow here is Bastion,” he greeted warmly, admiring Gears as he had from a distance moments before. He hadn't noticed he cut into the pink-haired Elf’s conversation, but if he had, apologies would be in order… In this case, Wendel took charge of the conversation with Gears. “I was wondering if you served mead here. You see, I was left a menu in my room after boarding, but sadly I didn't see mead listed.” He frowned slightly with the same disappointment he felt when he had discovered this earlier.
✦ 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
As the shiny female nudged the marble with one of her fingers, Phia's eyes locked on it like a jungle cat on its prey. She watched, transfixed, as it spun. However, as she informed her about her "knickknacks," her gaze slowly slid back to her, and her brows furrowed with both confusion and some frustration. She looked down at her sparkling treasures with betrayal, then she immediately protested, almost interrupting as she proclaimed with rising horror, "But this one's blue."
The warforged kindly explained, and Phia’s lips parted in soft realization. “Coin,” she echoed, as if tasting the word for the first time. She immediately dove into her satchel with the urgency of a hungry raccoon, wrist-deep in bones, feathers, polished stones, and various sparkly “not-coins,” clearly trying to decipher what might count as worthy.
As her rummaging grew louder, the warforged offered gently, “But tell ya what... If you are hungry, I’ll pour you a cup of somethin’ warm on the house while you go figure out where your coin purse wandered off to. That sound fair?”
Phia looked up from her frantic sorting, her hands still full of pebbles and string. She blinked again, a spark of awe in her voice.“Wait… Warm? ... On what house?”
It was in that moment the wind shifted. Her nose twitched as a familiar scent swept past her senses. Her head snapped up on instinct and her eyes lit up.
“Menzai!”
She half-gasped, half-giggled just as his voice flowed in like winter wind through tree branches. Her posture straightened with excitement and relief, her satchel forgotten momentarily. Her arms twitched like she might launch herself into a hug until the firm tap of his clawed finger landed atop the counter, right next to her crumpled message.
Her eyes dropped to the paper.
"...Oh."
Her stomach let out another theatrical growl, loud enough to earn a glance from a passing patron. Just as she lifted her head with a pitiful pout, a soft clink sounded against the wood bar. Menzai had placed a coin atop her crumpled message.
Phia lit up with recognition, pointing to it proudly like she’d just solved a puzzle. “A shiny round,” she declared with absolute certainty, giving an enthusiastic nod. “That’s what they want. Not the blue, not the bone—just shiny rounds.”
She paused, then leaned closer to the coin, whispering like it could hear her. “Don’t get any ideas. You’re only slightly more valuable than my glittery bug shell.” And yet, she gently patted the coin with affection… just in case.
"And this should be served with the meat. As much as the young miss wishes though I must ask to add some vegetables."
Phia wrinkled her nose at the v word the moment it left Menzai’s lips. She leaned back ever so slightly, as if recoiling from an invisible force. "Vegetables?" she repeated suspiciously. With exaggerated slowness, she shifted her wide eyes from Menzai to the bartender, then back again—clearly weighing the possibility of escape. "I didn’t say vegetables... I said meats. Meats don't grow from the ground, Menzai." Still, after a beat, her stomach growled again, louder than before. She sighed in defeat and poked the paper with a reluctant finger. "...Okay. But only if they hide them under the meats."
“You two from a traveling circus, orrr...?”
Phia blinked and tilted her head in confusion, however, she quickly lost interest as she took notice of the drink on the counter. With the reverence of a squirrel discovering its first acorn, she seized it with both hands like it was holy nectar. She threw her head back, pouring the contents down her throat like a dehydrated beast at a jungle spring as Menzai had been speaking.
Her eyes crossed briefly. Her soul briefly evacuated. Somewhere in the distance, an ancestor probably facepalmed. She exhaled like she’d just swallowed a forest fire and she slammed the cup down. “Delicious pain,” she gasped, blinking rapidly.
As her eyes refocused, they drifted down the bar… and paused. A hunched, cloaked figure sat just a few stools down. A horn poked out from beneath the hood. Phia stared long and hard as she leaned closer to the girl, squinting at her to try to catch a look at her face.
“…You smell like secrets,” she whispered toward the figure. “And maybe… smoky berries?”
But then—her curiosity ping-ponged back to the shiny bartender as she recalled that she should thank her for the refreshment. The Oruna tribe had warned her after all that people outside the wilds needed assurance of their good deeds, or else they would feel slighted. “Thank you, shiny one,” she said sincerely, bowing her head with both gratitude and lingering heat trauma. Then she perked up, lifting her hand like a student with a Very Important Question™.
“Can you tell us your name? And what species you are?” Her eyes sparkled with genuine wonder. She leaned in again, whispering in awe with widened eyes: “Are you a rock girl?”
A creak of a stool shifting drew her attention. A short, bearded man had taken a seat beside the hooded girl, his voice rising to address the barkeep before Gears could answer her question. Phia slowly turned her head to fix her gaze on him. Not with malice... But with wide, unblinking intensity as if she were trying to determine whether he was a squirrel or a beast in disguise.
☼ 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: 20 gold Injuries: ☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.
Bastion walked beside Wendel, silent but attentive, his heavy footsteps echoing softly against the deck as the two of them made their way toward the bar. As it came into view, and so did the people around it. He saw her again.
The pink-haired girl.
She had smiled at him earlier—just for a moment, maybe by accident, but it had felt… real. Not polite. Not forced. Just a smile. Her hair was wild, like wind-tossed flower petals, and there was something about her—something untamed and bright and not afraid.
She didn’t move like the others. She didn’t hold herself the way nobles or sailors did. She was… free. And the kindness in her eyes—just a flicker of it—had stayed with him even after she turned away. He also noticed her companion in white; graceful, but sharp. Wild like her in some ways, but quiet. Like a creature that could disappear if he wanted to.
The way he lingered near the girl…Close. Familiar. Protective. He watched him for a moment longer, head tilting ever so slightly. He couldn’t quite tell if the man was dangerous, or just... different.
Either way, he was interesting.
Bastion paused at the edge of the space, his glowing eyes flicking across the bar, the stools, the faces, and everything in between. His systems noted the usual pattern—how some of the patrons stilled when they saw him. How one man adjusted his seat. How another lowered his voice. The change in the room was subtle, but present. It always was.
He felt it in the air, like static before a storm.
But then Wendel just… sat down next to a cloak-covered figure. Boldly. Proudly. Like he belonged. Like Bastion belonged.
So Bastion followed.
He took the seat next to him carefully, mindful of the weight of his frame, and the faint creak of metal and wood as he settled. His eyes drifted again—briefly—to the pink-haired girl. She was speaking to the Warforged tending to the bar. But he could still see her smile, etched behind his thoughts like the sunlight that lingered in one’s eyes after staring too long.
He did not know her name. But he wanted to.
Wendel began speaking to the bartender as well. Where Bastion was bulk and plating and blunt functionality, she was smooth lines and cleaner articulation. There was a fluidity to her movements that caught his eye—a practiced efficiency, yes, but also… personality. Her gestures were abrupt, perhaps, but not robotic. There was intent. He admired that. She reminded him of a clockwork bird. Beautiful in her own way.
Wendel introduced them.
Bastion inclined his head slowly in greeting.
“I am Bastion,” he said to Gears, voice smooth and low. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He hesitated a second, then added something he meant to be kind.
“You move very well.”
He turned to Wendel then, as though looking for a cue of what he was supposed to do next. But that look only lasted a moment as his head turned back to the pink-haired girl once more. Raising a cautious hand, he gave her the gentlest of little waves.
Race: Aasimar Class: Paladin Location: Stormrider; Top Deck Interactions: Meiyu@Tae, Scratch@Apex Sunburn Equipment: His longsword; Retribution and a healing amulet. A backpack with supplies and his lute. Attire: Clothing and gloves Gold Balance: 35 Injuries: Old injuries include a missing eye, numerous iridescent scars, and a knee that aches when it rains.
“Apologies,” He answered as the woman corrested his assumption that she was the boy’s mother. The word lingered in the air, the beginning of an unfinished statement, as Ezekiel found himself confused and concerned by the rest of her words.
Merely an unfortunate soul who stumbled into my path.
It was a strange way to describe an injured child. His focus returned to the boy as the child spoke up.
“Only once before?” Ezekiel gave an impressed nod to the child. “And you’re already too tough to cry about it.” He gave a light tap of his fist to the uninjuried arm of the youth.
The Stormrider’s surgeon and his young assistant soon arrived. Ezekiel moved out of the way so Scaerthrynne could properly examine the boy. The doctor’s bedside manner, or lack thereof, reminded him of the battle-hardened medics and healers he’d encountered during the war. It was familiar, and familiar was comfortable and easy trust.
“You might want to knock him out first, otherwise the pain might kill him.”
Well, maybe not comforting for the young boy, but the more Scaerthrynne spoke, the more confident Ezekiel became in the dark elf’s skills. The doctor and his assistant not only relayed a plan to set the boy’s broken bone, but the trusth of the situation.
This was no accident. Someone had intentionally snapped this poor kid's arm.
The kimono-clad woman chastised the crowd, insisting that none of the onlookers cared what was happening and merely wanted some form of entertainment. Most of them had dispersed by the time the woman admitted to breaking the child’s arm in retaliation for an attempted theft.
Had the thief been a grown man and not a child, Ezekiel would’ve been inclined to agree with her choice in punishment.
“I care.” He corrected the serpentine woman’s early statement. “Someone breaking a child’s arm is not some minor misfortune. It is an intentionally cruel overreaction to petty theft.” He commented, and from the woman’s comments, he could assume the boy wasn’t some expert thief but a child who merely strayed into lawless behavior. Children were malleable, this boy could be swayed back to a better way of life, one not reliant on theft.
“A lesson that the world is cruel and unforgiving does not inspire a child to be better.” He added. If anything, it taught the wrong lesson, that wrongs should be met with greater wrongs.
“But what’s done is done,” he looked over at the surgeon. “Where’s your office?” He asked Scaerthrynne, “I can help move the kid there, and once you’ve got the bone set, I help speed up the healing for him.”
Race: Gnome Class: Socialite interaction: Watching @FunnyGuy Wendel, Gears @papaoso Location: Airship Attire: See picture above Gold Balance: 30 Injuries: None Equipment: ⋆ Walking Stick Shillelagh ⋆ Small Trinkets & Stolen Baubles ⋆ A Collection of Miniature Cheese Wheels ⋆ Pocket Mirror ⋆ Ornate Deck of Cards (for tricks & misdirection) ⋆ Small Disguise Kit ⋆ Critter ⋆ Bag
---------------------------------------------
Bobi crouched low behind a stack of crates, peering through the gap between two enchanted punch bowls with the laser focus of a squirrel guarding its last nut.
The dwarf had moved.
Now he was seated at the bar—white hair catching the lanternlight, beard still brick-thick, posture too composed for Bobi’s comfort. Just sitting there next to a hooded girl like he wasn’t 100% plotting the theft of a state secret or the summoning of a cider demon.
Bobi narrowed his eyes.
“He relocated. Bold. Calculated. Probably laying spores,” he muttered.
Critter gave a skeptical snort from inside Bobi’s coat, tail flicking with silent judgment.
“Don’t sass me. I’ve been trained in twelve forms of hypothetical threat detection, including Fungal Insurgency and Beard-Based Misdirection.”
But before Critter could perform the rodent equivalent of a facepalm, fate intervened.
A sharp yelp—Critter’s tail had been stepped on by a passing passenger.
Instant chaos.
Critter launched into DEFCON 1, screeching and zigzagging across the Bar Deck like a lightning bolt powered by caffeine and vengeance.
“NO NO NOT THE POPCORN MACHINE!” Bobi shrieked, springing into action with all the grace of a flying satchel. He flailed through a forest of legs, juked past a server, then dove—
—straight into a metallic chestplate.
He bounced off with a wheeze and collapsed flat on his back.
Towering above him was a figure of elegance and precision: Gears, the bartending warforged. Copper plating gleamed like molten amber, and faint arcs of steam whispered from vents in her arms like sighs from a sleeping forge.
Bobi blinked up in stunned reverence.
“Oh…” he breathed. “Oh no.”
He sat up, beard slightly askew, eyes wide.
“You’re... magnificent.”
Critter scampered back to his chest, puffed-up and traumatized. Bobi barely noticed.
“That plating... the curvature... That’s not just engineering. That’s art. Gnomes could never.”
He clutched his chest dramatically.
“By the moons, I think I’m in love.”
Just then, his eyes flicked sideways—toward the barstools.
The dwarf. Still seated. White-haired. Same beard. Same vibe. Definitely not a fungus elemental.
Bobi frowned.
“...Huh.”
He leaned closer to Critter and whispered,
"Not a fungal threat. Still highly suspicious. ”
Critter rolled his eyes and thumped his tiny fist against Bobi’s chin.
“Alright, alright,” Bobi muttered. “Eyes on Beardface. I’ll handle the tall, shiny one. Classic misdirect-and-flirt. We trained for this.”
He straightened his coat collar and tried to lean casually against the bar.
It came off more like a soggy raccoon trying to sell discount treasure maps.
