The air was freezing cold, and Endor shuddered, even though he worse the best fur coat money could buy. He was the Emperor, the descendant of holy Aedus, representative of Eya. The Empire was his, the same as his coat and the airship who's deck he was standing on were. He enjoyed flying, standing on the deck of the Rofner, his personal warship. There, he could see his seemingly unending lands stretch out beneath him, and soar above it all, like a pagan god. True, the Rofner wasn't the equal of the Coldomore, the most advanced airship in all the Empire (and perhaps even the world!) and the flagship of Saar Tarquin, the High Admiral. Nevertheless, the Emperor felt a sense of pride whenever he saw his ship. The Rofner was almost new, having been completed only seven years past, the fruit of vast amounts of resources and money, so it was at the cutting edge of technology. The etherium powered engines were both efficient and powerful, and the great cannons along the ship's deck had longer range than any other ship he knew of (except for the Coldomore, to his annoyance). As he leaned on the railing, he heard footsteps behind him.
"The others should be here momentarily, my emperor."
Tarquin. Endor turned to face him. "They'd best. Our timetable offers no room for flexibility, I'm afraid to say."
Tarquin was a Saar, a high ranking priest who held lands equal to the great duchies of the empire. He was everything a man of cloth was not to be: Vain and gluttonous, greedy and lustful. Ugly, with a rat's face and a weasel's smile. And cruel beyond belief, if half of what the Emperor heard was true. One might wonder why such would be raised to the admiralship of the finest collection of airships on Adrius, the Arenreil, and indeed many did. Endor knew the man's worth, however. For all his faults, Tarquin was cunning, far more so than any other candidate for the post. He was ruthless in his designs, and merciless against his foes, which were just the qualities Endor was looking for. He would have pointed the dark Karo himself if that was what was required for success in the coming days. "They [will] be here on time," the fat man assured him, "I have made sure of it."
In the end, they came half a minute late, though that was of no consequence to the plan. At first, he could barely make them out in the darkness. They were dark whales, shades rising from the clouds like little islands amidst a vast sea. But they were the rest of the fleet, there was little doubt of that. First he identified the Coldomore rising from the clouds, long and with the head of a dragon, at the head of its flock. One by one they emerged, and he felt the Rofner lurch forward to enter formation behind the Coldomore. He disliked even this putting himself beneath the Saar like this, logical and standard though it was.
"Bring the fleet south," he snapped at Tarquin, though it was futile: the High Admiral had been well briefed in his orders before the flight. Endor descended into the Rofner's interior, clutching at his coat as he entered.
Twenty four heavy warships, thirty-six corvettes and seven supply ships thus began their voyage south, gliding past the great cities of Tver, slowly making their way to the border of Coromis.
"The others should be here momentarily, my emperor."
Tarquin. Endor turned to face him. "They'd best. Our timetable offers no room for flexibility, I'm afraid to say."
Tarquin was a Saar, a high ranking priest who held lands equal to the great duchies of the empire. He was everything a man of cloth was not to be: Vain and gluttonous, greedy and lustful. Ugly, with a rat's face and a weasel's smile. And cruel beyond belief, if half of what the Emperor heard was true. One might wonder why such would be raised to the admiralship of the finest collection of airships on Adrius, the Arenreil, and indeed many did. Endor knew the man's worth, however. For all his faults, Tarquin was cunning, far more so than any other candidate for the post. He was ruthless in his designs, and merciless against his foes, which were just the qualities Endor was looking for. He would have pointed the dark Karo himself if that was what was required for success in the coming days. "They [will] be here on time," the fat man assured him, "I have made sure of it."
In the end, they came half a minute late, though that was of no consequence to the plan. At first, he could barely make them out in the darkness. They were dark whales, shades rising from the clouds like little islands amidst a vast sea. But they were the rest of the fleet, there was little doubt of that. First he identified the Coldomore rising from the clouds, long and with the head of a dragon, at the head of its flock. One by one they emerged, and he felt the Rofner lurch forward to enter formation behind the Coldomore. He disliked even this putting himself beneath the Saar like this, logical and standard though it was.
"Bring the fleet south," he snapped at Tarquin, though it was futile: the High Admiral had been well briefed in his orders before the flight. Endor descended into the Rofner's interior, clutching at his coat as he entered.
Twenty four heavy warships, thirty-six corvettes and seven supply ships thus began their voyage south, gliding past the great cities of Tver, slowly making their way to the border of Coromis.