Hanbusan was an older plane. Or, at least, the civilization that currently dominated it was old. The Most Illustrious Republic of Quanchani had been existing, in some shape or form, as empire or as kingdom or as nation, for the last four thousand years. Ancient, in the eyes of the local multiverse.
Young, to the Silver Eye. But then, they considered much of the multiverse young, in comparison to them.
Ichabod managed to find a weathered old car and broke in, fiddling with wires for a few minutes. The three of them had stopped at a gas station, and the car itself apparently belonged to the gas station attendant's manager.
“Take it,” the attendant said, “I'd give you the keys. I hate that guy. Take it, outlanders.”
So they did. And now they were driving down a cracked, ancient highway. The rain elemental followed in the horizon, always behind them, always hunting.
They tried not to talk about it as Ichabod drove. All three of them knew that there wasn't anything to say. They had their plan. Their destination.
So they tried for idle conversation.
But that failed, too. So they tended to their injuries in silence, drove on the cracked roads, through run-down towns and abandoned ruins, for the Republic of Quanchani's golden age was far in its youth.
***
A problem arose, Ichabod realized.
He was keeping watch that third night on Hanbusan, Rorshin sleeping under the stars, Contort in the back seat of the car. The cybernetic man was working on the firewall around the contract, rolling the program around in his head, poking and prodding at it. The night was old, and dew had begun to collect on the grasses by the road.
Ichabod stopped. He looked up.
The rain elemental was still roiling, but they had gotten far enough away that they could afford a rest. But a thought came to Ichabod.
This far out in the multiverse, why had there been no other agents of Pantheon?
The thought disturbed him, kept him occupied, to the point that he lost concentration and had to put the contract back in storage for a while. His hands, glass and metal, shook slightly as Contort rolled out of the back, twisting and stretching, his shoulder blades, ribs, and spine popping and setting in place.
“Mornin',” he mumbled. He let out a dramatic, loud yawn that practically echoed into the emptiness between cities. Ichabod suppressed a wince. Contort looked over at Ichabod, raising an eyebrow.
“What's up, Ichabod?” he asked.
“I was wondering when other members of Pantheon would be showing up.”
“Ah,” Contort said. He walked over, prodding Rorshin with a boot, “Get up, old man. Time to keep driving.”
“Damned contraption,” the druid growled, and he shot the car a dire look.
“Yo, Rorshin,” Contort said, “Feel anything on the wind?”
“The usual,” Rorshin muttered, “The elemental. The deadness of this plane.”
“...No other guildfolk?”
The druid paused, picking up on Contort’s question. He let out a sigh, licking his thumb and raising it into the air. The early dawn was cool, and it would herald a not unpleasant day, elemental withstanding.
“...Nothing,” he said, “At least, I sense nothing.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?” Ichabod asked.
“It means that, if we are being tracked by something other than the elemental, then it's doing a good job hiding,” Rorshin said, “Regardless, it matters little. If we are intercepted, we will deal with it.”
He stood up.
“Now, let's get into your damn machine.”
***
Entheos. World of the Dead. The Guttersnipe limped its way across a cloud-covered sky, bloated with snow and ash. Ora Sota, wrapped up in the heaviest cloaks and furs the crew could provide, looked over the ship's railing to see small dots walking the icy wastes. After a moment, he fumbled out shivering hands and pulled free Captain Orvisan's spyglass, which he had borrowed for a small while, extending it out and peering down. The small dots revealed themselves to be shaggy beasts, with long, arm-like trunks and tusks that curved like crescent moons. One was missing a leg. Another had a gash in its messy, dark fur, revealing a ribcage.
The herd plodded along.
“Mammoths, they're called,” Rosemary said, drawing up beside him. Ora nearly jumped. Nearly, but the last few days had been enough to get some iron in his belly.
“Mammoths,” he said, rolling it around on his tongue, “Odd word.”
“Odd word for odd animals,” Rosemary said, “They're all undead here, but there's a few other planes that have them, and they're alive.”
She chuckled.
“I’m used to big animals like that, insects and the like. Like those mosquitoes on Yuradal,” she said, “I was never allowed to go near them.”
“And what is your home plane like?” Ora asked.
She reddened, and was quiet. She didn't quite meet his eyes.
“Oh,” Ora said, “I am... I am sorry.”
“S'alright,” Rosemary said, “Some people are lucky, you know? Some people get to like where they come from.”
“I...” Ora began, but that drifted away. He had lived on Taisho Station his entire life, and he felt something akin to pride – he thought it pride, at least. But after being out here, he was not altogether sure – about his family's legacy. He would get to go home after this. Go back to his silent manor, his quiet halls, drink his teas. Assuming he lived through this, of course.
Funny, how he was accepting that fact so readily.
“Where I'm from,” he said, “Nothing comes even close to getting that big. Nothing living.”
She glanced over at him.
“No mammoths,” he said, “No... giant mammals. The biggest animal I've seen was a neighbor's Dronat.”
“D-Dronat?”
“It's a pet,” Ora said, “Gets about... this tall?”
He put a hand to his hip.
Ora was five feet tall.
“And they're herbivorous, not like those beasts down there,” Ora said.
“Mammoths eat plants, too,” Rosemary said, suppressing a chuckle.
“O-Oh,” Ora said, “Well, I... I didn't know. Truly, something that big, on nothing but greens?”
He glanced down at them.
“There's a lesson there, I think.”
Rosemary laughed. It pealed into the winter world, causing a few crewmembers to look over. Just as soon as she was finished, she went somber again.
This wasn't a situation to be laughing at, was it? But she couldn't help herself.
Nerves.
“S-Sorry,” she said.
“Oh, quite alright,” Ora said, “Good to... have that, all things considered.”
For out of the mist, high above, was the Gil-Galad.
***
Urya Orna had been in mourning, for more of her guildmates had been slain. Draz had been a close friend to her, a confidant in darker times. Now he was gone, taken, like the others, during that initial assault on the little ship they pursued through the blizzard. She wore a necklace with a single black feather around her neck, a traditional sign of mourning from her homeland. She wasn't quite sure what sea elves did to mourn, and she found herself sad that she had never asked Draz.
Death was to be respected, and one should be mourned in the way that they wished. All Urya had was the way that she wished, and felt herself diminished because of it.
The enemy ship drifted below. From here, it was a speck on the endless white of Entheos. It lagged a bit, after that last engagement. They had given it their all.
One of the elves drew up beside her. Urya looked over.
By the gods, it was Celendri. What was she doing here? She was far too young for something like this. She had just joined the White Feathers a few months ago. Yet here she was, all in armor with her four daggers – two from her father, two from her mother – and looking nervous.
“We're ready,” she said.
“Good,” Urya said. Perhaps she was being too cautious. After all, Celendri had been there during the first boarding action, hadn't she? She was alive. She had tasted blood.
Urya's heart hammered. This was getting all too difficult. She had not expected this much bloodshed. This little ship had been more than a match for the Gil-Galad.
Which disturbed her. The crew of the ship, along with those White Feathers who were accompanying her, had haunted looks in their eyes now. That last combat had rattled them. She looked at them, noted they were watching her.
For weakness. For moral support.
She was their pillar. Cracked as she was.
“Alright,” she said, “Get ready. We close again. Use the blizzard to camouflage ourselves, get in close.”
She strode towards the center of the deck, hiding a grimace at the burns that scarred the white surface.
“Prepare for battle!”
***
And at once, the Gil-Galad disappeared with a drift of snow.
The crew watching the vessel started, weapons appearing in hand. Orvisan looked up where the galleon had been but a moment before, his heart hammering. Rosemary took a few deep breaths, looking at Ora.
“Best we get below decks, yeah?”
“Indeed,” Ora said, “L-Lead the way.”
And they headed down, passing by Meleko, who was carrying his heavy rifle. He flashed them a ferocious grin as he stepped out onto the deck.
Ora felt the familiar weight of his own lended pistol against his leg. Rosemary gave another one of her smiles, the kind that tried its damned hardest to tell him that everything would be alright. She was good at that, putting him at ease.
He took a deep breath. Another. A third.
And they were below decks.
***
The Gil-Galad plunged through the clouds, through the thick blizzard, which only seemed to strengthen with time and as the ship swanned through the harshest of winds. The crew above deck held on tight, shivering in the cold, weapons at the ready for the inevitable boarding action.
“Urya,” one of them, Purzan said, “Look.”
She pointed. Urya squinted.
Yes, there, commanding the winds. The blizzard's master. Skarnorex was observing them, the Dracolich ensuring that they weren't trying anything funny in their skies.
“They know the other ship is out here,” Purzan said.
“And they know it's going to be a nasty fight,” Urya said, “They won't interfere.”
She turned back to the crew.
“Get under them. And fire.”
***
The Gil-Galad descended through the gale, shuddering and creaking, tracking the location of the Guttersnipe through the clouds, one of their mages using an elemental to scout through the blizzard to identify the caravel's approximate location. By now, the Gil-Galad was underneath the Guttersnipe. It crawled upwards, the cannon on the deck, the only one able to point up, aimed towards the Guttersnipe's bottom.
They could see it now, were so close they could make out the caravel's hull.
And the Gil-Galad fired. Her cannon was of a unique design, able to be loaded with more than just cannonball and chain. The projectile was arrow-shaped, attached to a line of thick, silverweave rope. It speared the Guttersnipe, which shuddered from the blow, the caravel lurching like a fish as the line pulled taut.
***
Ora tripped, Rosemary danced, catching the Nelnuthan before he could fall. The other side of the hallway they were in had just been annihilated by a steel javelin, a man-sized needle that held fast to the roof.
“Stay behind me,” Rosemary said, and an axehead of light bloomed from the top of her sceptre. She rushed towards the javelin. She knew that there was a rope connecting it, holding the Guttersnipe fast like a speared marlin. And she needed to get it out, cut them away, before the Gil-Galad did anything worse-
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
The air elemental rushed up and slammed into her, galeforce winds tearing through her, rending and blowing her back. It threw Rosemary, slamming her into the opposite wall, stars swimming in her vision. The elemental reared up-
And one of the crewmembers downstairs ran it through, their cutlass cutting this way and that, dicing it quickly. The elemental dispersed. Ora ran over to Rosemary, helping her to her feet. She felt the back of her head, wincing as she felt a bump purpling its way up.
“L-Leaves a mark,” she said, “Stupid of me.”
She waved him off.
“I'm fine,” she said, “I'm – look out!”
She shoved Ora out of the way as an elf jumped out of the hole, blades flashing at the crewmember, running them through. A moment later, Rosemary's beam of light punched through them, blood splattering the wooden wall. She stumbled a bit, grimacing, as a few other crewmembers rushed down, weapons drawn. Knives and hand-axes – anything larger would be unwieldy in these close quarters.
A line of rope was tied to the end of the great bolt, taut and strong, silvery in appearance. Elves, barely able to made out in the white blight, were shimmying up its length like squirrels, seemingly unimpeded by the blizzard.
Ferezno, one of the crewmembers, a hobgoblin, unhitched his crossbow, laying out a bolt and taking aim. He grimaced as he pulled the trigger, the bolt sailing for a moment, before a stray gale blew it off course.
“More elementals,” he grunted, “More of them!”
The next elf came out of the hole, pulling out a pair of daggers from her brace. Ferezno dropped his crossbow, pulling free a hand axe – right in the nick of time, as the elf became a blur of motion. The two danced for a moment, before the elf rammed a dagger into his stomach. He let out a choking gasp, falling to the ground, though one of his comrades stepped over.
More elves were finishing their climb. One with a shortsword, curved and wicked-looking, the other...
The other with a pair of revolvers. A plasma scar on her face, which was a porcelain mask, despite the fire in her eyes. Rosemary grimaced.
“Urya Orna,” she said.
***
“Something's caught us!” a crewmember said, “The Gil-Galad, they've got a towline!”
Captain Orvisan ran over to the railing, looking down, squinting through the blizzard's harsh fog. Sure enough, the Gil-Galad had gotten them. Elves were clambering up a line that had buried itself into the bottom of the Guttersnipe.
“Meleko!” he screamed, “Over here, now!”
The alien ran over to the gnome's side, glancing down. He reared his rifle, firing off a few shots. Pink plasma rang towards the climbing elves.
Then, something in the air shifted, pushing the shots awry.
“Air elementals,” Orvisan said, “Shit.”
“No mages?” Meleko asked.
“Downstairs,” Orvisan said, “Working on the engine, making sure it doesn't overheat.”
“Best get them,” Meleko said. He fired a few more shots, testing the elementals' resolve. But heat is natural to an air elemental, and they flung the plasma away, the fire petering out in the cold and disappearing.
“We're not going to last long with that line on us,” Orvisan said, “I've got to command the crew up here.”
“Got it,” Meleko said, “Heading down.”
***
“Rosemary of the Amber Foundation,” Urya Orna said, “I had seen that you were on the ship, and yet part of me wished that was untrue.”
She took a step forward, a hand brushing against a revolver's grip.
“Urya,” Rosemary's voice was quiet, tight with fear. She stood over Ora. Her head was throbbing, and she wavered slightly as she met the elf's glare, “Don't do this.”
“It is necessary, Rosemary,” Urya said, “You hurt Sunala, you know.”
Rosemary was quiet.
“No words,” Urya said, “Very well.”
Rosemary raised her scep-
Urya pulled free a revolver, faster than sound. A flash from the muzzle-
It struck Rosemary, who gasped, but adrenaline and muscle memory took hold, and the sceptre formed a wall of light, bullets flying into the construct, which reverberated like a drum with each shot. Urya stopped firing, eyebrow raised on high.
Rosemary collapsed. Ora's eyes widened as he went down with her, catching her before she could hit the ground, the two falling to their knees. The Nelnuthan threw her arm over his shoulder, lifting her up. The two struggled to their feet.
Ora looked up.
At Urya.
Who was reloading calmly. The elves had taken the hallway, and more of them were coming up from the Gil-Galad. The elf glared at Ora, whose heart fell at the sight of her.
Then, he began dragging Rosemary away, down another hallway to their left.
***
More elves had made their way onto the Guttersnipe. A squad of them had taken one of the hallways.
Shame, to be packed like Kirelan sardines.
Meleko aimed his rifle down the hall, switching from single shot to full auto. He braced himself as he opened fire, the rifle's dull thuds turning into a fast-paced ring of thumps, plasma arcing out in lines that cut down the elves in the hall. There was hardly time to scream as fire burned through cloak, through flesh, punched through armor and bone.
The landing party was taken out in a stroke of a second. Still more were no doubt further belowdecks, their forward base being where spear met ship.
Meleko shouldered his rifle, pulling out his pistol, switching off its safety and running down to the engine room.
Two crewmembers had managed to secure it. The Jugdran's heart skipped a beat at the sight of a dead elf at their feet.
Had they gotten so far in?
“Need the mage,” Meleko said.
“Inside,” one of the crewmates said, and he opened the door, “Zad!”
Zad was a gnome, though unlike Orvisan, he was completely bald. A former graduate of Haiser's University for Gifted Magicians, he had, after a bad accident, wound up as the Guttersnipe's Engine Mage. He turned to glare at Meleko with one bloodshot, violet-pupiled eye. The other had been lost in the same accident that had also claimed his bachelor's degree.
“What is it!?” he snarled, “I'm busy!”
“We need you to disperse some elementals,” Meleko said, “Now!”
“Engine's near fried,” Zad retorted, and he gestured to the square, runed box in the center of the room, a rudimentary, early model that had been cast off from Melmaen. Meleko strode inside and took the engine's top off, looking into the inner workings of gears and wires. The magic part was more Urash or Wakeling's forte – even Aldreia's, perhaps, but when it came to the mechanical part, he knew at least a bit.
“It's fine for now,” he said, “Right?”
“Bah, for now,” Zad said, “I've just dumped enough of my power in there to keep it lasting a good few minutes, but the longer we're stuck here, the longer whatever's holding us is holding us-”
“That's what I need you for,” Meleko said, “There's a spear lodged in the bottom-”
“Explains the runic disruption,” Zad said.
“And I can't get it loose, since there's a host of elementals guarding it.”
“They'll be stronger out there,” he said, “Any up here?”
Meleko shook his head.
“Any of them that are stupid enough to enter the ship proper, they'll be diced up easy,” Zad said, “But out there...?”
He looked around the engine room for a second, before grabbing a few potions and putting them into a bag.
“Get me to the hole,” he said, “Make sure I don't get got, aye?”
***
Urya walked over to the wall of light, pressing a hand against it. It was surprisingly cool to the touch, like smooth stone, and for a moment Urya considered it. Her shots had ricocheted off its surface, so it was far too dangerous to fire on it with her revolvers. No, she would need to do something else.
She turned as another one of the Gil-Galad's crew made their way to the top. Celendri was out of breath as she pulled herself up, taking Urya's proffered hand.
“First time climbing?” Urya asked.
“N-No,” Celendri said, “I climbed trees all the time, back home.”
“A bit different,” Urya said, “Boarding actions like these are usually rare. But it requires all of your energy, all of your strength, and all of your skills.”
She put a hand on Celendri's shoulder.
“Stick by me,” she said, “I'll get you through this safely.”
Celendri nodded.
Then both of them ducked as a plasma bolt flew at them, staining the wall where Urya's head had been but a moment before.
The damn alien. The Federation freak. A four-eyed hammerhead with the body of a man. He was wielding a plasma pistol, and a gnome stood behind him.
Urya's revolvers flipped into her hand, and she opened fire on them. The alien took cover at the end of the hall, pulling the gnome with him, waiting for a moment before returning fire. Fire and steel rang down the hallway, from one end to the other, for a few minutes.
Then, Urya saw something skitter down the hall. A small, metal pod.
Her eyes widened.
“Move!” she shouted, and she all but shoved Celendri down the hall, their backs against the wall of light as the grenade exploded, sparking showers burning the elves' backs.
They were pinned, they needed to-
The alien rounded the corner, pistol raised on high. Celendri dove towards him, ducking underneath his shot, pulling twin daggers free and swinging at him. He blocked one, allowed another to graze him, and smashed the side of her head with his pistol's butt.
“No!” Urya was rushing to him now, flipping her revolvers and swinging them as clubs. The alien took a few steps back, before catching Urya's right arm, his pistol aimed at her stomach. She twisted, the bolt flying awry, and her left revolver caught the alien's arm. He grunted, dropping the pistol, his hand forming into a fist. He rammed it into her stomach, and she gasped, the wind leaving her system.
He followed up a haymaker straight to the nose. Urya saw stars as he let her go, and she stumbled back-
Celendri was back up on her feet, pulling free her second pair of knives. She slashed at the alien, cutting deep into his arm, but he grabbed her other arm and rammed a knee into her stomach. His great purple hands closed over her neck, and he slammed her head into the wall. She ragdolled for a second as Urya pulled herself to her feet, grabbing her revolver from the ground.
The alien took notice. He spun Celendri 'round so she was facing Urya, holding onto her with one hand, the other grabbing her knife and bringing it to her throat.
“One move, elf, and she's done,” he said.
Urya froze.
Sunala would have taken the shot, she knew. She needed a moment to aim, to...
Celendri's eyes were wide with fear. She was frozen stiff from it.
No, she could not sacrifice Celendri. She was...
Urya grimaced.
Behind the alien, at the hole they had made to get into the ship, the Engine Mage was dispelling the elementals below, pouring his potion into the wind. She could hear shrieking as the elementals went berserk, no doubt tearing through each other, the elves on the line. Perhaps even the line itself.
It was time to go. This boarding action had done its work.
Urya rose to her feet.
The alien pressed the knife further into Celendri's neck.
“U-Urya,” she whispered.
The wind whipped.
And she had her shot.
Urya's revolver flipped up, and she fired before the alien could react. He tried to cut at Celendri's throat, but let out a gasp of pain as the shot struck his shoulder with enough force to throw him off-balance. Urya ran, tackling Celendri, all but picking her up.
She jumped through the hole.
Towards the Gil-Galad, which swayed far below.
Elementals screeched around her as she and Celendri fell. The mages on the Gil-Galad had lost control of their servants, and now the air was alive and rogue, tearing at them, at the elves still holding on and trying to climb the line up to the caravel. Some were lucky enough to drop, hitting the deck of the Gil-Galad, away from the most dangerous parts of the storm. But those who were near the top...
They were still holding onto the line, sitting ducks for the elementals, as they tore them to pieces. Blood speckled the snow as Urya twisted, taking the full brunt of the fall, grimacing as she thudded dully against the Gil-Galad's deck.
But she was alive. Celendri was alive.
High above, someone on the caravel cut the line. It swung and cracked in the gale like a whip.
The Gil-Galad pulled away.
***
Ora managed to get Rosemary into one of the spare rooms, laying her down on a cot. She was wincing as he helped her sit down. She began to tear at her armor, pulling it free, revealing a bloody hole that made Ora's head spin.
“Doctor,” he said, “You need a doctor.”
“S-Stay in here,” Rosemary gasped. She was holding her sceptre, a thin line of light trailing from its head. It was forming into a paper-thin fold, which she took and pressed against her side. She swayed, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.
“H-Hold,” she said.
Ora did so, grabbing the makeshift gauze and applying it to the wound.
“How hard?” he asked.
“Harder,” she said, “E-Enough to clot.”
Her blood had a strange quality to it. It almost seemed to glitter in the light. But he pressed down on the wound nonetheless. They could hear shouts from above decks, the continuing pulse of plasma fire.
The entire ship shuddered. Something had given.
Ora's heart hammered. He heard-
Footsteps!
Someone flung the door open. An elf, blade in hand. His eyes locked onto Ora, a dark smile appearing on his face.
It happened too fast. Ora wrenched the pistol free. He clicked once.
The safety was on.
The elf advanced, swinging the blade-
Ora ducked. Rosemary fell on her back, laying on the cot.
With fumbling hands, he switched the safety off, jamming the muzzle of the pistol into the elf's stomach. He pulled the trigger.
The smell of burning ozone. Heat, far more heat than he was used to. The elf stumbled back, dropped his blade, his hands closed over the wound. His smile was gone. His eyes were hollowed-out. Smoke drifted from the hole in his stomach.
He collapsed to the ground. Took one breath. A second.
Then he was still.
Ora looked down at the pistol. He could see his reflection in its shiny surface, could see how wide his eyes were. Tears were staining his fur. He threw the gun away, his hands shaking.
His gaze turned on the elf's body. At those empty eyes.
Ora turned, and retched.
More movement from outside. More footsteps. Part of Ora panicked. Part of him did not care.
But it was Meleko. He was sporting a few nasty cuts of his own, but he looked none the worse for wear. His eyes merely flickered to the elf. But he ignored it as he stepped over.
“Oh god,” he said, “Rosemary, you good?”
She was drifting in and out of consciousness. The Jugdran attended to her, noting the makeshift gauze she had created. He pulled some actual cloth from a pocket and started to apply pressure to the wound. He turned to Ora.
Noted that Ora was crawling over to the wall, putting his back against it, his knees drawn to his chest.
The Jugdran remembered his first time killing. Some took to it better than others.
He took it as a sign that Ora was a good man, if this was his reaction.
Then he turned, and continued treating his guildmate.
***
The Gil-Galad disappeared into the storm, taking its wounded with it.
They had lost twenty. A staggering blow.
The Guttersnipe, free of its pursuer – for now – lurched itself out of the worst of the storm. A similar action took place as before. Her crew stalked the halls belowdecks, finding any and all interlopers that had somehow managed to escape the wrath of Meleko's plasmafire.
They dispatched them, now with far more anger than before, a fire burning in their eyes as they cut the elves down. They pitched everything over the side, keeping the knives, the blades, as trophies.
They had lost quite a few of their number as well, and they were desperate to avenge their comrades, lost friends and family.
By the end of it, the ship reeked of blood. The infirmary was packed full, and the sound of gentle sobbing from those left carried up and down the Guttersnipe's length.
Ora was still in the room he and Rosemary had stumbled into. The elf had already been taken away, his blade claimed by one of the crew, his armor stripped and his body pitched over the Guttersnipe's side.
He ignored all this. He had been joining the crew in their sorrow. Sorrow of his own, however, for he had lost no one but himself.
Meleko walked in, bandages tied around his arm, his leg.
“Hey,” he said.
The Nelnuthan looked up at him weakly.
“Rosemary'll pull through,” he said, “She's fine.”
“G-Good,” Ora said.
The room still smelled faintly of plasma. Meleko picked up the discarded plasma pistol, sitting down across from Ora. He switched the safety back on, considered it for damage. He saw his reflection in the pistol's sheen, and was surprised by how haggard his face had become, since joining the guild. He had been young once, he thought.
“You saved her life, you know,” he said.
Ora didn't respond.
“She was next on the block, after you,” Meleko said, “I'm not going to pretend like it wasn't easy. But...”
Ora turned away. He sighed.
“Come on,” Meleko said, “Let's go up to the deck, get some fresh air. While we still can, you know?”
“F-Fresh air...”
“Yeah,” Meleko said, “Come on.”
He rose to his feet, and offered him a hand. Ora took it, and the two of them walked out of the room, through the halls, out onto the deck. It was cold out, bitterly so, but they had left the worst of the blizzard behind. Captain Orvisan gave them a nod. A few of the crew were out watching for danger, for they all knew this was only a lull. A break.
Ora walked over to the railing, once more. Night had fallen, and through the darkness he could make out the azure fires of a distant city. A mausoleum, really, for he knew that all here was death.
Death below, and death above.
“I...” Ora said to Meleko, “I believe I hate this plane.”