Amelia

As the Pappy Long Legs ascended higher into the tranquil evening skies of Quadrant Seven, Amelia pressed her face against the grand circular window at the end of a dimly lit corridor. The window, like a domed pier reaching into the heavens, offered vistas only an airship could provide. Below it, the metallic platform shimmered with a bronze sheen, while sleek wooden rails provided just enough height for Amelia to peer over the edge.

Stretching her arms toward the sky, Amelia marveled at the breathtaking panorama unfolding before her. There was no wind, no scent of flowers, and no dust in the air as there had been in the Conkle mines. Yet, the warm golden glow of the evening sunlight made her feel as if she were flying. For a moment, the weight of her recent fears seemed as light as the clouds wisping around the airship, carried away by the boundless horizon.

Beneath the airship, a patchwork of colorful fields and distant forests, with towering trees spiraling aggressively into the heavens, spread out like a living tapestry. The landscape blurred beneath her, and Amelia’s thoughts flitted between the thrill of venturing beyond New Dwarden and the familiar thirteen Quadrants—places far from the reach of any king or ruler. "No more uniform. No more rock scratchin’," she mused, glancing down at her loosely worn pajamas.

These oversized blue-striped pajamas, originally tailored for a more human-sized Roy, had been gifted to her by Rick earlier with a morbid chuckle. Despite his grim humor, the pajamas provided a surprising comfort, perhaps even a small solace for him as well even though it smelled of old mead and a strange vanilla mix. Amelia—before Roy’s mysterious transformation into a machine—was relatively the same height, give or take longer sleeve sizes and chest size.

After wandering the ship for what felt like hours, Amelia found herself drawn to the observation deck, which seemed oddly out of place yet somehow the only logical destination. The floors above offered cozy furniture and even a hot tub, but the allure of the hidden mysteries beneath the surface was far stronger. Every other direction led to dimly lit metallic corridors, their cold, industrial feel amplified by the rhythmic ticks and clanks that hinted at secrets waiting to be uncovered. What began as a simple quest to find the hot tub she had glimpsed from above soon turned into a captivating exploration of the ship’s massive clockwork mechanisms and intricate metallic gearwork.

Her quarters, barren save for a small cot and a basket of bread offered little to occupy her thoughts. The captivating sunset, however, provided a much-needed distraction from the shadows of melancholy that lingered in the corners of her mind.

The Pappy Long Legs felt like it had a mind of its own. Its metal bones groaned and twisted in the still night air, and every breath seemed to resonate through its hull like the pulse of a living thing. After her initial nap aboard, Amelia had pressed her ear against her door, listening as the airship carved its way through the skies. The creaking and shifting of its inner workings sounded like whispering voices, as though the ship was sharing secrets she wasn’t meant to hear.

Despite her wandering thoughts, Amelia felt a swell of pride as she gazed toward the horizon. From a life of relative privilege and comfort to one of darkness, death, and newfound strength, she had ventured far beyond her accustomed boundaries. But with that pride came a gnawing worry—what price would she and her brothers ultimately pay for this journey into the unknown?

"ALL ROYS, PLEASE REPORT TO YOUR NEAREST STATION. It's high time we prepare for a nightly cruise," crackled Rick's voice over a rusted intercom embedded between the golden pipes lining the dimly lit halls. “Get the right yeast! The right yeast, ya’ Hogpin!”

"All Roys?" Amelia mumbled to herself. "How many sons…?" she wondered.

"Except the Roy—" Rick's voice coughed with metallic reverberation. "Except the Roy with the uhh… the bloomin’ pliers. And I may—will—need that Roy… here and now," he explained, followed by a loud crash over the intercom. "Right now! Oh, and D-dear Amelia!”

“Old man. Do you need help?” Amelia thought, but before she could act, Rick’s voice crackled back to life.

“Amelia! I know you said you need time to think, but thinkin’ means… not touchin’ anything that spins, moves, creaks, crumps, and—well, you get the idea,” Rick added after a brief moment of static. “I recommend you rest Crowny, however, I ain’t gonna stop ya’ from wandering. Just understand it’s all boots on deck when we arrive at Veranus. Straight to meet a fellow Hammer by the name o’ Pistol and your brother Bolton.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Rick, about the damn ceremony!?” shouted Amelia toward the general direction of Rick’s voice.

“You’re probably wondering how you could see those brother of yer’s without succumbin’ to somethin’ uglier than me? Soul Rot is the word. Oh, and if I can see you? Well, I can’t see you. This isn’t science fiction,” said Rick in a matter-of-fact tone. “Anyway, I don’t know the details, but one of ‘em other Crowny brothers of yours—I’m sure—will fill ya in. He may have found a way through or around it. I suppose consequences be damned.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at Rick’s comment and leaned over the railing, lost in thought as the metallic hum of his voice faded back into the network of copper pipes. To her, the rules of the Greisha ceremony were simple and absolute: First, upon reaching the age of 18, royalty must bond with a spirit representative of Yerro and form a contract, undertaking three challenges that test their core values, much like New Dwarden’s military slogan of Power, Pride, Practice. Second, upon completion of these challenges, the victor is crowned by the former, current, or acting ruler. Third—as far as Amelia could recall—those who fail to become King or Queen are bound by contract to leave the Primarian Royale never to contact one another. “So how could she see Bolton without breaking the contract?” she wondered.

The abrupt, jarring noise of something breaking snapped Amelia out of her thoughts about the Greisha ceremony, forcing her to focus on the present as Rick’s clattering sounds filled the air. She couldn’t shake the guilt of leaving Rick alone in his makeshift bakery, regretting her reassurances that he was better off working independently while she explored the ship. The image of his reluctant agreement replayed in her mind, though her worry eased as she recalled his agile metallic limbs, moving with the precision of an iron spider. “Perhaps the old man was just tired or distracted?” she mused, letting out a light giggle and shrugging before refocusing on the world unfurling just beyond the railing.

Her world had long been confined within the borders of Quadrant Seven, cradled in the protective embrace of its vibrant tree line. Each glance into the wilderness of Quadrant Seven brought a wave of nostalgia, pulling her thoughts back to the brown leather shoes and wooden sandals of the villages below. Each village, a tiny cluster of islands, brimming with culinary delights, lively taverns, and exotic creatures roaming cobbled streets and dirt roads. It was nothing like the inner quadrants, but the sense of community flowed as generously as the ale in its taverns.

However, amidst the delightful aromas of smoky foods and savory drinks thrived a large community of miners, affectionately known to the locals as Yardrats—and to Amelia, as brothers—who toiled tirelessly to keep the Quadrant's lights aglow from deep beneath the earth. Whether extracting crystals or ores, the Yardrats were local celebrities, often treated as if each meal might be their last. Though the work was dangerous, the enduring memories of perilous adventures and frequent brushes with death brought a serendipitous smile to Amelia's lips. The now precious moments like being trapped between cave-ins, discovering precious ores dangling over pitch-black ravines, or encountering dangerous animals, monsters, and curious spirits only widened her smile.

Even now, never in her wildest dreams had Amelia imagined witnessing the majestic canopy of Quadrant Seven's legendary Kalpin Trees. Scattered across the landscape, these trees held the notorious record for producing one of the most expensive fruits in New Dwarden—a fruit coveted by the city's top air and seafarers. It was said that a single piece of the giant Kalpin fruit contained enough nutrients to sustain a person for five days without water. Amelia had to see it for herself. As the airship drifted higher into the skies, she leaned over the rails, determined not to miss a glimpse of the legendary giant red fruit that grew exclusively at the summits of the Kalpin Trees.

“Rick! I don’t care if you can hear me, but I see them! I can actually see the fruit! And even the monsters that guard them! Woooooo! What an animal!” she cheered, her voice brimming with excitement. “What a dream!” Her words gradually faded, swallowed by the sound of the gale outside the glass dome.

From this height, she could make out the swirling patterns atop the fruit, adorned with yellow polka-dotted protrusions. She also noticed the large bee-like insects that called the insides of the giant fruit their home. Amelia recalled the many legendary stories of how denizens from all around the Quadrants would attempt to harvest the fruit, only to fall victim to the creatures' fatal paralyzing scent and deadly pincers. Though she didn’t know all the details, she, like all Yardrats, knew that few had ever seen the fruit, let alone tasted it.

The Kalpin Trees were almost everything she had imagined. Though they didn’t quite reach the fabled heights spoken of in tales, their sturdy trunks provided the timber for many of the fortified homes built within the inner Quadrants, capable of withstanding even the fiercest New Dwardian storms.

“Amelia!” called out several overlapping voices, as if suddenly manifesting from thin air.

Amelia frantically searched around, initially dismissing the strange voices as a figment of her imagination—perhaps a side effect of an overlooked head injury, or maybe Rick or Roy calling from a great distance.

“Amelia Woltwork!” the voices insisted loudly. “Look at your locket-er, pendant! Whatever the hell’s on your neck! Open it!” they urged in unison.

With her heart racing, Amelia looked down at her silver pendant. She carefully opened it, as if handling a delicate explosive. Inside, the blue crystal embedded within glowed once more.