The airship was constructed with the exact same level of consistency that all Arlaiin crafts were built. The massive frame of the ship cast a shadow over the port of Teras, an eclipse that was not the least of which aided by the colossal red and black balloon that supported it. Below the balloon it was a standard passenger class galleon, complete with a rudder that, in the absence of water, was best used for waving towards the passerby below. On either side of the rudder were four large, hollow metallic cylinders. The inside of each glowed in a soft purple light, an indication of the khor within. Like every Arlaiin structure, the ship was ringed with a heavy iron trim and held together with blackened iron chains and fastenings. Across its bow, its name was scrawled: The Lyrelight. To Rolen it was, in a word, boring.

Rolen stepped aboard, coaxed by the all-too-friendly flight crew. It wasn’t his first time on an airship; it just happened to be his first time legitimately gaining access to such a vessel. The view from the airship was decidedly not boring. The Iron City of Teras sprawled westward, metallic roofing glinting in the fading sunlight. To the east, the Ashfield Prison Island sat ominously in the Cobalt Bay; rising black smoke centered itself in the sunset. He looked around at his fellow passengers. Each wore fine robes and vestments, many of them probably nobles or merchants. He looked down at his own cloak, adorned with black fur and covering his specially designed lightweight armor. Rolen smirked to himself. Any other day, he would be taking full advantage of the naivety of nobility. Today, however, he was on his best behavior. He continued onto the ship, peering upward at the crew suspended in the rigging. The wind rushed through his shaggy white hair as he heard the heavy boots of a crewman approach him.

“Ahem,” a voice said from behind. “Mr. Aloro?” Rolen turned to see the man who spoke. He was a shorter man, not aided by his rotundness. He wore fine clothes, too fine to be just any grunt on the ship. His hair was thin, black and slicked back, shining almost as brightly as his small round spectacles against the rising sun. Tucked under his arm was a thick scroll, presumably a manifest of some kind. His voice was all nasal, and spoken with all of the superiority that nobility could afford a person.

“I am Pembleberry,” he said. “I’m here to show you to your quarters.” He said his name in a peculiar way to Rolen, but not one that was notably uncommon among upper class Arlaiins: Pemble-bry. Rolen despised him on this fact alone.

Rolen peered down at the man, his golden eyes piercing him. “Very well,” he said. “Lead on.” Pembleberry gestured for Rolen to follow, and Rolen obliged. Rolen noticed two things about this man almost instantly: he was both more nervous and more intelligent than he was attempting to appear. Rolen and Pembleberry stepped through an open hatch in the deck, revealing a set of stairs. Sailors rushed around them, barking orders at each other.

“I do apologize for the secrecy,” Pembleberry said as the two walked below the deck. “You see, my master has instructed me not to reveal his identity. I assume someone in your line of work is not unfamiliar with anonymity.” The ship lurched heavily. It had left the Skyport.

“You assume correctly,” Rolen said, ducking beneath an archway in the long hallway below deck. “But still I would like to shake the hand of the man who managed to pardon my… alleged crimes.” Pembleberry turned back as he walked, and Rolen paid very close attention to the way he responded.

“He will attend to shaking your hand in due course.”

So it is a he, Rolen thought to himself. It wasn’t much, but it was more information than he’d been able to gather about this mysterious benefactor up to this point. Pembleberry’s glasses shone against the soft lamplight in the hallway, like two orange, secretive beads in the dim light. Suddenly, he stopped walking. Pembleberry pointed a fat finger towards a thick wooden door. A brass sign was affixed to its front: Room 13.

“This is where you’ll be,” said Pembleberry. He patted his pockets, producing a small ticking pocket watch. This was a very valuable item; Rolen took a mental note. Pembleberry examined the watch before snapping it shut, saying, “I will send someone to collect you at the advent of your meeting with my master. Should you require anything, ring the bell inside.”

“And when shall I plan on meeting him?” Rolen asked.

“My master is a very busy man. You will be informed.”

Rolen nodded absently, and the man waddled back down the hall. Rolen waited, feeling the gentle sway of the ship, before quickly walking back up the stairs. He was out in the open air once again, much to his relief. He looked around, spotting Pembleberry, who spoke with crewmen. His next conversation with him will have come too soon. Rolen turned past the hatch that led below deck, finding a set of doors leading into a cabin towards the back of the ship. Rolen quickly ducked inside, zipping past sailors as they adjusted the ship’s course.

Within the door was a small galley. Several tables were scattered in the small room, apparently bolted into the floor. A few sailors sat at these tables, laughing as they rolled dice across the table’s surface. Behind them, a counter impeded most of Rolen’s view of a large man who was scrubbing a large iron pot. Must be the cook, Rolen thought. He approached the counter, clearing his throat. The large man turned.

“Light night to you. I was hoping you could help me out with something,” Rolen said. The cook tossed his wet rag into the pot and approached the counter. His clothing was grubby, apparently not changed in some time. He was bald, with large eyebrows and the shadow of a recently shaven face. He narrowed his eyes at Rolen. “I was hoping...” Rolen began to dig in his bag. “... that you could tell me who owns this airship.” Rolen produced a silver coin, called a Shen due to the visage of its namesake Emperor, laying it gently on the counter. A hole was punched through the center of the coin, for ease of putting it on a coinstring, causing the Emperor’s head to be voided through the area around his ear with a squared space. He began to fidget with the coin, rolling it between his fingers. The man looked down at the Arlaiin Shen, raising an eyebrow. He did not respond.

A voice was heard behind Rolen. “You're wastin’ your time, Lunarian.” Rolen turned to see one of the men at the table leering at him. The man was thin, his brown hair flecked with gold and running in waves down the sides of his head. Also sitting at the table was a Boskin man, his black beard tied in intricate knots over his chest.

“And why is that?” Rolen asked.

“Because,” the seated man said, “the captain don’t come out of his cabin. Not never. Also, Harkor don’t talk.” The man behind the counter grunted at Rolen.

“You’ve never seen him?” Rolen asked.

A Boskin man at the table croaked, “I seen ‘im, Froak.” Froak looked back at the man.

“You ‘ave not, Leon. Too much ale floodin’ your Boskin brain, you trobsnack.” Leon violently shook his head.

“I’m tellin’ you, he’s one of them fancy lads. Son of a Lord, I’m sure.”

“Do you not even know his name?” Rolen interjected. The two men looked at each other and shrugged. “Lovely,” he said. “We’re all on this ship, and we don’t even know for whom we work.”

“When you see as much silver as we do,” Leon said, “you don’t ask.” Rolen considered that for a moment. This was a mysterious man indeed to pay his freedom and not reveal himself even to the crew of the Lyrelight. Rolen looked down at the table in front of him; the two shipmates each had a cup and five dice lain in front of them. A stack of silver coins sat in between them. Rolen reminded himself of correct times and places. Observing the rest of the table, it was curious that these men were working together. This was an Arlaiin craft, but aboard it he had seen Elves, Boskin, Gilgottians, and every other type of person from here to the Bosker Mines. These men were recruited, almost specifically, by an incredibly rich man who must have traveled far and wide to gather them all.

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“I see,” Rolen said. “Thanks for the word, then. I’ll be off.” The men chuckled as he stepped out of the room. Rolen closed the door on the sound of the rolling dice behind him, and made his way back to the hall outside room thirteen. During his walk back, he noticed a distinct absence of crew members. There must have been more important things to do to keep this ship in the air, or perhaps this was the only time the crew could get any sleep. Regardless of the reasoning, Rolen found the lack of company refreshing. Briefly, he listened to the sound of the ship creaking, the ropes stretching with the movement of the sails, the wind rushing past his ears and through the ships brails. The prospect of freedom loomed in his mind as he stepped down the ship’s hatch and into the hall.

The room he was given was small. A single, compact bed was nestled into the corner with a nightstand bolted to the floor of the room. A lit lantern was hanging from the ceiling, swaying in rhythm with the ship. He’d had worse lodgings in the past. It was just days ago that Rolen found himself locked in a damp cell, climbing the stone wall just to get a glimpse of the outside through a diminutive, barred window. Somehow, however, Rolen still felt imprisoned.

He stepped towards the bed, quickly adjusting his shortswords before falling backwards onto the firm mattress. He laid there for some time, his mind racing with thoughts of the future. Who was this man who freed him? He thought back to every possible encounter he’d had in the past few weeks. Part of his job had always been avoiding interactions, so who would have even known who he was?

The cabin was stuffy and the bed was excessively firm, but for days Rolen had been sleeping on a stone slab in a prison cell. To him, the lumpy straw mattress was like laying on a cloud. He closed his eyes and, before he knew it, found himself asleep. The swaying of the ship coaxed him gently, and for the first time in days, Rolen found peace. That is, until he heard the heavy footsteps from outside his door. He opened his eyes slowly, refamiliarizing himself with the room he was in. He was unsure of how much time had passed, but enough to cause the wick of the swinging lantern to burn almost to its base. Rolen was perceptive enough to realize that these footsteps outside were not of the sailors; they carried no weapons while he could hear the clanking of swords on belts from the individuals in the hall. Rolen sat up quickly and walked to the door. Slowly, he opened it and examined the population of the hallway; it was a exactly zero.

He crept out into the hall and began to walk not the way he came in, but further down the dimly lit hall. His Elven eyes allowed him better vision in the low light. He came to a set of stairs that led down. Hopefully these didn’t creak as much as the stairs leading into the hallway. He took a step. Solid as a rock. He stepped further down the stairs and found himself in a wide room. The center of the room held a glass globe, suspended between two large metal cylinders. It glowed with a soft purple light. Behind this large orb, Rolen could see a massive iron door. Bronze pipes snaked their way from the cylinders, lining the walls and spreading through the ship like veins. Various studded brackets were embedded in the metallic labyrinth around the room.

This must be what’s powering this thing, he thought. He had never seen an airship from below the deck, and certainly never seen one that did not contain a dozen guards pulling him off the controls. He looked closer and noticed that there was a figure on the other side of the orb, obscured by the soft glow of the light. Rolen cleared his throat, causing the figure to lean around the edge of the orb. He was wearing deep purple robes, lined with a blackened trim. On his chest was an insignia that Rolen had never seen before; it appeared to be a black blade in the open maw of a beast. The man wore a smooth mask, made from a material that was unfamiliar to Rolen. It shined faintly in the light. The man stepped to the side of the orb, circling it. Rolen could see that he was not alone. Six men now stood between Rolen and the large orb at the center of the room. Each of them holding a long, pointed sword.

“So,” Rolen said. “I take it you are not the maintenance crew.” The first man ran at Rolen, who was quick to perceive his intentions. As he swung his sword, Rolen stepped back just enough, causing it to cut only the hairs that lagged behind Rolen’s moving head. He bent his knees as the other men stepped forward, and drew his shortswords in a flash of steel. The man in front of him swung his sword again, downwards. Rolen stepped to the side to avoid it, flicking his wrist and slashing his shortsword effortlessly across the man’s midsection. They were slow, slower than the threats Rolen was used to facing. Demonstrably too slow to win against a Wyr-soul. Quickly, Rolen kicked the man in the side, sending him stumbling into two of the other assailants. Rolen turned, striking at one of the men with great speed. His shortsword slammed into the man’s mask, and its momentum stopped entirely. It was as though he had hit his sword against a steel wall. Whatever these masks were made of was unbelievably strong. The man poked his sword towards Rolen, who quickly lifted his other sword and parried it out of the way.

Just then, he noticed a glint of metal in the corner of his eye and managed to dodge the swing of another robed figure. Rolen jumped back, his feet sliding partially on the metallic floor. He eyed the men, devising his strategy against them. One man laid bleeding on the floor, the other five quickly approaching. He dashed to the side of the leftmost man, avoiding being trapped in their center. Time slowed as he focused on the battle. He raised both swords at once and slammed them down towards his opponent, an attack that was blocked by them man’s raised sword. Rolen then used the first of the Wyr-soul khors: Lightening. Wind began to pick up around Rolen as his weight changed. Keeping his swords against his opponent’s, he lifted himself off the ground and tucked his legs over the sharp blade- allowing him to kick the man just below the head with both feet. Kicking the mask was useless, as he discovered when he struck it with his sword. It seemed to absorb all force. What a curious material.

Where Rolen had placed the kick was devastating. As he kicked, he dispelled the Lightening and put all of his force into his legs. The wind that had gathered to lift him now rushed from his feet and threw the man across the room as Rolen flipped back down to the ground. This was the second of his khors: Direct. This allowed him to control wind currents and direct them wherever he wished. The robed man knocked into two of his compatriots, one of them being impaled on his own sword and all of them tumbling to the floor. Rolen’s odds were increasing. One of the two remaining robed figures charged at Rolen, a maneuver that seemed, to him, foolish. Rolen drew a knife from his belt and quickly delivered it through the air to the man’s throat. He crumpled before he reached Rolen. The last standing assailant, Rolen noticed, had his hands clasped together. They glowed with an ominous orange light.

Gods, Rolen thought. He’s an Arc-soul. Quickly, Rolen leapt behind the orb in the center of the room just as the man unclasped his hands. A beam of flame poured from the man, following Rolen’s path. It struck the orb, its glassy membrane melting from the intense heat. Rolen felt the heat pour around him as he crouched behind the orb’s metal post. And then, the flames stopped. Rolen heard the screams of the man from the other side of the glowing sphere. He hesitated, peeking around the corner. The orb was now melted and cracked, causing its contents to be freed in the outside air. Purple lightning arced across the room, desperately rushing into the metal walls.

The Arc-soul was hit with one of these bolts and was now writhing on the floor, screaming in pain. The screaming did not last long, as Rolen was soon left with only the sounds of electricity bouncing around the other side of the room. Some problems solve themselves, I guess. Rolen stood just as the airship began to drop. Not an ideal situation, he thought as he gathered himself. Nothing I can’t handle, though. He looked beside him, at one of the bodies strewn around the room. His mask was loose, just loose enough for Rolen to lift it. It was lighter than he thought it would be for something so durable.

As he raised it he realized who this man was- he had just spoken to him hours earlier. Rolen held the mask over the body of the sailor Froak. This was when things began to get worse. Rolen heard the sounds of shearing metal, creaking and popping around him. The sparking from the orb increased, and he saw that the walls and floor were actually crumpling from the magic within. The airship was in freefall. He slowly made his way to the back wall, where he saw the heavy iron door.

The doorway he entered through would be too dangerous, as streaks of purple lightning ate the entire side of the room. He attempted to open the door, quickly finding it to be locked. He could hear the metal of the airship being ripped apart behind him. He quickly felt the area around the handle for a keyhole. Finding none, Rolen’s mind spun as he examined his options. Reluctantly, he resigned himself to running across the room and attempting to reach the stairs to the main deck. He mentally prepared himself, took a stance, and began to run. That is when the core of the airship exploded.