Below the wing... why did I choose here! I should have gone below the cursed fog while I was at it! Trarn cursed his choices but held onto his position nonetheless. Most balloons have a net of thin rope slung over them to help the pine skeleton maintain the balloon's shape, but also so the crew could do repairs anywhere on the ship. Trarn clung to this net with his left hand. His feet were dug in as well. He held his crossbow pointing up. With how the ship's balloon curved up, he had a good angle to shoot through the wing at anyone approaching down the balloon. It would be difficult for an attacker to climb down face-first, especially carrying two crossbows. He would wait for the sound of Atran climbing down, then shoot. The canvas was too thick to see through, but Trarn had learned a thing or two about his newfound powers:
1. The more skilled he was at archery, the more the "window" would appear.
2. There was no requirement that he see his target; hearing worked just fine.
With these two factors, he could do it. Atran could climb down this way or search in a different direction. If Atran climbed down over Trarn's wing and Trarn heard him, Trarn was fairly certain the window would appear. In the months after discovering the blessing, Trarn had trouble sleeping. He had been restless in his military hammock at the cloud pine training camp. So, he would get up and roam the branches, listening to bats flitting about him. Then one night he thought, what if I tried to knock one out of the air? His chances of hitting a bat in flight, in the dark of night, were zero. And in the morning light, hitting a bat in flight proved very difficult for Trarn. That was at least how it was without the blessing. But after numerous mornings and nights of practice, suddenly the window began to open. At this point, Trarn could pick off a bat in flight in pitch darkness by only the sound of its wings. The window only appeared every few minutes. But when he closed his eyes and listened to the clumsy students and teachers walking about the tree, windows appeared every few seconds. Sometimes more than one at a time.
The absolute desire for combat prowess that permeated the Cloudkin empire beat within Trarn's chest. Gambles and reckless abandon were the start of legends. He held tight beneath the wing, waiting as terror and excitement mixed endlessly within him. But as time passed, apprehension grew. Atran was not following through. He had to have climbed down somewhere else. That's alright, chances were 50/50 that he would come this way, hmmmm... What to do next? Top deck again; going down was too risky. Trarn climbed carefully up again. He poked his head around the wing carefully. No sign of Atran. Trarn climbed quietly up past the wing, cradling his crossbow lightly in front of his chest. He was unsure what to do next. Ship boarding was more of an art than a science... at least Cloudkin considered it such. Prattians were more analytical about everything. Trarn weighed his options. Middeck was still a bust; the front end of the ship would offer him more range than the tail had. He could try his luck there. It would be scarily simple. Unlike an actual vulture, the ship lacked a neck or head; it was more like an owl in that respect. But it did have a prow spike rooted directly into the ship's pine skeleton. Trarn could stand on that and maximize his range. It was about 30 digits in length. Built to pierce into enemy ship balloons, it facilitated boarding. He would be an easy target for piercing bolts, though. Trarn had a solution for that. He would have to be quick. Moving to the control tent next to him, he drew his glass cord cutter and quickly went to work cutting the stitches holding the composite weave. The ship had been through a few battles in its time, and the stiff cloth had been patched in multiple sections to fix ballista bolt holes. It was to Trarn's benefit; cutting the composite weave was difficult. But the stitching he could cut loose. He hurriedly removed a patch about the size of a baby blanket. It was smaller than he wanted but good enough. Trarn focused his ears and eyes about him, casting out his senses as best he could... Nothing. He was apprehensive, but he moved towards the ship's front spike, dragging the nearly 3/4-digit thick cloth with him. Composite weave was tough and expensive, but it was also heavy. Effective composite weave armor was still a pipe dream for nobility. He reached the spike. Trarn was more vividly aware of his lack of a tether line as he scrambled out onto the narrow pine spike. Its singular, grey, glass point bobbed lightly in the wind as Trarn struggled with the unwieldy cloth. He stopped only 20 digits out and turned around quickly. Here, the mast of wood was barely thick enough to protect him from below. Trarn wrapped himself in the composite weave, and its weight pushed down on him, suffocating but protective.
Now he waited... and waited... and... the sun slowly wobbled its winter course across the Northern sky. It was about 9 in the morning now, if he had to guess. Trarn had declared the duel, so if it reached sunset with no victor, he would be shamed but alive. He wondered what the onlookers thought of him?
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"HEY, COWARD!!"
Atran's voice rang out across the ship. He was at the tail end, probably near the top deck.
Perfect!
Atran surfaced, nimbly leaping up onto the balloon's surface. His crossbows were holstered, one on his chest and one on his back. In his hands, he carried a broken table corner. The large hunk of wood covered more than half his chest. It was pine wood or a similar light wood. Weight was essential for military vessels. No matter how ornate the carved bevels of the table corner were, it was still light wood. Trarn's bolts could pierce it. Trarn took aim. Atran charged, shouting as he did:
"YOU CHOSE CROSSBOWS,
YOU CHOSE TO DUEL ME!
BUT NOW YOU DRAG THIS OUT, YOU KREEN COWARD!"
(Kreens are a flightless bird often kept as farm pets by lower classes. They became a swear word of sorts most used by Cloudkin who culturally abhor ground-based living).
Trarn leveled his crossbow, dropping the fabric to his chest and steadying the weapon with both hands. Atran was running straight towards the control tent again. Trarn could not hit him. He concentrated, waiting for the moment Atran would round the tent. But that moment did not arrive. Suddenly, the ship dipped forward slightly as its main drag balloon reeled out. Moments later, two of the larger lift balloons released. Now the ship began to float down rapidly, its tail and wing flaps adjusting the vessel into a forward dive. Atran was piloting them down! Trarn flailed about, sliding backward down the front spike. For a few terrible moments, he grasped desperately at the smooth pine surface. His fingers finally found purchase, but he lost hold of the composite weave. It tumbled away from him into the sky below. Atran reappeared from the tent's doorway holding a crossbow in one hand and the table corner in the other. He fired his first bolt. It whistled past Trarn's head narrowly. Trarn had his legs wrapped around the slanted pine spike now, hugging himself to it with one arm as he raised his crossbow with the other. He felt the window appear; he could make the shot! As his arm strained and shook, holding the large weapon up at arm's length, he pulled the crossbow's trigger. Atran didn't move. The bolt zipped toward him, but he stood still. Only his right arm moved. As the bolt sped the nearly 100-digit distance between them, Atran brought the table corner up at a slight angle in front of his chest.
SKRSSST!!!!
The bolt skidded down the face of the makeshift pine shield, deflecting past Atran off into the sky.
No....!
That was it... that needed to work!
Trarn's mind reeled. His hands reflexively moved to reload his crossbow but stopped abruptly as the tilting ship prevented him. Atran was too fast anyhow. He was charging forward again. Years of experience allowed Atran to draw his already cocked crossbow from his back. He was closing the distance to make sure he didn't miss this time. Trarn felt cold sweat coat his skin. This was it. He was going to die like this, like a cornered Kreen in a farmer's pen. His own arrogance had fattened him up. One last thing he could do, though... The last resort of skyfarers. Trarn let go.
He tumbled free of the mast, falling far faster than the airship. Atran looked after him in surprise. He almost looked disappointed. Trarn flipped away, twirling wildly through the air. He heard a shout behind him, but the wind roaring in his ears drowned out its coherence. Trarn had practiced this a little at the military training camp. Then he had been plunging into cloud cotton crash pillows, but not at this speed. He stopped his twirl by spreading his arms and legs. Then, with a deep breath to steady his mind, he pulled! Gripping the edge of his shirt cuffs, he forced the excess fabric sewn into his tunic to pull taut. A scholar native to Prattia discovered something common knowledge to Cloudkin centuries before the two nations met: squirrel suits. They were standard now to many skyfarers in the jungle regions and in combat roles. A last resort of sorts, the baggy flaps strung from his wrists to his ankles had been hard to adjust to as he ran on ship decks as a child, but now he was half gliding, half falling towards the great trees below. Tilting his arms slightly, he changed the direction of his fall. Hurtling towards the largest treetop he could see jutting up from the cursed fog. At this speed, I am going to be... Trarn didn't think too hard about it. He had only three trees in range to choose from, and this one was the best... probably...
Trarn hit the foliage at a blinding speed. His body whipped through branches. Leaves sped by, cutting his face like knives. He hit something hard abruptly with his left shoulder and flipped head over toes. Consciousness left Trarn as the shock of the impact knocked his mind into darkness...