Grath bemoaned his lost food and injuries as he floated blearily across the sky. Damage to the mid-cabin had been minor, thankfully. His sewing skills were mediocre at best, but the patched-together cloth would hold. His gashed leg had not developed gangrene thanks to his meager supply of disinfectant alcohol. The thought of having to apply it again tonight was not pleasant. His shoulder ached but seemed to be mending fine. He couldn't afford healing elixir among the long list of things he couldn't afford after buying the Flounder. So, old-school healing was it for now. But... Grath had captured one bottle of wild klienah flower nectar. Outside of Proud Plateau, this stuff didn't come easy. It would sell for a good price. In case of pirates, he had unseamed a section of the main balloon briefly and buried the nectar deep within the cloud wool of the Flounder. Pirates weren't always bloodthirsty; if he was outnumbered, he might let them raid his gear over a fight. He had been waiting and watching the sky nervously for any signs of Harsh Forefather, the arbitrarily named largest pine of the Prattian nation. Because it was on the borderline that marked Prattia's eastern border to no man's land, Prattian royalty claimed it, but territorial patrols didn't come out this far, so it was a weak claim. It was often a landing point for pirate trades and "discussions." But it also stood out as an excellent landmark as opposed to the fog-covered, thick forest below. Grath's calculations based on the stars weren't very accurate; it would be nice to get a better indicator. He hoped he hadn't passed it in his sleep.

Midday brought more boredom. Grath practiced sword skills. He knew only a few forms. Could Shrike style was something his dad taught. It was an old sword system that predated the Prattian empire itself by roughly 200 years. The form was high aggression with many flurries and whirls of the blade. It resembled a dance characteristic of older weapon schools. Grath wondered, with the advancement in elixir alchemy, if sword styles would become even more obsolete. Crossbows were dangerous enough these days. Loading a number of small ones and holstering them across your body was an effective strategy. Glass splitter bolts were capable of piercing most modern armors. Grath shrugged, For now, expense and reloading delays kept his archaic sword style in value. That, and... gargantuan birds wouldn't be brought down by a splitter bolt. He shuddered thinking about the leatherhead he had fought already. A piercing bolt or splitter could have brought that bird down, but it had caught him off guard. He desperately wanted to leave his crossbow cocked at all times, but the flexible wood bow would slowly lose its springing power.

As Grath's mind wandered, he spotted Harsh Forefather. The massive pine broke through a patch of lazy white clouds, its branches stretching like lightning out across the sky. Cloud wool sacks would usually hold the branches and their trillions of needles aloft, but the sacks were plundered every year en masse. The tree, in truth, was dying. Its branches sagged and cracked. Fist-sized termites ate away at much of the ancient tree, and bark hung like ribbons from it. A zombie of its former glory. Before the Prattian empire, this tree was suffering. Someday it would dry out enough, and a single spark would consume it in a fire so fierce that the cursed fog would thin for strands around it and the ground beneath the trunk would blacken and warp from the heat. Grath saw sparks now!? Tiny candle-like lights flashing in the distance. Pirates! A vessel with no raised flag glided nimbly through the branches of the great tree. Like a swallow on the wind, the black-flagged pirate ship chased it. Twin ballistas fired one after the other from the pirate ship's prow. Smoking lit bolts the size of spears sped after the fleeing vessel. Grath gripped his sword, a harsh look blotting his already grim features. Pirates, scum of the earth, the pillaging weasels ever stealing the hard-bought gains of the common folk. They didn't have the guts to take on a military vessel. Grath's stomach clenched, but he knew his next move. He released the dragline on his main lift balloon. As the balloon reeled out, he urged the Flounder into a dive. Harsh Forefather had an updraft of wind perpetually around its base. With a little luck, he could reel in the balloon there while the wind pulled him up. Each fleeting moment ticked by like an eternity as he watched the fleeing ship. It was a farming ship, likely. Probably an insect harvester, judging by the wicker cages at its side. A haul of ground elytra powder was worth a good sum. Harvesting the dye was difficult, dangerous work done near the cursed fog. He watched in rage as a single flaming bolt struck the hull balloon of the farming vessel. A figure on board scurried to put out the flame. It looked like two people were on the farm vessel as far as he could see. The pirate ship had three at least—two manning the ballistas and one on the ship controls. The pirate ship's fins were large; it relied on them for superior gliding. Its balloon lift was inferior, but getting elevation was too risky for the farm ship. Floating up was slow, and steering would suffer if it tried that. At this range and with the tangling branches around it, their only chance was to run until... NO, they couldn't outrun a superior glider! Grath loaded his crossbow. One splitter bolt he put in it; five splitters and three piercing bolts he strapped to his back in a bandolier. He set his sword at his left hip, dagger at his right, and crossbow at his feet. He steered hard against the gusts of wind, plunging his ship ever toward the tree's base. His dragline finally caught, and he bobbed openly in the wind. Quickly, he reeled it back in. Once he was nearly done, the first of the updraft current struck. The ship bobbed like a cork on a wave. Grath reeled in even faster, his arms burning from exertion. Once the balloon was locked in place, he released the smallest lift balloon. It drifted up lazily, and the Flounder drifted down. Grath turned the ship's tail and adjusted the wings, turning it around and directing the Flounder's face into the updraft. With a groaning and creaking of wood, the Flounder began to rise on the wind, borne aloft like a fat pigeon.

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Wfshhhhhh!!!!

A ballista bolt whizzed past him, cutting a hole in one of the pectoral fins. They had spotted him!