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[Mallus]

Flight of the Philip

<above the Lassantees Desert, 50 miles due east of Marimbra:CITY>

A screaming comes across the sky... followed by an in-flight drink service.

"Would you care for a cup of tea, sir?" asks the metal gryphon that Rackhir is riding through the moon-lighted skies above the Lassantees Waste. "I have Pearl Grey and Far Jeeling".

Rackhir's reply is swallowed by the length of moistened cloth protecting his face. The Bloody Archer searches in vain for a control mechanism.

"If you prefer something harder, I distill an artisanal gin in a still within my fuselage that might be to your liking."

Rackhir pulls a small section of the cloth down and is rewarded by a jet of hot wind peppered with grains of stinging sand. Who builds a war-machine that you have to order around like a butler? Oh wait, people like Burne.

He makes his commanding voice heard over the rushing air. "Focus on the attack, Philip When do..." Rackhir gets a mouthful of grit that brings back unpleasant memories of his year-long posting in Marimbra when we served in the military for his CITY Citizenship. ".. descend."

"Very good, sir, initiating descent and acquiring targets". The metal gryphon's wings beat suddenly and heavily, as if making a rude gesture in the language of birds. His alchemical engine screams and air fills with smell of burning phlogiston.

They start to fall out the air, toward the oasis, and the giants.


Ten minutes before everything seemed so… normal. The Bastards were camped just within sight of the oasis holding the missing Dr. Mephisophocles. Lord Kenji was sitting lotus-style, meditating on his own attainable perfection, Meiji was palms down in the sand, praying to the shu of the earth, Mercutio the Mesmerist, under the group’s protection ever since it was revealed that the villainous Shirac magician Nadir Medhi sought Mercutio’s prized possession --a magic rod containing the bound succubus known as Salomalle-- sat behind and slightly to the left, bemoaning the lack of places to flee in the open desert, Rackhir was gently setting down the cast-iron toy gryphon given to them by the Gondoliers, which promised to somehow expand into a full-sized conveyance, all the while Burne stood close by, chortling in a quiet-yet-maniacal way that suggested the alchemist was possessed of a rare respiratory disorder.

Normal is a relative thing.

Burne let out a whoop, much like a crane that’s been set on fire, as Rackhir removed the gryphon’s bright red wind-up key. The so-called “phlogistonic gryphon” began to emit a clanking racket completely out of proportion to its size. Then it grew. Rapidly at first, then faster still, until it was the size of a large war-horse made entirely of metal plating and bolts.

“Pardon my impertinence, sirs. For convenience sake, you may prefer to address me as ‘Philip’" said the Self-Winding, Size-Malleable Phlogistonic Gryphon Prototype Alpha. Moments later Rackhir was mounted and strapped into Philip’s thinly-padded saddle, experiencing for the first time the phenomenon Burne referred to as “Rocket-Assisted Vertical Take-off”. Gryphon and rider leapt into the air on a column of superheated air. The rescue of Dr. Mephisophocles had begun.


That’s bad. Two full-grown giants. What’s worse, the keen-eyed archer thinks he can make out ammunition piles next to them; boulders or lead balls twice the size of a human skull. Three man-sized bowmen dressed in desert garb emerge over the lip of the deep fissure in the center of the oasis. They notch arrows and begin scanning the sky erratically, as if blind. At least there aren’t many archers….

The giants begin to throw. Rocks explode against Philip’s underside, seeming to do little damage. Rackhir calmly sights one giant and shoots out both its eyes. Blind and dying, it topples. This may not go too badly. It is at this point Rackhir recalls the Lassantean legend of the Witch-Sight Archers. The flailing bowmen below suddenly turn in unison and let fly at Rackir.

Two in the chest, one in the throat thinks Rackhir as he passes out while choking on blood.


next.... The Battle at the Fissure of Leaves