This is a short story, and completed. I'll be posting it in its entirity over the next week or so. Enjoy, and I always appreciate feedback...
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Vrabel d’Vadalis slumped on one of the hard benches along the starboard side of the airship. Midday sunlight streamed through the towers of Sharn casting strange shadows and light across the deck as the ship banked for its final approach. He shifted his position, pulling the hood of the ratty laborer’s robe lower. An impeccably dressed dwarf stood speaking to a hunched woman in a green dress.
Whispering a simple incantation, Vrabel heard their conversation come into focus.
“..wanted me to take delivery now, before something happens.,” said the woman.
“This is highly irregular,” sputtered the dwarf. “The experiment is reaching its conclusion.
And my masters, of course, want their final payment. But, I was given specific instructions to deliver it only to the Friar.”
“Blood of bloody Siberys!” Vrabel muttered. Icy fingers seemed to play along his spine. “That bastard again?”
A barely audible high-pitched whine seemed to interfere with the amplification properties of Vrabel’s spell. Shaking his head slightly, he focused on the pair again.
“Can I see it?” the woman was asking. Her face seemed alight, not with the glow from Sharn’s towers, but some inner desire.
The dwarf peered around the deck, and then thrust his hand into his pocket with an ill-concealed sigh. As the dwarf held a fist-sized item close to his chest, Vrabel felt a dull throb in his stomach, as if he’d been punched. He barely suppressed a curse, standing and turning to watch the towers pass by.
“What is happening?” he said.
The whine seemed to intensify, piercing his head. About the time he realized that that the noise emanated from the ship’s elemental ring, the deck of the airship bucked hard.
Vrabel dangled from a mooring line, though he didn’t remember grabbing for it. An explosion of sound and heat followed. The prow pitched up and the ship began sliding backwards toward the stone walkways and lacy bridges of the City of Towers. Vrabel felt the back of his robe singe as a living cloud of fire raced away into the sky.
The rolling green of Midflynn Park approached at a sickening pace, and he watched as passengers flew past him toward into the gulf between the Menthis and Central plateaus. He marveled at the variety of expressions. Some mouths frozen in perpetual O’s with eyes bulging out, some faces placid, bodies as rigid as spears descending. Vrabel snapped out of his initial shock and barked an arcane word as he kicked away from the flaming, dying airship.
The shattered elemental ring passed a hand’s breadth from his back. He was still above the park when the ship impacted Flynnbridge, its bulk slicing the span in two and dragging pedestrians, bulwarks and good portions of the walkways on either side down with it. He alighted softly on the park green, flaming pieces of the ship raining down around him, hissing like meteors. He saw a handful of passengers drift lazily down, shouting to their companions and pointing at the twisted wreckage as it careened into Sharn’s lower levels. There was no sign of the dwarf.
Vrabel walked to the jagged edge of Midflynn Park’s walkway and calmly escorted a tottering old woman away from the brink, she still too shocked to ask for help or even register that she’d received it. He kept his eyes away from guttering wreckage and smoldering remains, panic threatening to take hold if he registered the blackened, twitching limbs and sightless eyes. He remembered the battlefields. The same foul taste cut through his mouth. The same ragged panic struggled to free itself from the mental vault where he kept it locked. Peering down into the smoking chasm, he saw heads sticking out of tower windows, either peering up at him or down into the devastation.
The hours slipped away from him and when he came to, he sat in the dark under one of Midflynn’s hissing willow trees. His soot-blackened hands shook uncontrollably.
“Blood of Siberys,” he said.
“You shouldn’t invoke what you’d rather not see,” said a voice very close to him.
Vrabel leaped to his feet and coughed a spell of light in surprise. He held his glowing hand aloft while grasping for the long knife on his belt. A thin half-elf stood before him, shielding his eyes and smiling. His blonde hair hung lank to his shoulders and his rumpled clothes appeared slept in.
“Dester!” Vrabel said, cupping the light. “What…how did you find me?”
“The boss saw you helping the survivors from his window,” Dester said, gesturing absently across the green. “I brought wine.”
“My savior,” Vrabel said, smiling.
He snatched the bottle from the half-elf’s hand and bit off the cork, taking a long pull of the cool liquid. Sinking down against the willow trunk, Vrabel felt the dream quality of his day wash away. Dester sat beside him and reached for the bottle.
“What does he want?” asked Vrabel.
“What do you think? A full report. Tonight,” Dester said. He took a sip of the wine and then passed the bottle back with a packet of sealed papers.
Vrabel took the missive and slid it into his bag as he watched the magewrights and masons already scurrying around the shattered bridge. They cast massive shadows in the bright magical lights.
“Pym’s a bastard,” he said finally, though his mind was racing. The station chief rarely moved this quickly; something wasn’t right.
“He’s blaming you for the crash, you know.”
Vrabel just nodded and drank.
“The Friar is involved,” Vrabel said after a time.
“What?” Dester exclaimed, his head whipping around.
“The courier mentioned him by name.”
The half-elf stared as if in a daze, but Vrabel knew his mind was working just as fast.
“That bastard,” Dester finally said, slumping back against the tree. “That Khyber-dealing bastard. He put you on that ship knowing…”
Vrabel took one more drink from the bottle. “To the First Hussars,” he said without emotion.
“He hasn’t changed.”
Dester snatched the bottle and drank, then nodded.
Vrabel stood and brushed the seat of his thick, ratty pants. “You can tell him what you want, but I won’t be in tonight.”
Walking off into the darkness, his hand glowed bright red where the magical light was still clenched in a quivering fist.
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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Vrabel d’Vadalis slumped on one of the hard benches along the starboard side of the airship. Midday sunlight streamed through the towers of Sharn casting strange shadows and light across the deck as the ship banked for its final approach. He shifted his position, pulling the hood of the ratty laborer’s robe lower. An impeccably dressed dwarf stood speaking to a hunched woman in a green dress.
Whispering a simple incantation, Vrabel heard their conversation come into focus.
“..wanted me to take delivery now, before something happens.,” said the woman.
“This is highly irregular,” sputtered the dwarf. “The experiment is reaching its conclusion.
And my masters, of course, want their final payment. But, I was given specific instructions to deliver it only to the Friar.”
“Blood of bloody Siberys!” Vrabel muttered. Icy fingers seemed to play along his spine. “That bastard again?”
A barely audible high-pitched whine seemed to interfere with the amplification properties of Vrabel’s spell. Shaking his head slightly, he focused on the pair again.
“Can I see it?” the woman was asking. Her face seemed alight, not with the glow from Sharn’s towers, but some inner desire.
The dwarf peered around the deck, and then thrust his hand into his pocket with an ill-concealed sigh. As the dwarf held a fist-sized item close to his chest, Vrabel felt a dull throb in his stomach, as if he’d been punched. He barely suppressed a curse, standing and turning to watch the towers pass by.
“What is happening?” he said.
The whine seemed to intensify, piercing his head. About the time he realized that that the noise emanated from the ship’s elemental ring, the deck of the airship bucked hard.
Vrabel dangled from a mooring line, though he didn’t remember grabbing for it. An explosion of sound and heat followed. The prow pitched up and the ship began sliding backwards toward the stone walkways and lacy bridges of the City of Towers. Vrabel felt the back of his robe singe as a living cloud of fire raced away into the sky.
The rolling green of Midflynn Park approached at a sickening pace, and he watched as passengers flew past him toward into the gulf between the Menthis and Central plateaus. He marveled at the variety of expressions. Some mouths frozen in perpetual O’s with eyes bulging out, some faces placid, bodies as rigid as spears descending. Vrabel snapped out of his initial shock and barked an arcane word as he kicked away from the flaming, dying airship.
The shattered elemental ring passed a hand’s breadth from his back. He was still above the park when the ship impacted Flynnbridge, its bulk slicing the span in two and dragging pedestrians, bulwarks and good portions of the walkways on either side down with it. He alighted softly on the park green, flaming pieces of the ship raining down around him, hissing like meteors. He saw a handful of passengers drift lazily down, shouting to their companions and pointing at the twisted wreckage as it careened into Sharn’s lower levels. There was no sign of the dwarf.
Vrabel walked to the jagged edge of Midflynn Park’s walkway and calmly escorted a tottering old woman away from the brink, she still too shocked to ask for help or even register that she’d received it. He kept his eyes away from guttering wreckage and smoldering remains, panic threatening to take hold if he registered the blackened, twitching limbs and sightless eyes. He remembered the battlefields. The same foul taste cut through his mouth. The same ragged panic struggled to free itself from the mental vault where he kept it locked. Peering down into the smoking chasm, he saw heads sticking out of tower windows, either peering up at him or down into the devastation.
The hours slipped away from him and when he came to, he sat in the dark under one of Midflynn’s hissing willow trees. His soot-blackened hands shook uncontrollably.
“Blood of Siberys,” he said.
“You shouldn’t invoke what you’d rather not see,” said a voice very close to him.
Vrabel leaped to his feet and coughed a spell of light in surprise. He held his glowing hand aloft while grasping for the long knife on his belt. A thin half-elf stood before him, shielding his eyes and smiling. His blonde hair hung lank to his shoulders and his rumpled clothes appeared slept in.
“Dester!” Vrabel said, cupping the light. “What…how did you find me?”
“The boss saw you helping the survivors from his window,” Dester said, gesturing absently across the green. “I brought wine.”
“My savior,” Vrabel said, smiling.
He snatched the bottle from the half-elf’s hand and bit off the cork, taking a long pull of the cool liquid. Sinking down against the willow trunk, Vrabel felt the dream quality of his day wash away. Dester sat beside him and reached for the bottle.
“What does he want?” asked Vrabel.
“What do you think? A full report. Tonight,” Dester said. He took a sip of the wine and then passed the bottle back with a packet of sealed papers.
Vrabel took the missive and slid it into his bag as he watched the magewrights and masons already scurrying around the shattered bridge. They cast massive shadows in the bright magical lights.
“Pym’s a bastard,” he said finally, though his mind was racing. The station chief rarely moved this quickly; something wasn’t right.
“He’s blaming you for the crash, you know.”
Vrabel just nodded and drank.
“The Friar is involved,” Vrabel said after a time.
“What?” Dester exclaimed, his head whipping around.
“The courier mentioned him by name.”
The half-elf stared as if in a daze, but Vrabel knew his mind was working just as fast.
“That bastard,” Dester finally said, slumping back against the tree. “That Khyber-dealing bastard. He put you on that ship knowing…”
Vrabel took one more drink from the bottle. “To the First Hussars,” he said without emotion.
“He hasn’t changed.”
Dester snatched the bottle and drank, then nodded.
Vrabel stood and brushed the seat of his thick, ratty pants. “You can tell him what you want, but I won’t be in tonight.”
Walking off into the darkness, his hand glowed bright red where the magical light was still clenched in a quivering fist.
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