Now arriving in Myrken...

[NightSteel]

Early in the pleasant afternoon, people in high vantage points around Myrken would have easily seen a long, lean, flying wooden ship of about sixty yards' length. It passed over trees, walls, giant swords, and earth alike, with the sound of creaking wood and stretching rope. A woman's accented voice echoed, calling out commands. Sails billowed, oars assisted and rudder adjusted, as the ship descended. Identical flags waved from the ship's highest mast and from its stern, bearing an indistinct coat of arms.

She passed directly over the Broken Dagger in her landing approach, lines and ladders thrown overboard and vaguely uniformed men descending, to moor the ship nearby, floating somewhat close to the ground, and create a small perimeter with military precision.. before they were dismissed by a woman with an officer's bearing and a long halberd slung diagonally across her back. Passengers disembarked, wobbling away as they regained their land legs.

The woman spent some time stretching out and becoming used to walking on land again herself, staying beneath the ship, until she deemed herself ready. She seemed somewhat ordinary, compared to some of the more, well, odd patrons that frequented the area. Her face, though pretty, bore the light lines of encroaching age. Her features might have been described as pleasant, if she didn't wear such an icy, hard mask. Her eyes bore the mask well, an almost ethereally dark brown. Her hair was no exception to the image, long, straight, luxuriant black streaked with luminous silver.

She wore a smart pair of calf boots, clothing similar to the men's uniforms of various colors but identical styles, and something the others didn't have--a draping jacket of brown suede, with slashed sleeves and heavy cuffs, white shirtsleeves showing through. Trimmed in silver, it gave the impression of an officer, and she had the bearing of one. She stood straight and tall as she approached the building, stepping inside with two of the aforementioned crewmembers following her at a distance. The floating ship was left hanging there quietly, moored to two large trees, as the clouds drifted lazily overhead.

It had been a good day for sailing.

[NightSteel]

Mister Sydney and Mister Rollins, the two sailors, exited the tavern once more, the former shoving the latter down the steps crossly. Something must have happened. They walked back over to the ship, one berating the other for his bad manners. Ladders were lowered, the men climbed back up. Mister Rollins relieved a sentry, and Mister Sydney spread the news--they were welcome at the Broken Dagger.

He didn't need to spread any rules--they all knew the Captain's standing orders.

[NightSteel]

Almais Lansing stepped out of her stateroom onto the deck of the floating ship to take command from Mister Irons, having slept, and she was mildly distressed to find that the spring's morning sun felt more like the summer's midday sun. She climbed up to the bridge, looking around at the unnatural pallor of the trees and grass, and made a decision.

"Mister Irons, I have the bridge. If you please, before you hit the rack, draw up a new sentry schedule with a shorter rotation. Ensure the sentries have access to water. Look into the possibility of unfurling some of the sails to provide shade." That.. *should* work. It was just a matter of tying sails between masts temporarily, instead of tying them down. She couldn't very well leave the sentries standing unprotected out on the deck too long in this dreadful heat. "Also, advise the men to roll up their sleeves, and keep below decks whenever possible." One side-effect of the process used to lighten the ship was, the elemental air imbued into the hull did a right nice job of keeping things cool down there. It wasn't exactly a refrigerator, but it would make a handy defense against sweltering heat.

"You have the bridge. Aye, cap'n."

As Mister Irons retreated, Almais Lansing rolled up her own sleeves, taking another look around at the nearby foliage. This was *definitely* unnatural, this much heat this fast, playing havoc with the plants, even causing the nearby lake to recede..

The thought would trouble her for some time.

[NightSteel]

As Mister Irons returned to the bridge to relieve her, late that evening, Captain Almais Lansing made a decision. There had only been one day of the dreadful heat, but she could see the plumes of fires building, and the sickly look of the nearby plants. If this happened again the next day, she would do something about it. She had a plan..

It was late, but she made for town anyway, after relinquishing command. She just needed a look at a map. She would be back by morning with what she needed, at the latest, but likely far earlier than that. Early enough to get some sleep.

Tomorrow evening, she would go back to work.

[NightSteel]

Captain Lansing woke a little earlier than usual the next morning, ascending to the bridge to speak to Mister Irons. She had, the previous night, struck a new command schedule with her first officer to divide the hot days: He would watch the bridge for the first half of the day, and she, the last. She intended to rest and refine her plan until her time came that day.

She had woken, of course, mostly to check the weather. Still bloody hot. That sealed it, then. Tonight, they would go into action.

It had been an uneventful week, as shipboard operations went. Nobody had bothered them from the ground, not even a self-important local authority as she had predicted to the worrying Sawyer. Her sailors had conducted themselves well; there were no troubles with the constabulary or with local residents.

Maybe now, somebody would sit up and take notice.

"Mister Irons. Begin preparations to weigh anchor."

Activity continued aboard ship well into the day--though at a rather leisurely pace. They had plenty of time to make ready, and she would not have her men falling from the masts due to exertion.

[NightSteel]

"Weeeiiggh anchor!" The call came from outside, echoing through the evening.

Two men scrambled down from the ship, each to a rope ladder, then.. leisurely walked over to the two trees upon which the airship was moored. It was too bloody hot to be bustling about. They made quick work of the moorings, however, which sagged to the ground after being loosed. They did hurry back to the ladders, which were already starting to lift from the ground, climbing back up. "Anchors aweigh, Captain!"

"Very good! Rowers! Exteeeend oars!" As the two men climbed back over the rails, and the ship continued to rise, the rope ladders were pulled back up. The ship's long oars swept down from their previous positions of pointing up and aft, into formation directly to the sides of the ship. "Mister Turnbuckle! Set a nor'westerly course!" The ship's rudder began to sway to one side. "Aye, Captain!"

As the ship finally rose above those two great trees upon which it had been fastened, she turned into the wind. "Now then.. Let's get on with it! Ahead half!" Another voice replied, "Ahead half, aye! Leeeann.." The oars cocked themselves forward, "and heave!" The long oars swept back, propelling it into the wind. The mantra was repeated at a measured pace, the ship gaining speed. She was a sleek ship, and with sails furled, the headwind didn't impede her too much.

Atop it all stood Almais Lansing, the hot wind in her face, the evening sun at her back. She had a plan.. and she would be back soon to show everyone just what it was.

[NightSteel]

The Legacy settled back down between those two great trees near to the Broken Dagger, men once again mooring her with those fat ropes, though the military pomp and circumstance of the ship’s first landing was dispensed with. More men climbed down to the ground as the airship settled yet lower, to make a closer inspection of her hull. There were people climbing around inside, too, of course, all of them looking particularly closely at the bilges, one of which was in need of repair. Those would get some heavy use, if they were to be repeating that little feat. The ship was its own little hive of activity for an hour or two, somewhere amidst that a letter being delivered and passed on to the Captain.

So, someone had finally noticed.

[NightSteel]

For the second time in as many days, the Legacy lifted off this afternoon, again rowing northwest to follow the Mavoiir. If the last trip was any indication, they'd be returning with their next load of water in the dead of night.

Mister Irons had been busy with the ship's cartographer, drawing up a plan of what to do with the water if there were no fires to drop it on. The amount of water that the ship could carry would be enough to seed a decent area with moisture. The easy thing to do would be just to drop it in Silver Lake, but that would see it run right back out to the Mavoiir again, and north to the sea. No, a more direct delivery was in order, and so they would be watering the farms regularly.

Despite her minor involvement in the altercation that started it all, there was no distinction in the plan for Pritchite or not. It would have been foolish to care--she and her men would have had to canvas the countryside to find out who was who, and with people likely as not to change sides on a whim, it was definitely not worth that kind of effort in this heat. Based on pure probability, it was unlikely that either side would receive more water than the other.

So, for the coming days, there would be three trips a day, capturing water from the Mavoiir before it could leave Myrken province. It would rain down on farms, when there were no fires to extinguish, with pauses to rest from midday to evening when it would be the hottest.

[NightSteel]

The red-haired bard was a patient man. He seemed to have a need to prove it repeatedly, enough to make one wonder just who he was proving it to. There was Calandra, whom he hadn't seen since she fell asleep quite literally on the bar in front of him. He'd taken her up to a room and left her to sleep it off. There was the fiasco with Sawyer. He wondered if she even read the letter, the poor girl. He hadn't seen her since. There was Quincy, whom he'd spent the last week with, and who'd finally wrangled his age out of him. Not that it'd taken much wrangling. Admittedly, after that one, he had a little cabin fever.

It'd been an interesting week. They'd talked of many things. There was what had happened at the Rememdium, and the letter that Ariane had sent. There was learning; numbers, words. Work. The past. Quincy had even finally broken down and taken a bath in his presence, surely due to the dreadful heat. Of course, he'd looked the other way.

Then there were plagues, and giant blades, and heat waves. After being cooped up for a week, he had an idea of what he wanted to do about that.

So, patiently, the elf sat and waited upon the tavern's porch, drinking frequently from a waterskin, his mantle, bow and quiver wrapped up and tied in a bundle beside him. He wore everything else; shirt, pants, boots, vest, belt, and glasses.

And when the airship Legacy put down before him for the midday rest, he strode out to greet her, bundle under one arm, stepping into the shade under her hull and looking up, calling out.

"Ahoy, there!"

A face poked over the rail, and the elf spoke again.

"Beggin' your pardon, I'd like to be speakin' to the cap'n!"

It was a ridiculous accent to issue from the bard's mouth. He'd spent the past weeks speaking at least semi-formally to just about everyone he met. Regardless, he had it cold.

Captain Almais Lansing appeared not too soon after, her silver-streaked black hair tied up in a bun above her nape. "Ahoy, stranger! What can I do for you?"

"Permission to come aboard, cap'n? I have some experience with your brand of sailing!"

Of course, Lansing gave him a skeptical look at that, so he continued. "Lifted by elemental air, right? Drakkar-class vessel?" He thinks for a moment. "Two mainsails, a topsail, and a foresail?"

These were things that many people *could* know, but it was enough to arouse the Captain's interest.

"Permission granted!"

The rope ladder fell at his feet with a plop, and he hooked his bundle over one arm, climbing up to the ship.

He didn't climb back down before she set sail again, off to the northwest once more.

[NightSteel]

It had been a hot few days, but the crew were beginning to become acclimated. Most of them were starting to take on a healthy bronze to their skins, the captain included. Even the wind was hot, but the ship had a cooler interior to retreat to--and taking on water several times a day made it easy to replenish the ship's water supply.

Still, it was hard work. Captain Lansing wouldn't work her crew to death, but they weren't wasting any time in making these trips, either. Maybe it wasn't an absolutely immediate concern, but lives depended upon it. So, when the Legacy set down today to find another letter waiting for the captain, she took the opportunity to give her crew an extended rest and make another inspection of the hull.

So, the governor wanted to speak to her, hmm? Well, things were in order, and one missed delivery wouldn't break the backs of Myrken's farmers.

Meanwhile, a certain red-haired, elven bard climbed down, also bronzed, looking for his own extended rest.

[NightSteel]

Captain Lansing and the red-haired bard both returned to the Legacy sometime in the late evening, though at different times, and she lifted away to resume her deliveries shortly after. No stopping now, there was work to do..

[NightSteel]

Captain Almais Lansing sat bolt upright in her bed at the first crack of thunder, and she quickly hopped out of bed and dressed herself. She hurried out on deck to assess the storm, and finding it as far as she could see in every direction, she turned an alarmed expression upon her first officer.

Mister Irons could only shrug. "Sorry, Cap'n, the storm snuck up on us! Couple'a minutes ago, it was clear as a bell! Somethin's afoot!"

This news, of course, troubled Lansing. With a storm this heavy brewing, the Legacy wasn't going *anywhere*. The risk was simply too great. Of course, it seemed likely enough that the rain that everyone so desperately needed would finally arrive.. but how much?

"Very well! Put us down, Mister Irons!"

"Aye, Cap'n! You 'eard 'er," continued the first mate. "Reel in those moorin' lines! Pr'pare ta make camp!"

Men scrambled forward and began pulling the floating ship down by the two thick mooring lines, anchored as they were to large trees. Other men broke out supplies below decks and began climbing down to the ground, even as the ship lowered, making a camp around the vessel and preparing to lash her down when the storm unleashed its fury. Her keel drifted down to within a foot or so of the ground, and there she stopped as the preparations continued.

"Oh, and Mister Irons, please do see that the rescue lines are inspected, won't you?" Her last request before she retreated to her stateroom again, and one that Irons understood: If it rained enough to flood, someone would have to try and pick up the people who were stranded or swept away, and barring the appearance of this other airship she'd heard about, the Legacy was it.

[NightSteel]

Given the foreboding clouds, neither the airship's captain nor her crew were particularly surprised when the rains came, somewhat late in the afternoon.

The shipboard preparations were complete. She squatted low to the ground, many tents set up around her hull, acting as a sort of windbreak. More lines were ready to be tied, if the wind kicked up--but strangely, it didn't.

Captain Lansing would have to pay attention to the wind. If it continued to be relatively calm, camp could be broken. It wouldn't do to be blown away, or worse, capsized, but if no wind would come..

It was anyone's guess, though, just how long the rain would last. If the Captain were a praying sort, she would have prayed for continued calm. The Legacy could do no good if she couldn't risk leaving the ground..

[NightSteel]

Three days, and still no wind. Lots of rain, but no wind. This made Captain Lansing confident. Though all of the trouble seemed quite unnatural, it didn't look like any of it was for her 'benefit' or that of the Legacy. So, she found no reason to keep the ship grounded.

Water levels everywhere were rising. It wouldn't be too terribly long before the thirsty earth was saturated, and when that happened, the results wouldn't be too pretty.

She turned to the officer of the day. "Mister Sydney, let's break camp and do a bit of surveying, shall we?"

"Aye, cap'n!" Mister Sydney turned around to bark orders. The makeshift camp around the ship was quickly rolled up, even in the rain, and the soaked sailors packed it all back aboard, heading below decks to stow it. As that was completed, rowers took their places. The mooring lines were cast off, and the last of the men climbed aboard as the lean airship rose.

It would be harder to see in such heavy rain, but that would be alright. They'd already mapped out the area fairly extensively, and she and the rest of her officers were all good navigators.

So, off to scout the lowlands they went. She was sure that people would get themselves stranded, and her crew would be prepared.

She found herself again wondering about the government in the area. They seemed pretty content to let her ship and crew do their own thing. Again, their needs were being provided for, but murmurs of being paid were starting to sound, and she couldn't ignore them. For that matter, she wouldn't mind a little money in her pocket, either. She would have to find some real work, or she wouldn't be able to justify staying for much longer.

They'd have to keep their ears open for one of those council meetings. Meanwhile, she'd consider a letter to send to the governor. Maybe with some gentle prodding, the government would come up with some official business for her.