1212
The trip back to Navale was an uneventful one. Whatever had happened to the city following the collapse of the black portal, there was no evidence of it now. It was the picture of a bustling port town you could find anywhere. That is to say, no one took any notice of the old soul as he wandered through the streets. What was one more broken down Demvir to a place like this?
The layout of the city had changed, but with some fussing Artanis was able to make his way back to the abandoned tavern where his group had previously gathered for their discourse with the archdemon Ego. Skulking inside, the Demvir found it looking suitably disheveled just as he had remembered. Sidling up to one of the dividing walls, mechanical digits found their purchase on a loose board toward the base. With a creaking snap, the machinae pulled the rotted board free, revealing his burlap rucksack caked in soot and grime.
Artanis mused inwardly at the wisdom of leaving the bulk of his gear and provisions here ahead of time, lest he have to make a hasty retreat without the Martinov boy. They were moth-eaten, sure, but better here than on the seabed with his sword. Reaching into the dusty pack, the machinae retrieved a fistful of coins and grimaced.
Barely enough for passage to Elata, and a far cry from what he would need to rearm himself. Even if he hawked the remainder of his goods, he could only hope to barter passage on a merchant vessel, though maybe that was for the best. Flying under the radar seemed to be the best course of action until he could get his bearings, and there was no better place to gather information than working as part of a merchant crew.
Slinging the pack over his shoulder and pulling his sodden hood up a little higher, Artanis made his stealthy exit. Still, the strange vision he had experienced pulled at the back of his mind.
Head into the west.
What did it mean? What was waiting for him there? Were these simply the musings of an ancient mechanical mind on its last legs, or was there some meaning to the dream?
A mechanized guffaw escaped from behind Artanis’ steely visage. He certainly didn’t feel as though he was losing his mind, but he could not deny the high strangeness of it all.
“We do not sleep, we do not dream…” he mused under his breath, echoing the words of affirmation he had spoken to Noi endless moons ago. “...Perhaps I will have to revise that one.”
Booking passage on a merchant scow proved to be the easiest task on Artanis’ growing list. Such crews were always looking for a strong back to load and unload product, and with a little monetary coaxing, it was simple to have the shipmaster look the other way at Artanis’ lack of papers. Had he been spat back out with his prized weapon, talking his way onto a ship as a sellsword may have been even simpler, but the disheveled automaton certainly didn’t look the part presently.
Stomping up the gangway of The Mangy Bufalus, Artanis grimaced inwardly at the state of the airship. The name, it seemed, was less of a moniker and more of a descriptor. Loose and rotten boards dotted the hull, the railings and masts were visibly cracked, and the main ballast seemed to be made almost entirely of patches. They would be lucky if the broken-down ship would get airborne, let alone safely make it to Elata Spiritus. With his luck, Artanis expected the scow to at least make it to cruising altitude before the main ballast lost pressure and sent them all plummeting to the earth.
With a muted, sardonic chuckle, the antediluvian machinae pulled himself away from his musings. It seemed that someone had taken notice of him.
Standing at the edge of the cargo hold, an Enlil woman tapped her foot impatiently, her raptoral gaze meeting Artanis’ blank visage, while occasionally snapping back to the hold at her aft.
“This isn’t a pleasure cruise, old-timer!” she called over the bustle of the deck. “...We’re not in the business of taking in strays so if the Cap’n’s agreed to give you passage, you better start loading the nets!”
Eyeing the cargo nets laid out middeck, Artanis observed the crew heaving various wooden crates into their centers before being heaved upwards by crane and lowered into the hold. “If you’re sure you want to load ‘er so full. At this rate she’ll never get off the ground…” Artanis quipped, gesturing upward. “...Not with your ballast in the shape that it’s in.”
Setting down his rucksack, the machinae began to heft the sealed crates from the loading gantry into the nets.
“And I guess you’re some kind of expert on aviation, then?” the Enlil chirped back, irritation evident in her voice. Artanis shrugged. “Been on a few ships in my time is all.”
“None like this one.” she muttered before returning to cataloguing the netfulls of goods that were headed below deck. A rolling, metallic clank echoed from behind the Demvir’s visage; an expression of dismissiveness or disbelief.
There was no sense pondering the meaning. Artanis’ convictions about the airworthiness of the ship were seemingly confirmed as an hour later she limped into the air and struggled upwards to cruising height. Ropes strained and boards creaked as the bloated ship came to a stop just barely at altitude.
“Why have we stopped?” Artanis chortled, calling after the Enlil women as she passed him on the upper deck. Paying the Demvir no mind, she called down a hatch into the hold.
“We’re clear of the shipping lanes!” she bellowed, craning her neck to shout down into the belly of the ship. “...Is Gawain ready?”
“Aye, ma’am” another hand barked back. “...Ready to embark”.
“Alight!” the Enlil cheered, sidling up to the wheel and taking hold of it. “...Let's get this show on the road”
Before Artanis had a moment to ask what it was she meant, a thunderous crash echoed from the rear of the ship. For a moment, they were bathed in brilliant bright light. Shining like a star made almost entirely of garbage, The Mangy Bufalus edged forward. Blackness began to encroach at the edges of the glimmering aura, closing in on the ship before, with a dull whump, the battered scow vanished from sight.
For a moment, all Artanis could perceive was blackness and the distinct sense of tumbling forward. With a jolt, light returned to his vision and his ears began to ring. He realized he was now lying supine on the deck, his mechanized digits buried deeply in the rotted planks as if holding on for dear life. As his perception of sound slowly returned, he could hear the Enlil shrieking over the roaring of the wind.
“Elata in sight! All hands prepare to dock!” she bellowed. “...And I want a full damage report! Make sure we didn’t lose anything or anyone! And someone go check on Gawain!”
Stomping past the prone Demvir, the woman seemed to take a moment to revel in his disorientation and confusion.
“Betcha’ haven’t seen many ships do that.”
The trip back to Navale was an uneventful one. Whatever had happened to the city following the collapse of the black portal, there was no evidence of it now. It was the picture of a bustling port town you could find anywhere. That is to say, no one took any notice of the old soul as he wandered through the streets. What was one more broken down Demvir to a place like this?
The layout of the city had changed, but with some fussing Artanis was able to make his way back to the abandoned tavern where his group had previously gathered for their discourse with the archdemon Ego. Skulking inside, the Demvir found it looking suitably disheveled just as he had remembered. Sidling up to one of the dividing walls, mechanical digits found their purchase on a loose board toward the base. With a creaking snap, the machinae pulled the rotted board free, revealing his burlap rucksack caked in soot and grime.
Artanis mused inwardly at the wisdom of leaving the bulk of his gear and provisions here ahead of time, lest he have to make a hasty retreat without the Martinov boy. They were moth-eaten, sure, but better here than on the seabed with his sword. Reaching into the dusty pack, the machinae retrieved a fistful of coins and grimaced.
Barely enough for passage to Elata, and a far cry from what he would need to rearm himself. Even if he hawked the remainder of his goods, he could only hope to barter passage on a merchant vessel, though maybe that was for the best. Flying under the radar seemed to be the best course of action until he could get his bearings, and there was no better place to gather information than working as part of a merchant crew.
Slinging the pack over his shoulder and pulling his sodden hood up a little higher, Artanis made his stealthy exit. Still, the strange vision he had experienced pulled at the back of his mind.
Head into the west.
What did it mean? What was waiting for him there? Were these simply the musings of an ancient mechanical mind on its last legs, or was there some meaning to the dream?
A mechanized guffaw escaped from behind Artanis’ steely visage. He certainly didn’t feel as though he was losing his mind, but he could not deny the high strangeness of it all.
“We do not sleep, we do not dream…” he mused under his breath, echoing the words of affirmation he had spoken to Noi endless moons ago. “...Perhaps I will have to revise that one.”
Booking passage on a merchant scow proved to be the easiest task on Artanis’ growing list. Such crews were always looking for a strong back to load and unload product, and with a little monetary coaxing, it was simple to have the shipmaster look the other way at Artanis’ lack of papers. Had he been spat back out with his prized weapon, talking his way onto a ship as a sellsword may have been even simpler, but the disheveled automaton certainly didn’t look the part presently.
Stomping up the gangway of The Mangy Bufalus, Artanis grimaced inwardly at the state of the airship. The name, it seemed, was less of a moniker and more of a descriptor. Loose and rotten boards dotted the hull, the railings and masts were visibly cracked, and the main ballast seemed to be made almost entirely of patches. They would be lucky if the broken-down ship would get airborne, let alone safely make it to Elata Spiritus. With his luck, Artanis expected the scow to at least make it to cruising altitude before the main ballast lost pressure and sent them all plummeting to the earth.
With a muted, sardonic chuckle, the antediluvian machinae pulled himself away from his musings. It seemed that someone had taken notice of him.
Standing at the edge of the cargo hold, an Enlil woman tapped her foot impatiently, her raptoral gaze meeting Artanis’ blank visage, while occasionally snapping back to the hold at her aft.
“This isn’t a pleasure cruise, old-timer!” she called over the bustle of the deck. “...We’re not in the business of taking in strays so if the Cap’n’s agreed to give you passage, you better start loading the nets!”
Eyeing the cargo nets laid out middeck, Artanis observed the crew heaving various wooden crates into their centers before being heaved upwards by crane and lowered into the hold. “If you’re sure you want to load ‘er so full. At this rate she’ll never get off the ground…” Artanis quipped, gesturing upward. “...Not with your ballast in the shape that it’s in.”
Setting down his rucksack, the machinae began to heft the sealed crates from the loading gantry into the nets.
“And I guess you’re some kind of expert on aviation, then?” the Enlil chirped back, irritation evident in her voice. Artanis shrugged. “Been on a few ships in my time is all.”
“None like this one.” she muttered before returning to cataloguing the netfulls of goods that were headed below deck. A rolling, metallic clank echoed from behind the Demvir’s visage; an expression of dismissiveness or disbelief.
There was no sense pondering the meaning. Artanis’ convictions about the airworthiness of the ship were seemingly confirmed as an hour later she limped into the air and struggled upwards to cruising height. Ropes strained and boards creaked as the bloated ship came to a stop just barely at altitude.
“Why have we stopped?” Artanis chortled, calling after the Enlil women as she passed him on the upper deck. Paying the Demvir no mind, she called down a hatch into the hold.
“We’re clear of the shipping lanes!” she bellowed, craning her neck to shout down into the belly of the ship. “...Is Gawain ready?”
“Aye, ma’am” another hand barked back. “...Ready to embark”.
“Alight!” the Enlil cheered, sidling up to the wheel and taking hold of it. “...Let's get this show on the road”
Before Artanis had a moment to ask what it was she meant, a thunderous crash echoed from the rear of the ship. For a moment, they were bathed in brilliant bright light. Shining like a star made almost entirely of garbage, The Mangy Bufalus edged forward. Blackness began to encroach at the edges of the glimmering aura, closing in on the ship before, with a dull whump, the battered scow vanished from sight.
For a moment, all Artanis could perceive was blackness and the distinct sense of tumbling forward. With a jolt, light returned to his vision and his ears began to ring. He realized he was now lying supine on the deck, his mechanized digits buried deeply in the rotted planks as if holding on for dear life. As his perception of sound slowly returned, he could hear the Enlil shrieking over the roaring of the wind.
“Elata in sight! All hands prepare to dock!” she bellowed. “...And I want a full damage report! Make sure we didn’t lose anything or anyone! And someone go check on Gawain!”
Stomping past the prone Demvir, the woman seemed to take a moment to revel in his disorientation and confusion.
“Betcha’ haven’t seen many ships do that.”
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