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Ponderings of the Icarus

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Skylar:
I cradle a mug of local brew, for all the dry grain it was worth. Times like these, inbetween jobs, theres nothing else to do but think and drink.

"I just don't get it." I mutter, looking down at a map of the Burren. Its an old map, dated many annums ago when Tura was still around and the only airship in the sky was the Icarus. I still keep it for the sake of having a map whenever someone decides to talk about the Icarus, no matter which bar or place it may be held. And so I continue the tradition to keep His memory alive.

"Why the hell did Gabriel go into the South?" I say clearly. "Nobody goes to the South, not even Yesha and their galleon fleet, but he did and went and got himself killed for nothing. Damn fine waste of a good airship."

"Anyone even spot the wreck?" Another captain replies. "I don't even think Gabriel is dead. Probably went and found new lands beyond the South."

"Considering that every story told about the Icarus has Gabriel leaving his crew behind before going into the breach, I doubt it." Commented an engineer. "Pirates back then were worse than now, and a lot better armed."

"I heard rumors that it was some pirate that cracked aerostat tech before Partitus did." Added a gunner. "Gabriel would have been outnumbered a hundred to one!"

"Oh sod it pirate lover." "Just a free-thinker missy."

I lean back and gesture for another mug of brew, and wait to see if any other captains would care to join the growing discussion.

Lord Dick Tim:
He sits at a bench, a burly man in a thick storm coat with 4 gold chevrons on the left sleeve.  He has the face of a man accustomed to the weather, like the slopes of a mountain the lines carved in them by blasting rains and pitted by scouring winds filled with biting sand.  Eyes like flint, with a wit of steel that strikes fire in his mouth when he speaks, the sound of which is like the rumblings of an old engine deep in a ships hold.
"Cloud whales most likely". There is the usual snickers and choked back laughs at the mention of the creatures, a myth to most, a terrible truth to some.
He pulls back a cap worn and faded revealing a balding pate with thin whisps of long hair that come down to his shoulder.  He scratches at his beard, a grizzly mass of dark hair that comes down close to his chest before continuing,"I'm not talking about some damn floating creature out in the wastes you land loving milk drinkers!  I'm talking about a desert storm, the kind with a thirst for souls that comes up out of the deep south without a warning.  Consumes entire villages leaving only the scoured rocks behind, not even their bones remain, ground to dust in the pulverizing sands of the wastelands."

Charon:
"Cloud whales."

A figure at the far end of the bar, enshrouded in a handcrafted cloak of rough leather, remained fairly motionless before a tankard of ale. Aside that tankard rested a gas mask that had been fitted with a slotted plate for voice emission, and a pair of heavy gloves that even now smelled heavily of cordite.

"Treasure. Riches. Fame." His voice was low, somewhat gravelly. It was then that the figure turned slightly to face the inhabitants of the pub, particularly those engaged in a conversation about dead legends and causality. With furrowed brow and a tired, solemn demeanor he began to speak again.

"Gabriel went south so that some "free-thinker" down the line would ask why the hell he didn't have a fleet to go with him."

With a deep, heavy breath, he tossed his cloak aside and revealed a somewhat rudimentary, almost minimalist style of eastern clothing. An inner and outer layer kimono with high collar folded back for comfort, which usually served to keep expended brass from shooting down the wearer's neck. About his waist was a red sash, which wrapped about his abdomen beneath the kimono, which was itself held in place by a golden obi and leather belt, upon which ammunition pouches could be placed. Although it may have all seemed somewhat haphazard to the untrained eye, every stitch served a specific purpose taught through hard earned experience.

"While we sit and muse on the fate of dry bones, pulverized or otherwise, the same rodents Gabriel pursued to stir us to action sit atop Angel's Head, in control of the Glintspire and mining facilities there. Trade lays stagnant, travel along usual routes lead to ambush, and their pockets remain lined while we scrape together enough scrap to get a night on land, and enough grog to get us past the absence of a swaying hull."

A deep, almost spiteful swig of that tankard seemed enough to check his tongue.

"...Rocks you right to sleep, doesn't it?"

Lord Dick Tim:
He takes a long pull of air into his nose, "smells like perfume... Chang-ning dog eater", Tim laughs, a rough sounding thing that is wracked with a powerfull spasm deep in his chest, the painful scraping of consumption buried in the lungs.  "So you've got a mind to kill you some pirates aye?"
He smiles, his teeth are yellowed from smoking, the gum lines red, raw and far retreated making his teeth look like a skeletons fingers set in bleeding flesh.

Charon:
No sooner than the tankard met the counter did the man reply to his haggard new conversation partner, a certain tinge of dismissal more than evident in his tone.

"I've a mind to drink twice my weight and waste the night setting off flares," he said. An interval of breath passed from his lips, and a treasured one at that, given the sound the stranger's lungs just made. "and as for pirates, why limit my audience?"

Shamelessly amused by himself, he released the tankard and turned to view the stranger with whom he now spoke, raising his left arm to rest over the back of his chair and bringing his face into view. He was grizzled, roughly shaven; presumably enough to facilitate a good seal while wearing the protective field mask that currently rested atop the counter. His brow lay naturally low, pushing to center for a moment to display an inquisitive expression.

"Now, I gather you prefer stink of shit and burn of whiskey to milk and perfume."

From within the confines of a leather pouch, he casually produced three tightly wrapped cigars, the leaves still noticeably intact despite their method of storage.

"Lil' strange you don't much fancy dog, if you're askin'."

Rolling one of the cigars across the counter-top to the progenitor of the night's conversation and tossing the other to the only man in the pub that needed one of them less than perhaps anyone else in the world, he pressed his back to the counter and examined the final cigar between his thumb and forefinger.

"But, if your tastes aren't too damn fancy, maybe you wouldn't mind ridding the world of one of these."

Producing flame, he drew from the tightly wrapped object of his apparent contempt.

"It'd be a kindness, to be sure."

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