Ponderings of the Icarus

[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."

[Lord Dick Tim]

Tim caught the offered cigar in a hand that looked more like a brutalized hunk of meat then the flesh of a man.  Raising the weed to his nose he took a light breath in of its aroma before making what might have passed for a smile and grunt of satisfaction.  "Hmm...  Yes, whiskey on my breath and shit on my boots.  But, I'll not fault you for having a good nose for quality leaf." He said before producing a shiny brass lighter with flint and steel striker.

Happily puffing away at the cigar, Tim settles back onto his bench, propping his back onto plaster wall while using the foot of a brass cane, decorated with a breaching whale at its head, to point at the dog-eater.  "So tell me about pirates, whats a milk and perfume whore son like you know about pirates?"

[Charon]

A smirk and soft chuckle broke the somewhat stony silence that had befell him previously, a wisp of smoke escaping ahead of a full exhalation. The old bastard had a familiar gift for insult and provocation, but in this man's last occupation, such things served as commonplace greeting.

"Seen my share up close." he said, his left arm extending to drag his tankard a bit closer. "Back when I called an Airship "support" instead of "home". I know the Burren better than I'd like, to be sure. Slept in pockmarks across her surface, stalking and closing with whatever form the scum of the Earth takes locally every day of the week. Can't count the number I've stepped over, nor the eyeballs I've tapped."

That chuckle returned.

"It's enough to make a man turn to milk and perfume."

[Lord Dick Tim]

"Fair to say", he replied, enjoying the cigar some more before rolling it about his heavily calloused fingers.  "I've made a living off trade myself, legitimate or otherwise.  I'll not declare every pirate I've come across as dirt eating, fever blistered maniacs.  Most are just men, with mouths to feed and a land that wont bare fruit.  The burren is a hell hole, enough to turn any sane man to piracy".

[Charon]

The man's point was undisputable. Raising the cigar, he offered a slight nod in silent acknowledgement of that wisdom, and drew smoke. The cherry-red ash at the end of the rolled leaves began to creep back toward him, though maintaining their overall composure rather well. A puff of smoke was released shortly afterward, blown away from the participants of what turned out to be an interesting interaction.

"That's for certain. I've seen good men driven to unspeakable acts in the absence of even the most useless amenities amongst those burning sands. Sad truth, that all alive are so alike. That evil and virtue should be so relative."

Opening and closing his free hand, he tried to mind the pulse of lifeblood flowing through him, if for only a moment.

"Must we all bleed the same damn color?"

[Shukketsushi]

The door to the tavern swung unceremoniously open as the engineer entered. A gust of stale, dry air accompanied her, pulling at what must've been a tidy braid hours prior. Her pale face was smudged with a combination of rust and dust that actually complimented the tint of her hair. She had common but pleasant features and the spark of youth in her eyes.

The white, ribbed turtleneck that she wore was surprisingly clean although the grooves of her long leather sleeves were filled in with dirt. The color of the sash that wrapped around her waist and that of her pants were indistinguishable from the sands that worked their way into every thread.

Charon's voice lingered still when she appeared, making him easy to spot sitting off by himself. As she strode through the crowd towards him, her eyes fixed on the ghost that he conversed with.

"Making friends now, are we?" She inquired with a smile, helping herself to the seat next to her gunner and motioning to the bartender to bring her a drink. As she removed her worn leather gloves, laced up and integrated into her sleeves, she turned her eyes to him. "The 'Omen's just about in order. All that's left is to soothe my exhaustion with a little ale and hope for favorable weather."

[Lord Dick Tim]

"Then wait for the sun to rise in the west, the Cloud Whaler sets sail by nightfall" said the ghost, rising from his bench while leaning heavily on the cain, gingerly setting weight to his leg while circulation restored itself to the lowest extremities.

"Thank you kindly for the dog," he said, while fishing into his storm coat for a few copper pences to toss onto the table.  With another draw of the cigar he set himself into a lumbering gate towards the door, pausing only to cast a wary eye on the female before raising the cigar in his hand to the dog-eater as a form of salute.
The last thought in his mind before he departed, she must be a black hearted bitch to keep a cut throat like him on her deck while she sleeps at night.

[Charon]

Returning the man's gesture, he couldn't help but marvel once again at the unspoken brotherhood of most veteran airship members. Whether you cranked the bolts, steered the vessel or sent rounds downrange, there was always a commonality: The distance to the ground, and an unwavering will to avoid traversing that distance. Wherever that old bastard was headed off to, there was bound to be an interesting conversation or two, that much at least could be said.

Before he hit the door, he spoke.

"Give us a yell if you find your back to the wall."

Shukketsushi's words echoed in his mind for a brief moment. Making friends? Maybe not. Too much of a title for ale and a cigar. Making a human connection with another tired human being? That's something else altogether.

[Shukketsushi]

The tavern keep was prompt with the tankard and Shukketsushi was just as quick to take a swig. She settled onto the seat, lifting her gaze to follow the old man's departure. It seemed to her that everyone had settled into a contemplative demeanor; talking in hushed tones about the ever present threat of scavengers. It was a tired subject that she'd heard too much wind blown about.

Leaning in Charon's direction, she aimed to gain his attention by finding a small gap in his armor, giving him a solid poke with her index finger. "I'll not have you complaining about the guns this time. I promise you that they'll work the same as they did the day that their scrap metal was welded together. It'll be a beautiful thing, as long as everyone holds their drink," with this she lifted her large mug again. She'd need a refill before long though she was in no rush. The weeks ahead would be trying.

[Lehran]

"The Icarus, you say? Heh, I watched this world for 1,000 years. Never had I seen a more noble sacrifice to mankind."
Attention turns to the back of the room. All eyes gaze on a figure in the shadows, a man with red eyes and surprisingly middle aged appearance.
Was he even a human? No one remains who knows but him, that much is certain.

"Unfortunately, his despair led him to premature action. The burning of Tura was too much for him to bear."

*He throws a book to Skylar*

"That is what I found in the wreckage, his memories recorded in this book. Wanting an end to what is. That is a feeling I know well."

[Charon]

(OOC: Thread ruined.)