"It's said, that in the End Times, a dragon will come down from the sky."
--overheard whisper in Roland's Cavern.
The spelljamming vessel soared through the deep black of the void, arrowing in toward the enigmatic, sphere-seeming world that housed Roland's Cavern. Enigmatic, in that, while the planet itself, spherical as many were in the multiverse of the spelljammers from which this ship came, it could appear a globe of varying colors and conditions whenever they approached it for the first time upon arrival in this crystal sphere. Some times, an inviting, bluish world, as common among life-heavy worlds as they come. Sometimes, a stormy yellow-gray, cloud-cloaked eyeball with twin asteroid rings. Once a puke-colored, unhealthy gas giant wracked with hellish red storms and sporting multiple tiny moons. But despite its shell, the world below always resolved into the same visual signature, a long north-south-running shoreline with a central bay, at the cleft of which sat the Cavern; around it, a deep, glimmering ocean stretching beyond the curvature in three directions. Whether the ship entered the planet's gravity plane and atmosphere envelope at the poles, the equator, or anywhere in between, always, always the same, familiar landmass pattern directly below.
While crewmen of several races scurried here and there, adjusting the rigging for atmospheric entry, securing weapons and loose deck fixtures, the ship's captain stood as was his wont, hands on hips and long coat billowing behind him in the pseudo-breeze of his vessel's own air-bubble, on the upper deck astride the dragon-ship's neck. In a moment, the ship's generated binary gravity would give way to the dictates of the approaching planet's own, spherical physics model, rendering this deck rather dangerous for crew, so, with a shouted order, he led the hands left here inside, to the safety of the 'upside' deck area.
Climbing a ladder through a floor hatch that would soon occupy the ceiling, he reached the brain of the ship, the Bridge; a long, down-slopping triangular room situated inside the dragon's sculpted head, with a wide, transparent glassteel window as its 'eyes'. Settling into his reclining captain's chair, Samhein grabbed at one of the copper speaking tubes which sprouted from the deck next to his seat.
"Ready atmospheric entry," he called, and a muffled "Aye aye!" echoed up in response from the station at the other end, near the Rigger Sergeant's post on the belly deck. "Sails ready!" The glassteel window before him afforded a view of this deck if he craned his neck, and doing so revealed all things as they should be. The great curved, canvas wing-sails were reefed to quarter, ready to channel the planet's own air currents safely. At this critical point in the journey, the sudden change from the ship's own, magically carried air sphere to the wide-open wind of Roland's World's upper atmosphere, could literally rip the vessel apart, the wings acting as ill-designed parachutes that would wrench themselves right off. Out there in the wind, the deckhands stood at their stations, each with one hand grasping a boarding ring or through a loop of sail line, to prevent the abrupt change in gravity and windspeed from pulling anyone off their feet and over the rail. The ballista turrets were also shuttered, to prevent their damaging or injury to the crew.
Almost absently, Samhein noticed an unusual quiet settle on the men, Tanu and dwarves around him; this was a new custom, whenever these space-pirates dropped into the sky above Roland's. It was that damned, cursed Red Star. The strange harbinger was visible from the air, but strangely, was not actually a new body in the heavens, but some strange mirage. It twinkled only when seen from within the planet's confines. Ever since it's sudden appearance in the heavens here, perhaps a month a go, an odd sense of dread had filled the crew, killing their desire to sing as they made planetfall {their usual custom}. Also missing was old Red Tom; an aged, sad gin-soaked spacer, whom a group of drunken crewmen had 'adopted' during leave on Krynn. His will broken and his mind rather gone thanks to some dark horror he'd once glimpsed somewhere in space, unable to be healed by the middling psionic talents among the crew, the old codger paid for his berth by playing his goat-bladder pipes for the men, and singing bawdy songs {badly} and spinning outrageous tales of his romantic exploits for the crew's amusement, when he wasn't chastising odd bits of furniture or combing lard into his hair. For once, the mascot-madman did not occupy his battered seat at the back of the Bridge, pipes to his lips, filling the air with skirling melody. Now, there was merely near silence, and anticipation.
As expected, the quiet was broken by a sudden 'wuff!' as the ship's air envelope surrendered to the planet's own atmosphere; an immediate, stormy wind whistled outside the glassteel hull, causing the folded sails to snap and the outside riggers to grasp their perches more firmly and lean into the descent. Aside from popping ears, one also had to contend with the shift of gravity, which moved from the ship's long axis to orient more toward the universal 'down' direction, favoring the planet below. The ship shuddered. Secure in his chair, Samhein muttered an unneeded "Steady as she goes," to the seasoned sailors around him, and craned for a look outside to examine the sails, and make sure no-one had lost their grip.
His eyes were drawn inexorably to that cursed red orb, seen two points to starboard out the central window; it glowered back at his ship angrily in the otherwise tranquil evening sky. An ill omen; this needed no translation, even though his crew was comprised of many races from many different worlds and traditions. Even the doughty Ginselian barbarians who served as his marines, red- or blond-haired humans from a world shaped like a quarter moon, and who would leap across the empty gap between fighting spelljammer ships without hesitation, saw nothing but doom in a bloody star new to the sky.
Someone belowdecks rang the bell signaling successful transition, and the tension aboard the Bridge relaxed; quiet conversations and joking commenced again. Samhein settled more comfortably into the wooden chair, releasing what he had not realized was a sweating deathgrip on the chair's arms. With a breath, he said, "Steady down, bring her in. Usual approach over the sea." He rose, nodding to T'leah, his First Mate, a tall, amazon of a Tanu warrioress, all glittering in her aqua glass armor. Her sword, not worn at the moment, was as tall as he, her own blond hair sprouting from a head a hand higher than the captain's. She nodded back, and barked, "You heard him, scabs! Easy in!", though her parting grin to Samhein belayed her trust that the crew needed no more goading than the captain's own words. Samhein ducked and departed the Bridge, returning down the stairs to the gangway which led to his room. Up ahead, a door slammed as the captain made his way.
Arms out to grasp wall rings and ease his passage along a climbing hall, an object rolled toward him and fetched up against his foot. He stopped; it was a long bronze tube, the far-seeing glass used by Gor'orin, his Second Navigator. As the ship spiraled in toward landfall, the garish red light of the Red Star danced across the wall beside him and settled on the tube, sending a spray of bloody reflections off the metal. There were darker spots there. Real blood. Samhein paused for a very long second, then started upward with urgency toward the Helm room.
Outside the closed door to the Helm chamber, Samhein pulled up against the wall for balance. There at his feet on the room's threshold was more blood. As he cast back his long coat and drew his pistol, there came a sudden, shuddering scream from within the room. Not one torn from a human throat; this was more a ripping or tearing of cloth or squeal of metal, and it echoed very oddly. Simultaneously, the Liberator gave a dreadful, ratcheting shudder, and suddenly, all hells broke loose aboard.
All unsecured doors along the hall flung themselves open at once, slamming back against the bulkheads. Shouts and screams and the sounds of breakage echoed up through the dragonship as its helm control disappeared, flinging it suddenly toward the planet below in total, unregulated freefall. Samhein was tossed upward to crack head and back against the ceiling, then drop leisurely back down in a more controlled landing. His sense of weight evaporated, and he grabbed at the door knob to maintain position, light-footed on the deck. The knob indicated the door beyond was barred, as it was set to be in the event of invasion. After a curse, a ~Knock~ spell rose on his lips, and the door was flung open. Gun in one hand, he swung into the chamber beyond at the end of his other arm.
He was met by a thundercrack, and he flinched, at first expecting a lightning spell or some-such. What actually happened was that a thunderstorm, complete with rain and miniature clouds at the ceiling, commenced inside the Helm room. This was bad; it meant a wildsurge had just occurred, an uncotrolled burst of chaos-magick, which could only indicate that the Helm, the incredible, magickal chair-shaped artifact that allowed this graceful ship and all those like it, to hurl themselves skyward and traverse the places between worlds, had been destroyed.
Samhein quartered the room with his pistol outhrust, pausing for a brief moment at the prone body of Gor'orin the dwarf, sprawled against the corner of the room with a deep, fatal gash indenting his forehead. Blood matted his long beard, and his eyes were held in a permanent rictus of surprise. But the sight on the Helm drew Samhein's urgent gaze. Tormach Maguin, the human mage who served under him as First Helmsman, lolled in the seat there, his throat slit clear across, and a long, slim sword thrust through his sternum and into the wood of the chair. The rain falling from the ceiling washed his spilling blood down his body and all across the floorboards. The single, simple act of piercing the chair's structure {and the unfortunate man strapped there} had destroyed the fragile magickal dweomer of the object, and doomed the ship to a graceless death plunge to the ground below.
Axe in hand, the barbarian marine Forharan the Deft, clambered up through the canted doorway and into the room. "Captain!" He cried, seeing the dead man at the Helm, and the water now streaming between his own legs into the hall. Samhein shook his head vigorously in the negative. "Too late! The helm's destroyed.. get ready to abandon ship!" Both captain and marine then looked toward the wall in front of the Helm, where the normally concealed escape hatch lay wide open, water sluicing through it into Chart room in the lower end of the ship beyond.
Several more marines, human, Tanu and dwarf, were busy crawling up the hallway and into the door of the Helm room. Samhein turned to them and barked, "Get into the bay! Get the lifeboats ready! Barrelhouse!" he called, pointing at one of the dwarves, "Get into my cabin! The black chest, right of the door.. bring it to the bay! Get on! Now!" As the crew scrambled to obey, Samhein nodded at the Ginselian left with him, then both scrambled down the canted room and through the open hatch.
Sliding into the next room, both men beheld the wreckage wrought by the loss of power, and the ship's accelerating fall. All the furniture in Navigation had overturned into the lower end of the room. Wind screamed through here via the far door and shattered ports, while inrushing water from the ersatz rainstorm ruined any papers not already tossed and torn by the increasing wind. So much information lost. The ship had begun to spiral in earnest, as evidenced by the light streaming through first one port, then the next, followed by a slanted view of the ground and sea, looming ever closer. Samhein and Forharan skipped/slid across the tilting deck and into the next hall, which lead to the cargo area from another direction than that in use now by the crew. There was still no sign of Tormach's killer, but Forharan's mighty axe was held at ready. Samhein sheathed and secured his beloved pistol and enchanted himself with a ~Spider Climb~, to better navigate in the increasingly hazardous environment.
A mournful whistling wind filled the entire ship, punctuated by the groaning of stressed superstructure and snapping sails. The urgent sounds of evacuation thumped from somewhere ahead, while the mutter of thunder came, incongruously, from the abandoned Helm room. Samhein scuttled down along the hallway now, then paused, a hand to Forharan's chest. As they'd no idea who had slain both their helmsman and their ship, the captain would take no chance. He stroked several tattoos across his chest and left arm in sequence, then muttered the words for two spells, enchanting first the marine and then himself with ~Stoneskin~. This would turn the next single attack that came upon them, without harm. Then, he chose between the hatch straight ahead, or the short hall that led rightward to another. He lead the way forward and to the door leading into 'Soft Storage'.
This room was the smaller of two cargo areas for the ship. It was denoted as 'Soft' due to the fact that here was stored delicate or dangerous material, which might be damaged {or damaging to the ship} if it were struck or upended by blows from heavier objects or careless crew. Samhein, his hands kept empty for any judicious casting, opened the wooden hatch.
Through the whistling of air rushing past the falling ship, the two men heard the gibbering voice of the man bent over a small cask there across the room. It was Red Tom; something, Samhein's mind flashed briefly, had tipped the alcoholic sod clear over the edge. His ruddy hair wild despite its grease, spittle on his lips, the old seaman was busy feeding a short length of fuse into the bunghole of one of the ship's 10-pound smoke powder containers. A flickering lantern swung nearby on a wall ring. As the opened hatch was sent banging back against the wall, the madman turned, with a surprised hiss at the interlopers. His face, gnarled hands and dirty shirt were spattered with the red blood of the two victims he'd left in his wake.
"WHAT the fragging hells are you doing!" Samhein shrieked at the saboteur. Both he and Farharan wedged each other in the hatch, both trying to charge at once. In that moment, Red Tom scooped up the cask, and reached for the lantern.
Whether by some twist of Fate, or the fact that Samhein wore a Luckstone at his neck, one of the spars that supported the ship's graceful, accordion-like canvas wings chose this particular moment to give way. Strained past the breaking point by the hurricane wind passing in the ship's earthward plummet, the complex gnomish armature groaned and gave way, tearing free of the ship and sending the falling vessel into a steep, rapid spin. All three men were flung sideways to the left, Samhein banging his ribs as he fell half in, half out of the door sill. Farharan tumbled into the room itself and crashed headlong against the near wall, but never released his angry grip on his axe. Red Tom and his deadly package fell to the same wall but across the room, out of arms reach, cradling the powder cask to his chest as loose soft-cargo containers piled into him. Had he been four feet farther from them, he might have crashed through the round glass port there, but, that aforementioned Fate is a fickle mistress. The lit lantern crashed against its ring and burst, spraying burning oil beneath it. Stacks of delicate silk caught light, adding to the confusion.
Samhein scrambled up, his enspelled feet giving impossible purchase on the tilted floor and wall. The ship's severe spin allowed Tom to lurch to his feet as well, and with the wild, empty eyes of the deranged, triumphantly cast back his arm, the cask held high, preparing to fling it into the burning cargo at the other end of the room nearest the captain.
With a battle snarl, Farharan, still off his feet, cast his axe; it sunk its curved blade into both the flesh of Tom's side and the wooden wall panel behind him. The saboteur gave a shriek, folding in on himself as the powder cask tumbled from his grip and commenced rolling. The centrifugal force of the spinning vessel slammed it against the wall out of Tom's immediate reach among other containers, but threatened to roll it back toward the fire, and so Samhein stood to his full height and cast his arms wide.
Turning his head aside, not actually aiming for Tom but rather a point between the burning silk and the loose powder keg, Samhein unleashed the force of the ~Great Shout~, a powerful spell penned by his own father, Daimos Greystar himself. The dweomer allowed the caster to unleash a titanic shriek carrying the force of a Horn of Blasting, able to split a boulder or flatten a cottage or drawbridge. The lone Power Word struck like thunder.
A circular section of the outer hull shattered, wood panels and glassteel plating peeling back into the open air beyond. The sudden decompression sucked the flaming silk, several other containers, and most importantly, the rolling cask out and into the rushing wind and clear of the ship. There was a sphincter- puckering instant as the unstable, explosive cask 'bonked' against a shattered chunk of beam before twirling off into space without detonating. Tom fell forward, dragged toward the brink by the wind, as Farharan scrambled to his feet and half ran, half stumbled across the deck and onto the murdering madman. His brawny hands gripped Tom's wrists, wrestling them both to and fro as both fought to rise. Tom struggled with the strength of the mad, though, nearly matching the barbarian, as the men tottered yards from the gaping, sucking hole.
Samhein cast a fistful of ~Magic Missiles~, bright diamonds that dodged around Farharan's struggling limbs and peppered Tom's head, shoulders and arms with magical destruction. The marine, spattered with Tom's blood, released his opponent in surprise and fell back, having the wherewithal to fling himself away from the breach. Tom, though, was cast backward, impacted the blasted wall and tumbled out, into the spinning void. He spun once, and struck a long, broken end of wing-spar, shattering his body and snagging there, impaled, fluttering like a wet rag in the gale that sang past the ship. There, far away behind him, hung the Red Star.
Samhein swore, moving with a spider's ease over to Farharan, helping the man against the tugging vacuum. The barbarian gave a wordless growl in the direction of the bloody wreck of Tom, who, surprisingly, moved.
Fighting against the wind, Tom reached up his twisted arm, with fragment of bone protruding, to grasp at the distant red orb. Whether in supplication or anger, neither men inside the ship ever knew; as the Star was lost to view with the ship's turning, the air ripped Tom free of his perch with shocking suddenness, and tore him out of view.
"Fah! A five-scream-fall to you!" swore Farharan. In 'jammer parlance, this was a harsh curse; it indicated how many times a man, falling from a spelljamming ship to the ground, should be forced to fill and empty his lungs in a death-shriek before the ground rose up and claimed him.
"Five's a long time," Samhein chided, the anger in his tone evaporating, "but more than we've got." He tugged Farharan through the hatch and down the dogleg to the other hold.
The Main hold was already open to the air, but this gap was merely its own bay doors, set now in the rearmost floor of the ship's body. During free flight, they would actually occupy the floor of the 'rump' deck outside, the view here from inside toward the ceiling. But now they gave an open view of the twirling, fast- approaching ground. They were already through the last cloud layer. Samhein's quick glance around told him many things: The racks along one wall which held the gnomish lifeboats, actually long-bodied cycle contraptions with paddle-wheels mounted fore and aft, and able to seat 6 men each, were empty. This meant that at least 30 men had departed the ship in drilled order and to safety, leaving himself, Farharan, and the four others including Barrelhouse the dwarf and T'leah, here still aboard. These remaining crew all grasped deck rings, fighting against the greedy wind trying to pull them out.
"We don't have any time," Samhein said, moving easily along the canted deck toward Tijan Barrelhouse, who stood protectively over something. "Good work," he said. He reached for the black chest saved from his cabin, spelling the lock open with a touch. The first thing he grabbed was his own item, a small, ornate chest. It's larger twin lay in the Astral Plane, awaiting the call back, and contained a number of Samhein's more precious magical items. Pocketing it, he clutched at the remaining important things, and handed them out; a pair of rings, and four potions.
"The rings are Softwood! Slip 'em on and get out!" Two of the dwarves reluctantly grabbed one each and donned them. Immediately, from the Rings of Softwood sprang tiny, feathery vines, which wrapped, snake- like, all around the wearers. Soon the two dwarves were entirely encapsulated in mossy, spongy cocoons, which would allow them to fall to earth completely unharmed. Fellow crewmen on the ground would, presumably, cut them free later. With the precision coming from constant drill, T'leah and Farharan rolled the two pods out the open bay doors, then, along with Barrelhouse, each took a potion bottle.
Knowing the contents were potions of Levitation, all three swallowed dutifully. Then, man, dwarf and Tanu lined up near the open bay. T'leah waited to the last, and as her fellows in turn ran and leapt clear of the spinning, stricken ship, the Tanu warrioress regarded her human captain. She tilted her head quizzically.
Samhein merely frowned and shook his head. "Captain is the last off, sailor. get." He shooed her out the door. She nodded solemnly, then turned, grabbed the long, back-hanging scabbard of her glass sword with one hand to steady it, ran, and leapt.
Samhein made his way to the brink, feet still clinging magickally to the shuddering deck of his dying ship, pocketing the final potion bottle as he went; having the spell memorized, he had no need of it, and the potion was too valuable to leave behind. He paused at the threshold, hair and clothing all askew in the wind, and regarded the curved ribs of the vessel. He sighed, very deeply.
"Dammit, old girl.. Good bye, my Liberator!" Facing into the depths of the ship, he yelled this loud enough for the echo to be heard above the cry of the greedy wind. He patted the wall panel, taking a last, almost loving feel of the texture of his ship. Then he turned back, facing outward. The spinning ground was fast approaching, and details of pathways, trees and small streams were already discernable ; there was no time left. As the Red Star hove once more into view, Samhein took two strong strides, and leapt clear of the Liberator.
He tucked hands to knees and rolled twice in the air, putting distance between him and the falling vessel, then opened up and fell, spread-eagled. The words to the ~Levitate~ spell came to his lips, and he began a slow, careful deceleration, although the ground was rising up for him at an alarming rate. He knew, though, that an instant arrest of his fall would simply pulp his innards as surely as if he hit the ground. He began a slow, steady stream of curses, both because it seemed as if his calculation of time left had been a bit too generous; and because the baleful Star was directly in his field of view. And so, he arrested his falling as rapidly as he dared, eyes first on the approaching ground and then on the Red Star, and back once more, a steady stream of invectives hurled out at both. At some point, one of his boots flew off. Then, he began to laugh, and the green, mossy ground rose up and smacked him a good one..
Falling, spiraling, one wing torn and gone, the Liberator plunged to earth at last, smashing herself into the shadows of a small valley several miles from Roland's Cavern, flattening trees and digging herself a grave to sleep in. The thunder of the impact was heard for miles around. Birds and other winged things took to the air, calling out alarm, an unknowing tribute to the air-ship's demise.
Some time later, his eyes full of grass and earth, someone rolled Samhein Greystar over. He groaned. The ~Stoneskin~ spell had, in fact, saved him from pulping after all, although it sure didn't feel like it. He spat a wad of grass out, and gazed up at Farharan; apparently, the Deft one had seen him come to earth, or was a better tracker than he ever let on. The tall barbarian pirate dangled a battered black boot in front of his captain.
"Ach, ye alright then, captain?" the large man asked as he hauled Samhein to a sitting position, out of the shallow trough shaped like him. The mage groaned and grabbed for his shoe.
"Ech! Well enough... Shit. You? The others?"
"Been looking for ye a little while. Me and T'leah rounded up 36 souls what made it, sir. That makes four we lost. includin' old Tom, sir." Samhien wondered who the unnamed fourth casualty had been. Perhaps one of the newest sailors, he mused darkly; some men, driven mad by the prospect that an entire ship is falling, simply leap to their own, lonely deaths over the rail. He grunted and stood, working his foot deeper into his reclaimed boot. Time enough to find this out, later, he mused. Together, Farharan and Samhein trudged into the growing gloom of the forest at dusk, to meet up with the others. The Red Star glared down at them, but also lit their way.
