It did not take long for them to reach the Fringe.
Or, as Fearon preferred to call it- the Devastation Straits.
Technically, that was the official name for this particularly treacherous shipping lane; both on virtue of pirate raids, and the proximity to the Wildelands.
The looming cloud bank that marked the beginning of the primal realm shimmered in the distance; close enough for dark, animalistic feelings to be stirred in the depths of the mind.
It was said in legend that upon the gods refining Aepok, the Wildelands was were all the primordial soup had gone. Given some of the things that had crawled from those clouds. Fearon could easily believe the myth.
All in all, this was a perfect recipe for doom and destruction, a fact Fearon was moodily couching in the back of his mind. If Ebon iron was not as valued as it was, no one would have considered mining on this barren set of islands and peninsulas.
The land in question was largely barren, covered in loosely blowing sand and dotted with some scrubby plant growth, battered mercilessly by the strong ocean wind.
Otherwise, the scenery below the Strikeflier was largely unremarkable, the only elevation distant cliffs spanning the larger, unnamed isles, the sites of the mines.
Vaguely, Fearon could make out airborne ships, manifesting as tiny, glinting insects; the distance between them enough to reduce the massive freighters down to gnats.
''Right,'' Fearon tore his gaze from the distant mines, glancing from the corner of his eye at Byre as the pilot spoke. ''What now...fearless leader?''
Gritting his teeth at the sarcastic nickname, Fearon did his best to ignore it. Instead he manipulated the map screen, eyes scanning the pins he had placed over the circling, extensive route he had planned for them to take.
''Funny,'' he grated. ''We do this in a circular scouting pattern. Start tight, over this area, gradually range out wider. There have been some reports of pirate attacks in these areas-we are sure to find at least some scrap, maybe some wreckage...''
''Maybe survivors,'' Lyvaak put in, his cobalt eyes wide. ''I prepped the medbay.''
Fearon blinked, then nodded. They had come across those, once or twice; poor souls who had not been able to evacuate fallen vessels pre-crash, but being Aepokians had fought their way out of death at the pirate's hands.
Regardless of nationality, it was common practice for all Aepokians to learn to fight. Something that Fearon imagined the stragglers that his crew had encountered in the past were rather thankful for.
''Perhaps...though with the Wildelands so close-'' Fearon narrowed his eyes and glanced in the direction of the cloud bank. ''Well, there's a eighty percent chance of anyone grounded down there, with no way out except to swim, being eaten by a Malthain...''
''Eighty?'' Somra responded dryly, arching a eye ridge. ''Please, I bet its usually the runts that come out from those clouds. People could take them.'' she sat up straighter, flexing her spear hand. ''I bet I could.''
Byre barked a hoarse laugh. ''Oh? One vixen against monsters that the Avalonians built Blackgale to fend off?'' he stated lowly. ''Aren't you confident.''
Somra bristled. Fearon clapped his hands sharply.
''Enough.'' He glared daggers at Byre, who stared back stonily, lip curling back to show his elongated canines. ''Back to what we came for, hmmm?''
Both Byre and Somra seemed primed to ignore him, leading Fearon into envisioning the certain doom that possibly awaited them.
This did not bode well when it came to fighting together as a team, at least not in Fearon's books.
True, they had managed it in the Saborga debacle. But that had been-quite literally-life and death.
''Think of it this way!'' Lyvaak's cheery, relaxed drawl was a hammer to the glassy tension, shattering it. ''We find salvage, you two blokes can hit some bars by yourselves, blow of some steam. How about that?''
Somra tilted her head, shooting Byre one last sideye past her silver hair; Byre scowled back. ''Sure,'' she ground out. ''Why not?''
Lyvaak nodded with an air of finality, leaning back with his arms crossed. Fearon let out the breath he had been holding.
''Proceed,'' he stated tersely. ''And stay alert-anything could be out here....''
The twitchy swordsman treated the surrounding sky to a narrow eyed, suspicious stare.
They spent the next hour sweeping the desolate strait, at first sighting nothing but wrecks too rusted and decayed to be of any value, sunk partly into the sand and battered by surf.
In the end, it was not on the ground were the Strikeflier's crew found their potential profit.
Neither were the conditions of the wreck what the Lycans had encountered in the past.
''It's still airborne?'' Somra barked out what they were all thinking, the Afrasian leaning forward, her intense red stare pinned on the scene outside the bridge window.
Fearon himself could not seem to tear his gaze away.
The vessel was a freighter of Afrasian make. Long and narrow, bearing a glass roof beneath which an onboard atrium could be seen, the growth within smoking. Listing to one side, streaming smoke, the ship appeared to be limping along, just managing to stay in the air. Still, its course was listless, clearly being directed by the wind rather than a direct hand.
Torn into the side of the freighter was a gigantic, ragged wound, enough damage that by all accounts the ship should have broken in half-had it not been for a few remaining beams valiantly maintaining the connection. Scorch marks and a few more ragged gaps, showing the gleam of ebon iron ribs, peppered the remainder of the freighter. Moreover, the bridge seemed to be gone, brutally blasted out of existence.
Fearon marked the swirling, intricate vigil of Afrasia's Archaeological league, three ways up the vessel's length.
Motivation for the attack was easy enough to deduce from there. Priceless artifacts could be worth mountains of gold, after all.
And yet, the missing bridge, of all things, was what truly sent a cold chill up Fearon's spine, his tail curling in trepidation.
By all accounts, what he was seeing was incredibly brutal, inundated with a savagery unparalleled by any other wreck he had come across.
''Damn,'' Lyvaak breathed, cobalt eyes wide. ''Poor bastards.''
Byre tilted his head, guiding the Strikeflier down in a arching pass. The freighter flashed by in the manner of a morbid slideshow, all exposed, flickering parts.
Neck prickling uncomfortably, Fearon shook his head to clear it. ''Right, er...''
''Well?'' Somra demanded, leaping to her feet with blazing eyes. ''Let's go!'' She cracked her knuckles, a crazed light in her eyes. ''Maybe some of the attackers stuck around. I could use a good brawl!''
''Now, hold up,'' Lyvaak drawled, hauling himself up from his lazily reclined gunning seat as Somra whisked past him. ''You need someone to watch your back, don't you?''
''Don't you dare go charging in alone!'' Fearon's voice easily pitched int a screech. The idea that Somra might go charging ahead on her own was enough to snap him onto his feet. Bracing his fingertips on the ship's dashboard, Fearon eyed the compromised vessel with a critical evaluation. His gaze landed on a few particularly large tears in the freighter; deep enough that he could see flashes of the inner corridors.
''Do you want to be hacked to pieces in some kind of ambush? Byre, keep the Strikeflier in a holding pattern around this thing. We can't tow somehting so large. Me-'' he spun on his heel and stalked back to Somra. She watched him, her figure seeming to hum with barely restrained energy. ''-And you two will take our Chimeras and fly into the wreck.''
Somra whooped and tore off the bridge, seeming to take Fearon's words as a unofficial signal.
''Finally,'' Byre grumbled. ''I've had about enough of such noisy company.''
Fearon stiffened, but ultimately contented himself with grinding his teeth and stalking to the bridge door. He motioned to Somra and slid it open, stepping into the hallway and briefly counting a series of rivets in the floor to quell his frustration.
The pilot's abrasiveness did not seem to have improved much at all-it rankled Fearon that Byre seemed determined to see the rest of them as mere annoyances.
How were they supposed to evade certain doom if one of their number was such a smoldering time bomb?
Not that he himself always felt particularly comfortable around the others. He had plenty to hide, yet Fearon at least tried to connect with the others.
Lyvaak came up behind him, setting his feet down in a sauntering, casual gait.
''Don't worry.'' the Aurian clapped Fearon on his bony shoulder, eliciting a yelp. Lyvaak chuckled apologetically, withdrawing his hand. ''I'll keep working him,'' he continued, flashing a wide smile. ''He'll be a ray of sunshine eventually. Even if it takes me till the day I die to make it happen.''
Fearon twitched at the joke. ''With how unconcerned you seem to be about everything,'' he said groused, ''You might not have that long left...''
Lyvaak shrugged, mane clinking, and hopped past him, sliding down the ladder to the second and final floor. The clunks and hums of the Strikeflier's interior rigging and piping echoed around them, a odd background cacophony to their talk.
''Hey, with a guy like you around to act as paranoia extraordinaire,'' he quipped, ''I think I got the insurance needed to live a pretty long time, since you'll be keeping track of anything that could end me, right?''
Groaning, Fearon leaped straight down the ladder shaft after him, landing in a four legged crouch.
''Your point?'' he muttered, standing up with a serpentine grace and making for the hangar, ''I may not always be around! My presence hardly negates the need for a healthy dose of...self-preservation, or you invite despair and destruction...''
Lyvaak only chuckled.
The two entered the narrow hangar. The first half was a wreck room and storage area in one, complete with screens, and battered couch and armchair; the opposite wall bore bare-bones metal racks leaden with crates, tamped down by ratcheted straps.
Somra was already waiting for them in the latter half of the space, just before the door that led to the engine room, a area cavernous by comparison. The golden hued Afrasian druid sat astride one of the group's individual rides.
Best described as robot animals, the chimera bore folded, slatted wings mounted on the shoulders, flight controls situated at the bases of their mechanical necks.
Somra's ride had been made to resemble a Afraisian sabercat-long, lithe, and close to the ground, painted with burnished purple racing stripes.
Fearon sighed in resignation of possibly imminent disaster and made for his own mechanical steed, themed after a slim Avalonian forest dragon. Burnished green metal, lined on the edges with crimson, glinted under the ancient hangar lights. With a decisive leap, Fearon had positioned himself comfortably on the padded section in the middle of the chimera's flexible back. He braced his clawed toes against the footrests on the mech's sides.
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