It is a well established truth that nobody steers an airship into an electrical storm unless they don't intend to survive. Or return. Elissa remembered the first time she'd heard the theory proposing the flash storms frequenting the Midlands every seven years weren't storms at all, at least not as commonly understood. She'd considered gateways to other worlds a jape, an outlet for dreamy or disgruntled academics stifled by The Crimsons. Then professor Altern vanished with his assistant, and then Professor Grelaen. It took Marek and Elissa nine years to build their ship. Marek was the engineer with sympathetic friends in acquisitions, Elissa the historian with a curious mind and willing hands. She couldn't count the number or times they thought they'd been outed or discovered by chance, but their luck endured. Now it is time, and timing is essential as the storms move fast, and the envelope will draw more attention than most anything else in the shire. The locals who'd risked their lives to clear the the ship from the barn have long since scattered. Elissa worries about the added weight of moisture on the envelope, but they'd planned for this. She adjusts pressures while Marek sorts the ballast and engine. The storm is visible now, a darkish stain to the west. Marek shouts from the rear deck. The mooring line is free. Elissa increases feed pressure and the drive fan spins, slowly at first, then faster as she steers for the impossibly defined storm. They're too low, too slow. Elissa opens the feed valve further, then as far as it will allow. She can hear the engine strain, feel its vibrations. Will it hold together? Looking back toward the only home she's ever known, Elissa sees dragoons pounding down the road. She ducks as bullets thunk into wood. A pane of glass stars and shatters. Marek grunts, and she looks back to where dark blood seeps between his fingers where he clutches his side. More bullets come as the ship rises. The helm is responsive, and the angle of approach encouraging. Are they still too low? Marek stands at her side as they enter the storm, one arm around her waist for support and the other at the wound through his liver. He mutters a prayer as the envelope flutters. Elissa sees little through the rain spattered glass but roiling and flashing cloud. The ship soars, more quickly than be accounted by its own lift, and then surges forward as though shot through churning rapids. Marek stumbles, and falls to the deck. Elissa kneels at his side. Marek looks up as his face is illuminated in what could only be sunlight. The ship is steady now except for the straining engine. "Ease pressure, my love," says Marek "We've done it. We are free." Elissa complies and helps Marek to the rail to witness what has cost him his life. He lingers long enough to see ribbons of road and a deep blue river snaking its way through patchworks of green and yellow fields rather than a filthy grey city squatting in browning marsh. The air is cool, but sweet, and dry. Marek smiles once and nods, saying it all without a word, and then sags in her arms. Elissa drags Marek inside and returns to the helm. She struggles not to sob, to wail. She's achieved her life's ambition, but it's cost her everything, and now she's alone, with no idea where she is, or when. She has food for a week, maybe more, and the ship seems sound enough despite its peppering, but it's a handful for one, and sooner or later she'll have to land, to bury Marek and replenish her water. Who or what awaits? Should she follow a road to a village, or set down in a secluded glade? A flash to her right causes Elissa to duck again. Two birdlike machines roar past her ship, loud but graceful, marked in what could only be military or religious symbols. Elissa studies them as they bank and turn. knowing they'll be back. She braces the wheel and steps over Marek to await them on the rear deck. She has neither weapons nor the inclination to use them, but she'll face whoever or whatever pilots the machines eye to eye, regardless. The machines approach from astern, more slowly this time, separating to bracket her ship like they'd done it before. Elissa focuses on the nearest pilot as he slips his machine into position mere yards from the ship, close enough for her to see the brush strokes on the jagged arrow painted along its side, close enough to see his blue eyes when he raises his googles. Human eyes. Elissa swallows. She's relieved to a point, but her pulse still pounds her ears and her mouth is dry. The pilot gestures downward, toward what she assumes is northwest. Elissa nods and returns to the helm. She still has no idea what awaits her, but she has no illusions regarding the determination and lethality of her escort. Beauty is never benign. This was a fun scene to do, partly on account of the assets, and partly on account of the purpose. There will be another, as it's a bit of resource monster that needs to be used - the volumetric clouds in particular - and I'm sorta motivated. Enjoy Molly.