[41 / 1 / 17]
The scorching sun loomed overhead the decks of the Poetic Retort. A silver-orange cloud of whirling dust stirred ahead.
The ship’s balloons provided some minor solace, but failed to stop the harsh rays from baking you until you were red-faced and cracked-lipped. Though both of your feet were planted on the airship’s deck, you were hardly a sailor; even though you’d only left port a few days ago, you’d found that each and every toil that a pirate faced daily was worse than the last. And, you’d yet to even perform any real piracy. In fact, your crewmates had jokingly mentioned that you were a “sailor,” as you were working on a ship; though you’d yet to become a “pirate,” as you had not yet participated in any truly “pirate” activities since you’d come aboard.
“Five minutes ‘til dust storm!” Polly yelled from above, clambering across the rigging to get a better view. “Make that four!”
The ship’s deck rocked as the wind picked up; another crewmate, Bax, vocalized in indistinct grunts as he threw his meager bodyweight against the helm’s heavy control levers. Beside him, First Mate Percy had both gloved hands firmly on the wheel.
“Three minutes!” Polly called again, tightening the chin-strap on his flight cap. “Goggles on if you want to keep your eyes, boys!”
The gentle hum of detritus deflecting off the hull grew in volume. There was usually a gentle, constant rattle of particulate sand, salt, ice, and whatever else the wind could pick up; now, though, as the ship drew closer to the twisting dust cloud, the ambient sound grew to a scream. Even this far out, you could feel the storm rubbing your exposed skin raw. The inside of your gloves grew damp with sweat, your eyes squinted for protection, as you flung your bag open and dug for your goggles. In staring at your personal effects, you briefly recalled your not-so-distant past.
>Descender:
>You were a descender, a dangerous livelihood in which you’d lower yourself over the edges of cities on a system of pitons and pulleys, in hopes of finding valuable scrap in the cliffside below.
>Light-Thief:
>You were a light-thief, a criminal profession where one builds lures and traps to coax the sun’s luminescence into containers for later sale during the Long Evenings or out in the Nightlands.
>Tongue-Taker:
>You were a tongue-taker, an assassin of sorts, though you’d never killed anyone. Your kind was hired when death was too severe, but a party wished for another party to be silenced.
>Contrarian:
>Although not technically a profession, you were a learn’d dilettante who spent the better part of his days finding arguments to engage in. In such altercations, you always ensured your philosophical position was staunchly the opposite of your opponent’s.
The ship’s balloons provided some minor solace, but failed to stop the harsh rays from baking you until you were red-faced and cracked-lipped. Though both of your feet were planted on the airship’s deck, you were hardly a sailor; even though you’d only left port a few days ago, you’d found that each and every toil that a pirate faced daily was worse than the last. And, you’d yet to even perform any real piracy. In fact, your crewmates had jokingly mentioned that you were a “sailor,” as you were working on a ship; though you’d yet to become a “pirate,” as you had not yet participated in any truly “pirate” activities since you’d come aboard.
“Five minutes ‘til dust storm!” Polly yelled from above, clambering across the rigging to get a better view. “Make that four!”
The ship’s deck rocked as the wind picked up; another crewmate, Bax, vocalized in indistinct grunts as he threw his meager bodyweight against the helm’s heavy control levers. Beside him, First Mate Percy had both gloved hands firmly on the wheel.
“Three minutes!” Polly called again, tightening the chin-strap on his flight cap. “Goggles on if you want to keep your eyes, boys!”
The gentle hum of detritus deflecting off the hull grew in volume. There was usually a gentle, constant rattle of particulate sand, salt, ice, and whatever else the wind could pick up; now, though, as the ship drew closer to the twisting dust cloud, the ambient sound grew to a scream. Even this far out, you could feel the storm rubbing your exposed skin raw. The inside of your gloves grew damp with sweat, your eyes squinted for protection, as you flung your bag open and dug for your goggles. In staring at your personal effects, you briefly recalled your not-so-distant past.
>Descender:
>You were a descender, a dangerous livelihood in which you’d lower yourself over the edges of cities on a system of pitons and pulleys, in hopes of finding valuable scrap in the cliffside below.
>Light-Thief:
>You were a light-thief, a criminal profession where one builds lures and traps to coax the sun’s luminescence into containers for later sale during the Long Evenings or out in the Nightlands.
>Tongue-Taker:
>You were a tongue-taker, an assassin of sorts, though you’d never killed anyone. Your kind was hired when death was too severe, but a party wished for another party to be silenced.
>Contrarian:
>Although not technically a profession, you were a learn’d dilettante who spent the better part of his days finding arguments to engage in. In such altercations, you always ensured your philosophical position was staunchly the opposite of your opponent’s.
