Thomas stood at the hard iron rail that edged the airship’s prow and looked down at the howling sea. The waters unfurled towards him from the horizon, roiling far below the ship. Though the skies above the deck might still pass for blue, along the horizon, they had turned a bruised, angry burgundyi. As Thomas watched, black clouds rose - obscuring the sun in a phalanx of storms.
“We’re leaving the safe skies behind,” said the Crow. “From here on, it’s eyes to the clouds and deck-rifles primed.”
Thomas turned to look at the bird. He watched it shift nervously on the deck railing, from one foot to the other, squinting out at the storm. After a few moments, Thomas followed the bird’s example, and looked back to the distant sky.
For a time, nothing and nobody broke the deck’s silence. Then, like some great, elder thing rising from the seas, the first spires of the black city appeared on the horizon.
As more of the sharp, black towers shot up out of the distant waters, Thomas heard the First Mate spit over the deck railing and mutter a prayer to one of his long-eared gods.
The Cardinal landed softly on Thomas’s shoulder and, after a moment, spoke.
“Orvin Thell,” she whispered, “the city of the sleeping. I suppose this means there’s no turning back.”
#stupidbookiwillneverfinish
