Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Round 1: The New Frontier
08-06-2012, 07:03 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sanzh.
"'S good weather we're having, innit?"
The two crew-members-- one thickset and talkative, the other rangy and taciturn-- exchanged brief glances before returning to shirking their obligations and watching thick folds of clouds roll forward. Their flying ship had enough crew to afford a dip in discipline. There we no refugees to watch; instead, the ship was saddled with supplies. Tied-down barrels of dried food, bags of seed, pre-cut lumber-- almost everything necessary to build a new home was stored onboard, spilling out from the lower levels onto the deck.
"When d'you think we'll land?" The talkative sailor asked.
The other sailor looked down below. The island was close, stalwartly floating outside of the clouds around enveloping the ground and sky, its satellites branching off in mimicry of an ocean archipelago. "Soon." He replied, walking off-- that had been enough interaction for him, and he was more than willing to at least make an attempt at work. A few ropes likely needed tightening, someone would needed to clamber atop the air bladders and check for rips, any number of myriad chores could be used as excuses to remove himself. Social pleasantries weren't on his mind when he chose his career, and they weren't on his mind now.
"You think it'll follow us? The war, that-- hey, wait up! 'm not done yet!" His counterpart yelled. Or would have, had the ship not lurched and began to fall, uncontrollably soaring forward.
The deck immediately transformed. Sky-sailors latched onto rigging and hand-holds to remain onboard, rotors strained against the new weight, burners ignited with renewed ferocity as hot air was pumped into the balloons. A few crew-members rushed around, cutting free ballast tanks-- anything to reduce the newfound weight the vessel now floundered under.
Now precariously hurtling towards one of the satellite islands, the craft was desperately trying to rise above the foliage. The edges of the island were sparse-- few trees grew so far from water, and what few did tended to not last long against the elements and slow erosion of the island's boundary. But thicker forestry was fast approaching. Frenetic action born of desperation pervaded the vessel-- they clipped along the island's surface, sailing twelve meters above land. A half-second later and they were eleven, then ten, steadily sinking and drawing closer to crashing.
The vessel now breached the treeline, its bottom scraping against the branches and vines. The ship tensed, nearly being drawn down, crashing in the last leg of its journey--
--and then it eased once more, lifting upwards as though it were unburdened, and that proceedings of the last minute had not occurred. The crew returned to their discussions, now laced with rumor and curiosity over what had happened.
No one noticed the hooked barbs lodged in the vessel's underside, or the marks where hyphae had made an attempt at burrowing into the oaken hull. Even more unnoticed were the gigantic, chitinous mess of an alien, the pair of dossiers, and a pen inserted between two strands of tendrils.
"'S good weather we're having, innit?"
The two crew-members-- one thickset and talkative, the other rangy and taciturn-- exchanged brief glances before returning to shirking their obligations and watching thick folds of clouds roll forward. Their flying ship had enough crew to afford a dip in discipline. There we no refugees to watch; instead, the ship was saddled with supplies. Tied-down barrels of dried food, bags of seed, pre-cut lumber-- almost everything necessary to build a new home was stored onboard, spilling out from the lower levels onto the deck.
"When d'you think we'll land?" The talkative sailor asked.
The other sailor looked down below. The island was close, stalwartly floating outside of the clouds around enveloping the ground and sky, its satellites branching off in mimicry of an ocean archipelago. "Soon." He replied, walking off-- that had been enough interaction for him, and he was more than willing to at least make an attempt at work. A few ropes likely needed tightening, someone would needed to clamber atop the air bladders and check for rips, any number of myriad chores could be used as excuses to remove himself. Social pleasantries weren't on his mind when he chose his career, and they weren't on his mind now.
"You think it'll follow us? The war, that-- hey, wait up! 'm not done yet!" His counterpart yelled. Or would have, had the ship not lurched and began to fall, uncontrollably soaring forward.
The deck immediately transformed. Sky-sailors latched onto rigging and hand-holds to remain onboard, rotors strained against the new weight, burners ignited with renewed ferocity as hot air was pumped into the balloons. A few crew-members rushed around, cutting free ballast tanks-- anything to reduce the newfound weight the vessel now floundered under.
Now precariously hurtling towards one of the satellite islands, the craft was desperately trying to rise above the foliage. The edges of the island were sparse-- few trees grew so far from water, and what few did tended to not last long against the elements and slow erosion of the island's boundary. But thicker forestry was fast approaching. Frenetic action born of desperation pervaded the vessel-- they clipped along the island's surface, sailing twelve meters above land. A half-second later and they were eleven, then ten, steadily sinking and drawing closer to crashing.
The vessel now breached the treeline, its bottom scraping against the branches and vines. The ship tensed, nearly being drawn down, crashing in the last leg of its journey--
--and then it eased once more, lifting upwards as though it were unburdened, and that proceedings of the last minute had not occurred. The crew returned to their discussions, now laced with rumor and curiosity over what had happened.
No one noticed the hooked barbs lodged in the vessel's underside, or the marks where hyphae had made an attempt at burrowing into the oaken hull. Even more unnoticed were the gigantic, chitinous mess of an alien, the pair of dossiers, and a pen inserted between two strands of tendrils.