Future Imperfect - Prologue 1

Day of Mourning - Olarune 20, 1048 YK - Early Morning over the King's Forest.

The rain was getting worse, already her visibility was barely a hundred feet off the bow. She looked out the glass of the small pilot house, watching as one of her crew, a warforged, came up to the door on the side.

She sighed, and stood up, hoping that the construct had good news, but doubting it in the weather.

It opened the door, quickly stepped inside, and closed it.

"Thirty-Six," she said, looking at the wet 'forged. She then commanded, "Report!"

It bowed it's head, the grey metal of it's armor plating dimly reflecting the small lamp mounted on the back wall of the pilot house, "This one regrets to inform you that the ship has disappeared."

She had expected this, especially in this weather, "Regrettable, but we should still be able to track it's rings, in fact, that's what you were supposed to be doing. So," she paused to adjust her uniform, "tell my how it disappeared."

If the warforged could be nervous, it probably would have been, "One second, the rings were there, just as before. Next second, rings were gone, no where in sight."

She sighed, "Dismissed." She then stared out the glass as the warforged opened the door into the rain, then closed it. She could see it make it's way across the small deck and the secure itself to the bow viewing station.

"Darlona," she said to herself, "what have you gotten yourself into?" She looked around at the small pilot house, barely five feet on a side, it's front dominated by glass windows, and it's back wall by various maps of the area. She sat back down in front of the wheel, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Back to base then," she said, turning the ship in a while arc, "Maybe I won't get demoted for losing the ship. It is quite stormy." She laughed to herself, looked down at the compass, and began the long journey back to base.

Half a mile away, though only a hundred feet or so above the ground, cruised an old and battered luxury airship.

"Captain," shouted a sailor as she let herself into the bridge, "The Kharvin is turning around. It worked."

"Good," said the captain, "we might get to Flamekeep after all." He slid his hand through he short, greying hair. His ship was old, but she had a few tricks up her sleeve. As long as he didn't crash her into anything in the rain.

"Mr. Rancid," said the captain, looking over to the mithral plated warforged that piloted his ship, "take us to two thousand feet, and set a course for Flamekeep."

"Sir," it barked, and obediently began the effort of willing the elementals to go higher.

"Oh, and Mr. Rancid," said the Captain as he headed for the door at the front of the bridge, "do try and be graceful. We have an image to uphold. The Golden Dragon has been flying these skies for over fifty years. I intend for her to keep flying for fifty more."

"Aye Captain," replied the warforged as the Capain left the bridge for a walk in the rain.