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by Colin Chapman
The sails of the windship of war fluttered and billowed in the cool night air as it slid with silent grace through the dark vault of the night sky.
Tempestus of Cymril stood upon the prow, gazing at the waxing moon Jhang, a sliver of crimson in the darkness, like a sickle soaked in blood. He relished these moments of silent reflection. The calm before the storm.
Cool tendrils of air ruffled his name of ash-black hair; soothed his silver skin. Narrowing eyes of glowing-white in thought, he scratched his ash-colored beard with a fist mailed in black iron.
Far below, a ring of amber glittered in the darkness: the fires of the Za raider encampment. It was time to make ready.
Stretching uncomfortably in his black-iron spangalor, he pulled his cloak back, gazing briefly at the dark thunderclouds that roiled across the fabric. Hefting and securing his black iron shield, he turned to face his fellow swordsmages, the deck of the windship coming to life as the squadron of forty men and women under his command began their final preparations.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the windship drew to a stationary position, hovering above the whispers of cloud, unseen in the cloak of night.
Tempestus loosened his sword, White-Strike, in its sheath and peered over the ships railing, marking the ring of fire on the distant ground. He uttered a single word: "Prepare".
Gritting his teeth, he balled his fists at his sides, sweeping his arms up dramatically before punching his fists together before him. Arcs of lightning danced in his eyes, and a sudden wind whipped in a circle around him: "Fist of the Storms, bear me like a thunderbolt!" The air crackled and seethed with arcane energy as he slowly began to levitate off the deck, the air charged from the combined castings of the entire squadron. As one, they dived out into darkness.
The winds howled and screamed in his ears as he plummeted rapidly earthwards, cloak whipping madly behind him, the glittering ring of fire growing, larger, faster. Tents, a handful of scattered Za guards, more detail. With the merest gesture, descent slowed and controlled. They wouldn't know what had hit them.
A guard looks up, eyes wide in shock and terror at the apparition hurtling out of the darkness from above. He screams one word, stumbling backwards and tripping: "Shaitan!"
The ground looms; Tempestus hits it rolling, White-Strike out of his scabbard in a heartbeat, blade of white-light cascading with arcs of electricity! He impales the screaming sentry and whirls on a groggy Za emerging panicked from the tent nearby, White-Light arcing wide, leaving a crumpled, twitching corpse. A blood-curdling cry of rage from behind, and Tempestus drops to a crouch as a jagged blade slices the air above him! Spinning from his crouch, he smashes his shield back-handed into his assailant, and lunges fiercely, the Za shrieking as it slides, trembling with after-shock, off the blade of White-Light. Breaking into a sprint, Tempestus reaches the nearest campfire and grabs a burning brand, hurling it at the nearest tent, causing hungry flames to erupt, adding to the chaotic maelstrom of the melee.
It is over within minutes, the bodies of slain Za scattered like a discarded pentadrille deck, tents burning like pyres, and survivors fled to the winds. He looks at the grimly victorious faces of his squadron and slides White-Light back into its scabbard. Pulling a disk of cut crystal from a pouch at his waist; he concentrates. An image appears within the polished surface.
"Maraxus, this is Tempestus. Mission 'Night Hawk' is accomplished. Bring the windship down, and let's go home".
Picking up a Za broadsword as a momento, Tempestus allows himself a brief smile. He relishes these moments of silent reflection. The calm after the storm.
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