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The Thunder of Coins - [Warbirds-system]

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Actually a bit more fire would have livened up that mall.

As usual, Dawson did not verbalize as much nor indicate he was thinking such.

The concerned look he gave Mavis he could not obfuscate. He tried to remain neutral, of course, but he knew how... riled... she got at mention of the Stratocracy. With good reason of course. Still for all her poise, this moment was not the best to let her true colors fly. After all, she had been quite adamant about the Wing playing its cards close to the chest. Now he knew he was no social predator himself, and part of him really wanted Mavis to ease up a little.

Don't go mixing business and pleasure, Mavis. Now is the not the time.

Unfortunately, the Marchesa's response proved she planned on that reaction. After all, the Harpers and the Marchesa apparently knew each other for some time. He did his best not to roll his eyes and instead enjoyed another bite of that marvelous cheese.

Before that though, he did not like the vibe he got from the Marchesa's response to Al. Especially in the context of her servants, daughters, etc. In fact what were they to her? Actual daughters, bloodbeast childer, both? Did the blood change them to resemble their creators? Questions, questions to research.

On point, however, he didn't like the insinuation. Directed at Al, the words felt like a compliment. An honest compliment of someone that has been where Al's father was, as a parent. But the added actions with the daughter felt more like... well, she spoke more of domination and hierarchy. Which would be on point with bloodbeasts of any stripe, and certainly did not set well being an outsider having to play this ancient thing's Great Game. He did not like that in context of his wingleader and friend.

Dawson sat down the cheese wedge. He needed a beverage to take the edge off the grape-cheese pairing. Plus these thoughts had soured his appetite. The wine, of course, would be perfect, but he stayed true to his convictions. What surprised him then was the offer of a champagne flute, a wedge of lime bobbing amongst the bubbles. He numbly thanked the server and tried to ignore the obvious psychological ploy.

Just the right amount of lime-to-seltzer to match the grapes' sweetness and the umami of the cheese. Clever. Damn them.

As business resumed, he replied during a lull, "Poorly trained combatants can be more unpredictable, and thus dangerous, than skilled ones."

He did not, however, have thoughts to offer about the prototype. At least not initially. Mainly because he froze at the sight of the Marchesa's fangs. Mesmerizing did come to mind. Elegant, maybe. But the fangs as symbols of power and longevity were not lost on Dawson. Some stories had filtered up to the old Duchy, and by extension, the new Duchy. Some tales included not just battles with night horrors. Some mentioned people that willingly joined the more noble, ie civilized, bloodlines.

He sipped his drink. To immortality, came the dark thought.

The talk of a high-end plane did not stir him. If the Stratocracy proved that foolish, then the plane and the pilot, likely an ace, would be a worthy opponent indeed. He would wait to see if a better plane plus a better pilot could beat three good pilots in good planes. Or better yet, an ambush by one side against the other. Now that would be bracing.

I really have changed.

He smiled lightly at the talk of leviathans. His scout Wing were the "Leviathan Hunters" after all. Not that they ever attacked the giant beasts. No, their goal proved more civilized and scientific. After all, you must know your enemy to counter them effectively.

He watched Mavis depart in silence, now visibly worried about his friend and Wingmate. His gut told him she would prove reckless, well, more reckless than usual, on this deployment. After all, the Fates had beaten up Al and Dawson. Mavis was due. If one proved superstitious. Dawson was not and still felt amused.

Plus he fully believed that even fragmented wreckage would prove invaluable. But that topic could wait.

Turning back to the Marchesa, "With your leave, your Grace, the festival sounds delightful. Thank you."

Dawson spent the rest of the evening all but glued to Al's side. More prosaic interpretations lended toward him staying close to his CO for his own safety. He did keep an keen, almost anxious, eye on the surroundings, even looking around furtively from time-to-time. The truth, for more knowledgeable types such as Al herself and the Marchesa, painted a more nuisanced picture.

He was protecting her.

At least he had Mavis to bring a touch of cheer to the torchlight. He enjoyed her performances so much!
 
As the lasts of the lights on the land were disappearing, one after another as the people headed for their beds and the gas to the lamps were turned off, even the party on the Sparviero was slowly calming down. Servants were moving across the small gatherings of bodies and half-eaten appetizers with steady steps, dimming the lights and opening the pavilions and sun sails to let the fresh breeze carry through and bring much needed cool to the heated and excited bodies that were still strewn out across the ship. The ship was moving slowly, the sounds of the waves only audible when moving away from the talks and the music that was still playing at a more sedate and far more intimate pace than before. Those who had remained were in a good mood, good cheer and hadn't overindulged in the festivities before like those who had already been sent back to their homes in rented cabs and with the company of their servants or those of the Marchesa if she valued the friendship with someone enough to see them safely brought into their own beds.

Al found the ship like a little slice of wonder even in these situations: the turrets of the cruiser had been transformed into artificial hills of flowers and grapes, with lush carpets and colourful silken curtains forming little rooms of privacy – be it next to softly burning firepits looking as if they had been transplanted from rich an dark forests or next to a gently running fountain of rock and paper mâché that invite the visitor to sit down with a poem engraved in its rim. And between these were people who invited her for drinks, for cards and in one case even an old Trubec game played by using coloured ankle bones of goats for dice. There was alcohol, there was smoke and a never-ending supply of snacks of both the sweet and the savoury kind, from backed dates to smoked ham and melon. There were artists and journalists, military officers of different nations and the court of the Marchesa herself – either young and wide eyed or matured and with flickers of red squirming beneath their eyes and below their skin: both captivating in their own way and able to lead their chosen partners off into more secluded corners for tender ends to the night.

But while their squad leader could enjoy the night as a lovely conclusion to something sweet and exotic that seldom reached the Duchy on other days – things were a bit more alien to Dawson, the tailor turned pilot finding himself surrounded by people who claimed the old Empire of Trubec not merely as a distant past and common root, but as a living legacy that continued to thrive in them. A little but too much maybe, if one kept in mind that the vast expanse of the former Empire had been carved out by warring bloodbeasts centuries ago, but it was an interesting experience to hear the tongue of his family spoken in different accents, to see customs that were just slightly off from what he knew and be threated as an outsider despite the commonality that even a quick walk into the night would show. Maybe it was akin to two parts of a family having drifted apart over the centuries, brothers turning into distant relatives – maybe it was the all-encompassing influence the Marchesa seemed to wield over both her human and blooded followers: her title was on every lip be it for a praise, as a curse or for the simple necessities of pay, order and employment. Who knew if he was staring into a slice of the past – or into a funhouse mirror of what life under the Empire might once have been like.

While her comrades ventured into the warm night to spirits and spices, Mavis couldn't – wouldn't or maybe a little bit of both. Was it the Marchesa's Will or the Marchesa's knowledge of human and the redheads nature in particular that made her play along with the expectations levelled upon her by the mere presence of the silken vestige and the gleaming shoes with their soft clacks on the ships floor? What was a song against crossing swords with a beastly lord of the marchesas choosing – what was the difference as long as she got her will? Mavis moved in the dress and the shoes, but she moved with her own purpose and her choice of song was as much her choice as it was her sign to the undying beast listening to her – who merely raised a drink at the songs of the redheads choosing, before disappearing into the night, trailed after by flushed looking men and woman to whom not even Mavis music could not reach as the traipsed into the night with delight and trepidation…


But every night must come to an end and the new day found the Wonder Wings members sprawled over mattrasses they might or might not have reached the night before. The soft vibration of machinery was felt, and the cries of sea gulls might have awakened them as the sunlight was streaming down upon the Sparviero, which was gleaming in silvery white and soft birch-wood upon its hide of steel. The pavilions and the growth of the past night had been dissembled – or maybe just torn down and thrown overboard, the Marchesa might not care about their prize once used. To the onlooker the ship was proving worthy of its name, the swimming palace transformed into a sleek vessel its three stacks bellowed ash and smoke in its wake, two powerful propellers moving it forward and leaving the blue waves in its wake. Like a silvery arrow the Sparviero was hurling itself across the sea and towards the home of the Marchesa: the gleaming port of Tajni.

This was a ship of the waves, not the skies and it was felt with each step over the swaying deck, with each salty breeze reaching your nose and, in many ways, it was different from the vessels that had carried your wing so far. Where the DOP was professional but heartfelt, the crew of this cruiser was stiff and sharp to the point it must have hurt: no sailor was moving idly, no uniform had a button or a crease out of place. And it did neither have the easy comradery, for all the rivalries, that ran through the DOP or the tight sisterly bonds of the Witches: there were clear distinctions in rank, in uniform and in behaviour. The Marchesa had not stepped into the sun, but her chosen officers were ever present: a few blood miserably moving across the ship with human adjutants carrying umbrellas and supplies for them, while flushed looked half-blooded were leading groups of mere mortals, their dark complexion and heavy Trubec features showing utmost concentration with every step. There were only two groups which stood out from the general sense of iron discipline that the ship was exuding: The Court and the Daughters.

But whereas the Marchesa's Daughters were patrolling the ship with a sense of purpose and light conversation – while keeping their distance to everyone else and only resting their heavy fire-lances when taking a break in the shade to cool themselves and their armour – the Courtiers had no such purpose. They were a mixed group, the only one in fact, of blooded, beasts and humans. They wore splendid outfits, some at the heights of Republican fashion, others archaic enough that they might have exited a painting on the glory days of the Trubec Imperial Expansion. Some spent their hours painting, the ship, the waves – always the Marchesa; while others sang or wrote – all of them ever working on new projects and ever mindful of what their patroness may like or not. They were both impressive and pitiful that way.

For now the fate of the Wing mirrored this existence – the Sparviero was moving against the warm streams, at an angle to the known feeding grounds of the young Leviathans and only close to a single hunting ground of an elder one. Optical tools were deigned enough for now – even if there were a few test flights from the catapult at the back of the ship, the whole construction laid over two turrets like a mobile sort of bridge – a little bit wobbly, but serviceable both for starting and landing.
 
One question. It just took one teeny, simple question to know this was going to be a vexing assignment when a cosmetic-free and DOP regulation PT uniformed clad Mavis blearily padded her way out of her cabin just before the crack of dawn.

"Lady Harper, what can I do for you this morn?" queried one of the Daughters stationed nearby the wings assigned cabins as Mavis covered the end of a yawn with a hand.

Cerulean eyes made contact with crimson ones, the Harper scions' shoulders drooping with a sigh. "First off, just call me Mavis. Titles make my skin crawl. Secondly, nothing for now. I'm going to see if my wingmates want to join me for a morning workout. Get a lay of the land (heh) by doing a couple of laps of the boat, find the gym, that sort of thing."

"Apologies, milady. I didn't mean to offend you," came the obsequious and disappointing response the noblewoman had known was coming.

Mavis gave a rueful chuckle as she gently rapped on Al's and then Dawsons' door to the beats of 'shave and a haircut'. "Don't worry, you didn't. I've been offended by professionals."


Her wingmates probably could tell something was off with the redhead, with her resorting to terrible puns almost immediately just to make somebody laugh:

"C'mon Al! It's not that bad. You just gotta trade in those 'B' legs for some 'C' legs," she japed towards Al need when stalwart woman needed a few minutes to get her bearings on the swaying deck after a particularly large set of breakers.

"Dawling, I bet you didn't know that historically pirates were quite progressive in their labor practices, most crews reserving a portion of their loot into an early sort of worker's compensation that paid for peg-legs, hooks, or other crippling injuries. It's true! Because they weren't big fans of arrr-bitration," which got a laugh from her friend at breakfast.

"Did you hear about the Red Runner and the Blues Traveler colliding accidentally at sea? All the sailors were marooned!" Mavis did a little fist pump at causing a pair of the Marchesas' taciturn sailors to have to cover up a laugh by clearing their throats. She also didn't fail to notice some of the crew humming a few bars after she belted out a lively rendition of Captain Albert Alexander, no doubt to the consternation of the artistes on the foredeck.

However, the real evidence that their fun-loving friend was not her usual self was was the glower on her face at seeing a young man boy attempting to sing the soprano parts of an Old Trubcian Canticle. The inflicted teen failing repeatedly due to the cracking of his voice. The redhead had promptly stomped over to meddle in a doomed attempt to salvage the situation...
 
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The Loomis family had long roots in New Boromih. As one of the founding families, they had long separated from the mainland Old Duchy. Still they understood their history, and how the small Duchy had gradually shrank, and shrank, and shrank during the Trubc Imperial Expansion. And how so many Kubutians suddenly found themselves as subjects of the Empire and the bloodbeasts.

This in mind really impressed on Dawson the alien-ness of these distant relations. Indeed the familiarities made the differences all that much more stark. Some differences he liked... and some he did not like. The accents he found fascinating. In particular the different syntax and words sprinkled into the accents. The Trubc-Kubutian word for "peace", for example, sounded very similar to their word for "food". As a fellow Kubutian, Dawson appreciated that. Also the ones that incorporated the rarely used, native tongue of the bloodbeasts. A hypnotic language the Marchesa no doubt knew well. That he would like to study in depth.

Whispers in the dark.

The cleaving to Trubec Imperial culture he did not appreciate. His persona aside, Dawson came across as a thoroughly modern man. He cared about competency and character. If a person had those traits, that person could be a Forest dryad or bloodbeast for all he cared. As to Trubc culture, their adherence smacked more of the hidebound thinking of the bloodbeasts than the ancient Trubc culture. Just that in this case, much of the worst of Trubc culture had also been preserved. He wanted to just slap the high off some of those over-indulged faces.

Kubutians knew how to party and still show up for work the next day.

Still the highs and lows of the evening all became a lovely learning experience. He learned more in that one night than the lorekeepers of his family had chronicled. The Mathildes Three would go bananas about this deployment and want details. So in addition to playing bodyguard, Dawson also kept his situational awareness keen to pick up on all sorts of details his family would appreciate.

So all in all, Dawson looked a bit apprehensive, perhaps, at times, but in his own fastidious way, he enjoyed himself.

To say he looked happy when Al retired for the night would be an understatement. He wanted to just drop on his bed, dress uniform and all. But ingrained habit told him to hang his clothes and tend to his gun. Or guns in this case. If only that he carried his service pistol while his personal one lived as back up in his luggage. Then he slept like the dead. An issue of Guns & Bullets draped across his chest.

Okay, so he purchased a subscription.

Mavis found Dawson wide awake the next morning. What he lacked in hours, he made up for in depth of sleep. He looked remarkably chipper, and much to her chagrin... once more proved to be a morning person. Obviously, some ancient evil, perhaps the bloodbeasts, had gotten to him years ago. That proved the only rational conclusion.

Anyway, yes, Dawson had been up for some time judging by his kit being arranged and his ongoing push ups after he replied, "Two bits."

Mavis had an eye for aesthetics. And Dawson, in his regulation PT outfit, had changed over the time she'd known him. If anything he had gone from thin to wiry. Maybe even a bit muscular under the many small (and according to the Gun Witches, fading) scars. Whatever she may think of his appearance, he had slowly matured from the quiet tailor into someone quite different.

Yet somehow just the same.

"I see my suggestion to go with the mauve running shoes was not in vain." This while he was still doing push ups.

Though he stopped his push up and locked eyes with her when she didn't make a quippy retort. The silence during their run heightened his concern. The terrible joke at breakfast, which he laughed heartily at, thinking of dear Uncle Otti, actually deepened the worry further. Finally, after seeing her "intervention" with the young singer, Dawson approached her in a quiet moment.

"Mavis, what's wrong?" When usual litany started, he gently cut her off, "I mean what's really wrong?"
 
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"Mavis, what's wrong?" Dawling asked, momentarily catching her off guard.

Mavis turned toward Dawson, head quirked to the side as she debated on how to explain. But not before making sure no one but her wingmates were listening nearby, which would be guaranteed with the seeing as they were alone on the vast expanse of the aft deck. Mavis leaned back on the imposing grey wall of the turret casemate and answered her friend.

"Have you ever been the the Royal Zoo back in New Boromih? They have a Montane Woodlands Liger, donated by the Woodsie-Lady of the Southern Forest," the redhead said, pulling out one of her black and gold cigarettes. Oddly enough, she didn't seem to want to smoke it, instead walking it through her knuckles mechanically.

"So this liger, this magnificent wild beast, has worn a path into the floor of the enclosure by it's pacing. Stuck in it's own little curated slice of hell. Never will stalk freely under an open sky again. But that's not a spectacle enough to capture the attention. So for a more 'authentic' experience they play the roars of wild ligers. Have preset feeding times so the crowds can watch this half-ton killing machine docilly eat meat tossed at it like table scraps to the family cat. That's -," the redhead derisively espoused.

Dawson interrupted the growing tirade, "I meant what's really wrong?"

"The quiet. It offends me," Mavis growled out.

"Pardon?"

Mavis took in a deep breath, before letting it out through her nose. "It's the same oppressive stillness that strangled my family after my siblings died. The household staff creeping about on tenterhooks, dealing with my mother seeking solace in spirits while my father threw himself into work. Seemed like nothing I did worked; screaming uselessly into that void to see some reaction, any spark of life. Just a canary singing out it's warning and being willfully ignored."

The redhead verbally plowed onward, "tell me, Dawling, how much did they extol the world that was to you last night? Not the old country or the culture. But 'how things should be'. Hmm? Have you heard any of the Daughters voice their opinions? Of course not, they must present the ideal picture of servility. Here's a quandary for you both. Have either of you even heard a Lady-damned actual laugh from the Marchesa or her people yet? One that I didn't compel by intentionally tipping the scales?"

The redhead glanced down at the crushed remains of the cigarette in her hand, frowned and then flicked the remains far enough out that the wind caught it and blew it overboard. "That poor boy was practicing that chant 'like he always did, because she liked it that way'. Jokes on him, he's not a castrato so I'm betting he'll be tossed aside with all the thought of a child with a broken toy when his collons finally drop. Like the liger, this frippery that surrounds us is all smoke and mirrors that poorly hide the drab cage walls. Man-eaters lulled into placidity by an illusion of a better place and time. Terminal old world blues, stuck in that same path they've walked on for centuries. Long after us mere mortals are but motes of ash and dust, they'll probably telling themselves the same comfortable lies. Just going through the motions, having long forgotten they were alive. Shuffling about like the walking dead through an existence of quiet, lonely ennui. I'd never wish such a terrible fate upon anyone. Even the butchers."

Mavis had whispered that last part as she stared at the far off horizon. "They need to make a choice like I did; either get busy living or get busy dying."

She turned her attention back to her friends with a rueful smile. "But as the old adage goes; dying is dead easy, living is hard."
 
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As she left and explored the ever dimming deck she found herself drawn in by the way this ship of war had been transformed into a facsimile of a rolling countryside, or what she assumed a countryside looked like. She'd only ever seen battlefields and city sprawl. Though the roving bands of revelers did put a damper on the bucolic surrounds. Cards and dice were not her vices, though drinking is something she was quite interested in. Though she was supposed to be the noble level headed leader, tonight she wanted to at least indulge a little. The alcohol flowed easy and sweet she even went drink for drink with another party goer, though he was already ahead of her in drinks before she started but she was trashed by the end of it.

Though Dawson's presence wasn't unnoticed. He kept close watching her back and keeping aware while she engaged with the people. Maybe that was another reason she threw caution to the wind. She had backup. Though she was only going to do this for tonight, there were things to be done and it wouldn't do if she was drunk or hungover for all the days between now and their arrival. But for tonight she would let loose. Glad hand with some of the court, share bawdy jokes with merchants, and shared drinks with off duty guards. Making herself known at least a little bit.

By the end of the night the Wing Leader was putting all her focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Even with all this focus she could still waved off anyone that offered to walk her back to her cabin. It helped that Dawson was there to step in and say she already had assistance. Once she was in her room, she managed to get out of her uniform before collapsing onto the bed.


The next morning she was woken by Mavis rapping on the door. Al's head rang and her body didn't want to move. However she forced it to move getting up and checking the door. She was mildly surprised to see the redhead in workout gear. With a nod she got into her gear and joined her wing for a jog around the ship. It wasn't the easiest run for her, the pitching and rocking of the ship made her stop every now and again to get her bearings. A sly smile was on her lips as Mavis made her joke.

Even with her head in a fog she could tell something was up, but couldn't put the words together until Dawson broached the subject.

As Mavis gave insight into her feelings Al lowered her brow, letting out a hum. She stopped grabbing a glass of water from a servant that was nearby. It was a bit to take in and she needed a moment to try and put her thoughts together.

"That doesn't sound good…" She started, "Being stuck doing the same things over and over again. But, what can we do? They've likely been in this rut since the hills and we are outsiders. It is awful, what they are going through but, they don't realize it or they do and don't see a way out. With the Liger we can let it out of the cage and take it home but, is that possible to do here? Where do they go? What do they do to get out of this? I don't know but, maybe we can bring some joy, being the quirky outsiders from the Duchy? Then we're the spectacle I guess. I don't really have a good answer. Let's just hope we aren't one this ship too much longer…" She shook her head putting a hand on Mavis's shoulder. "I understand, and I'm sure me and Dawson are here to listen."
 
There were many ways of trying to break a sombre mood: comradery, boisterous cheer – or in the current case: the sudden blaring of claxons and the sound of trumpets as musicians were clambering onto the foredeck and blowing their instruments with a disciplined frenzy that was surely a remnant from the days before radios and speaker systems. The change that came over the ship was as stark as the changes it must have gone through at night: from one moment to another the sailors were scrambling and their officers were shouting orders in heavy sounding Trubecian, the command just as home on a rowing galley as they were no todays warship. Some of the daughters were moving from their positions with a speed that seemed improbable – but not impossible – in their heavy armour. Using their lances as sticks they were pushing and channelling the civilians and courtiers below deck, with their own voices close enough to the Marchesas own, that no one dared to glance back or disobey as they were getting pushing into safety.

Even as they proceeded into the ship proper, one of the daughters you had seen on the evening before was running your way, the heavy uniform exchanged for a light but not less ornate uniform, saluting swiftly as she turned to face Al: "Lieutenant Croy! The captains ask for your wing to get ready for launch – we have gotten a radio report by a nearby cargo vessel that a Leviathan was spotted where we were planning to enter the currents towards the east. Neither behaviour nor age could be confirmed yet.", came the swift and concise report, before she was beaconing you to follow her towards the stern of the ship. The whole wing already being in jogging clothes was coming in handy now, as your messenger easily kept up a light jog without showing of exertion – if anything she was just staying slow to allow you to keep up without winding yourself.

Your path took you once across most of the ship, the maroon uniform of your guide making sure that the sailors were moving aside as you came rushing by, rolling whole munition carts out of your way as they were getting pushed towards the turrets bunkers. There was a sense of awe on their faces – why you couldn't be sure – and annoyance on their team leaders and officers as you were throwing carefully studied drills out of alignment. Still, that wasn't your worry and if anything, your job was to make sure that the cruiser wouldn't have to try fending off a leviathan with its guns.

All in all the trip was short and mostly defined by hastiness and trying to get people out of the way and it still took a few minutes to race from one end of the ship to the other. Enough time, that you were witness to the unfurling of what would be your runway: something that looked more like a bridge than anything else. There was heavy machinery on the back of the command towers and reaching back from it, over the top of two whole turret rows, was an impromptu runaway – or maybe a mobile one if you wanted to be more positive. The length looked sufficient, the catapult system was clearly derived from airships (but the other way around) and there were barrels full of sand on each set of it. It was a stock-gap feature, a way of giving the Sparviero the option to launch a warbird or maybe three if they pressed things – and that was showing in every bit of the facility. It was clearly added after the rest of the ship was laid down, meaning that it was an even tighter fit both for your machines and their equipment than on the last two airships you had been stationed on.

Still, it should suffice and soon enough a second maroon coloured young woman with hauntingly similar facial features was stepping up to you, giving a light bow as a salute as she handed you a rough sketch of the sea around you. The closest island was on the other side of the leviathan sighting – and a few hours away. You were mostly looking at the open sea – and the beginning of the strong currently spilling eastwards from here on. The sighting wasn't that far away, twenty or thirty minutes by plane maybe – with the Henrietta, the transport that had called, being close to the entry to the currents.

Well, even if it was a giant, a Leviathan was still just flesh and blood and a few bombs or bullets onto its hide should make it dive for a time – or swim away from the current, giving the ships time to get past it before it entered a feeding frenzy…
 
Al waited for a moment giving a slight smile. The sea bird cried and the humming of the engines floated on the air. It was almost peaceful, then the silence was broken by a blaring klaxon. Al couldn't help but laugh. Soon the decks were swarming with sailors and daughters clearing the way. Al stood out of the way letting the crew get about their business. Then one of the daughters called out to her. Apparently they were to make ready to fly, to dissuade a Leviathan from blocking their way into the currents. There was a moment Al thought about not following, Leviathan duty wasn't part of their contract and in their meeting they were assured that they wouldn't need to do anything should the monsters of the deep appear.

But, she shook her head, they were on the ship too, and they couldn't fulfill the contract if they went down with the ship. With a swift nod she followed the daughter just keeping pace with heavily armored woman. Though she could tell the daughter was holding back, so she didn't get too far ahead. Another sign that the beasts were physically superior to regular flesh and less blooded. It was annoying to be coddled to have someone pull their punches, to take pity on her. It wasn't too much longer and they made it to the deck and Al blanched. It was clearly a retrofit, being unfurled like a movable bridge and weighed down by barrels of sand. It was certainly an engineering marvel but, Al would much like a solid deck under her fighter. She would also like a bit more room, it was a tight fit for her tall Knockout, Dawson's wide dual engine bird, and even Mavis's sleek fighter looked stuffed into the space. What she wouldn't give to be back on the Zephyr to have her cavernous hangar around her and it's long wide runway. But, she didn't get to choose her runways and she would have to make due with what she had.

Making her way to a nearby locker she pulled out her fight suit quickly putting it on over her workout gear.

"Well, this should break us out of this rut…" she said, taking up her leather cap.
 
"Pardon?"

Dawson had to do his best, his very best, to keep a straight face.

Oh, Mavis. That is the most noble thing you have ever said.

Rare came the event that truly rattled Mavis. The slings and arrows of nobility had toughened her. He had seen this side of her a couple of times before. He knew the best course of action to be considerate listening and support. Even if some part of him thought the whole emotional rollercoaster felt a little... melodramatic.

But painful experience to her.

So he plastered on a deadpan expression and nodded at the appropriate moments. His eyes softened, as she had seen before, most clearly at the mall. He understood. Even if he didn't speak. He patted her on the shoulder and offered a hug.

Unfortunately, we are living and dying at the same time.

He likewise gave his full attention to Al's reply. She seemed to have a different interpretation. Perhaps she had missed something. Perhaps she had fresh insight from last night's carousing. She made good points too. One, what could they really do? And secondly, with luck they would not be on this floating coffin for very long.

The Four Winds answered his non-prayer. Even found himself chuckling along with Al's laugh.

He jogged along with Al. The daughter's stamina impressed him. No doubt part of the blood, and one more mental note about their physiology.

What made him whistle, however, was the mobile runway. Now Dawson had landed on some blasted small runways. Even landed on a dirt road once. But this contraption looked enough to make a DOP engineer cry. This abomination toed as close to the safety margin as possible and still appeared functional. In a nutshell, Dawson looked impressed.

"I am eager to test this runway," noted Dawson as another daughter approached.

A bit of bubblegum to center him, Dawson listened to the briefing. His face, bit-by-bit, took on a grim expression. His eyes kept running along the charted paths of the ship. Looked to be figuring things out.

Moments later he zipped up his flight suit. "Three-to-one this is an juvenile. Young leviathans often lack a home range and ride the currents. This area is known for that behavior. A few shots and it should flee." He donned his flight cap. "That is best case. Worst case is we are nearing deep water. If it is a benthic leviathan... Well, those things are huge and tempermental even by leviathan standards."

"Lt. Croy, I recommend we prepare for a rotating patrol schedule. At least after our initial launch. Even a skittish leviathan may follow the ship for a few hours to days." He blew a bubble until it popped and smiled. "Reminds me of the Inventionis."
 
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Mavis gave a watery laugh at the support of her friends and roped the pair into surprisingly strong group hug. She didn't care all that much that Al had missed the bouquet for the roses and that Dawling had that slight pinched look around his lips that he got when thinking she was being obtusely maudlin...but they still had listened.

The moment was not to last, as alarms began to sound all over the ship. Al and Dawson felt Mavis sag slightly, followed by an venomously annoyed whisper of "killjoy" directed at the nearest klaxon as she was forced to cease the mandatory togetherness. That had apparently gotten a laugh out of the muscular blonde and a chuckle from raven-haired tailor.

Nothing like an emergency to ruin a good thing. Well, at least flying will shake off these old doldrums.

"Well, that certainly wasn't on the list for today's itinerary," the redhead snarked as she noted one of the score of the Marchesa's daughters running towards them. "Heads up, mini-chesa incoming on your six, fearless leader."

Mavis kept an easy pace at the rear of the group as they scrambled to their aircraft, grimacing as she realized that she'd have to put on her flight suit over her sweaty PT gear. Ugh. She was going to need a long, long shower after this sortie. That didn't mean she didn't keep up appearances as a premiere pilot of the DOP, shooting winning smiles at the ships' crew that were inconvenienced by their passage. However, the...runway (and that was a gross exaggeration of the term) made her blanche as Dawling delivered his verdict on it.

"Yeah...that's going to be...fun to land on," she opined.

The hangar was more accurately described as a garage with delusions of grandeur, with how the Miss Fortune wings scant inches away from touching both of the other airframes. Heck, Mavis nearly performed the selfsame on Knockouts' propeller as she ducked under it to get to the trio of lockers bolted to the back wall.

She threw on her flight gear in mere minutes, the familial ritual a rote task as she listed in to Dawling and Al talk about the sea beasts. She wasn't an expert on Leviathans, seeing as she rather pointedly ignored the issue as she didn't want to get assigned to one of the cushy coast guard posts. The DOP flying boats of the Coastal Defense Force were heavily armed and armored, but were molasses slow compared to even Dawling's twin-engined heavy fighter. Plus she didn't like killing animals who were only following their instincts, let alone the fact that she found some of the leviathans cute in their own way like the deep watchers.

"Well, we'd better all load up with AP ammo if we want any hope of punching through their hides. I'll volunteer to pack banshees, see if we can't ward them off first," the noblewoman offered, referencing the iconic yellow acoustic buoy-bombs that broadcasted sounds the giants of the deep found unpalatable to be around. Well, unless they were well and truly riled. Then all bets were off.

"With any luck we might be able to scare them off for a bit...hopefully until the banshee scuttles itself because the batteries ran dry," Mavis stated as she carefully tucked her coiffure into her flight helmet using her makeup compacts' mirror.
 
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Al couldn't help but feel she'd missed something in the conversation but there wasn't time to think about that she had to get ready to launch. In preparation she did her walk around checking her guns, making sure her cannon was loaded with AP as it normally is. She didn't have much experience with Levathans, much less the sea. But, from the stories the old timers told they weren't anything to mess around with, and from her brief interaction after facing the Forest over the sea, she never wanted to get too close to them.

"I'd say that's a good idea if the bugger decides to try and follow us home." She called out over to Dawson. "But let's do our best to make sure it doesn't try though." She got up onto her machine checking over the ailerons and flaps.

With her checks done she hopped into the cockpit going through her checks, had to be ready to launch at a moment's notice.

"Give us a shout when you need us." Al called out over the radio letting the staff of the ship know they were ready to launch.
 
Dawson plopped on his helmet. "Banshees should work. Especially combined with a few rounds to motivate it."

A hollow thump echoes through the crowded "hangar". Dawson rubbed his head and looked up at the traitorous tail fin. He continued his walk-around of Shroud. On the far side of the plane, he called back, "I volunteer for the first patrol."

Following his gut, he asked one of the hangar crew to open a panel between the left engine and fuselage. He poked his upper body in and another metallic thump echoed. He exchanged words with the crewmember.

"Remember to tighten the bolts after every launch. Even if I do not fire the gun. That is key. Thank you." Little something he learned from the Gun Witches.

Up the ladder and into the cockpit he went. He sighed as he donned his gloves.

Drat. No gunbelt.

Truth be told, one of the whispered rules about dealing with leviathans was thus: if you saw that maw opening for you, shoot yourself first.

Better than the alternative.

Dawson popped his gum and zipped through his pre-flight checklist. Methodical, efficient, and complete as ever. He nodded in satisfaction.

A radio test followed after Al's, "Shroud to Sparviero control. Confirming frequency."

And then damnable waiting. He strapped in and relaxed into his seat, looking up and popping his gum. His thoughts focused on the leviathans. He stood by his initial assessment. Probably a youngster deciding to leave the hunting grounds and ride the coastal stream west. That dovetailed with the earlier briefing. But Dawson found the hulks to be more unpredictable than sailors liked to admit.

He radioed his Wing mates, "If a young one is riding the currents, we will pass right by each other going the opposite ways. The problem is the elder or a young... hormonally motivated... one. Those are the ones more likely to follow ships. No idea of the breeding season in these parts though."

And if it is a randy, benthic leviathan, we are in deep.

And again truth be told, even the scientists aboard the Inventionis had only a basic grasp of leviathan biology. Even after centuries, the creatures remained one of the most mysterious arrivals during the alignment of worlds.
 
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A leviathan posed little threat to a warbird – if anything the true danger of the current mission rested solely on the Sparviero. Be it because letting the leviathan slip by might mean losing the sole place where the wing would be able to land or because the runaway looked one slip away from crashing a starting or landing plane right onto the deck and strew its parts and pillows along the stern – or smash it face first into the back of the superstructure. Well, between the three of you at least Dawson was more than eager to give the missing link between battle cruiser and carrier a try – and if the wide sweeping wings of his dual engine warbird were able to make it, why shouldn't the rest of the wing be able to match?

For one the ground crews looked… green. They had all the fancy, the polish, the uniforms and their non-coms were moving around with disciplined purpose, but it was clear that they had never before placed their hands on state-of-the-art Patrol planes – or at least this particular crew hadn't done so before. Still, they were moving with purpose – and only a few hints of confusion, as they loaded the guns and filled up the tanks – with the large bulbous sonar buoys that were able to confuse and, in some cases, even terrify leviathans into fleeing. Their construction was still a bit wonky at times and who knew how many of them even activated when hitting the water – but their presence had increased survival rates of the blue navy quite tremendously. After all, how would you bomb a Leviathan that has taken to diving?

These might not be the familiar weapons of destruction you knew – but they were an option. For all this was new to you, the shaking of the waves, the groaning of the machinery below and now above you as in the cavernous hangars of airships, there was a certain routine to it all: be it the check list, the actions of the crew or the firm and confident affirmation from the command bridges radio operator – even if the voice sounded close enough to that of your employer and hostess, that you could never be quite sure to whom you were speaking across the radio waves.

But all of this? It was over the moment the Shroud was in position and Dawson was pressed into his seat, the engine roaring and the catapult snapping forward as the blue and golden machine was propelled forward and its dual propellers began to beat frantically. There was a bump – and then another, each a sign of the parted nature of the drawbridge that served as your runway – and serve it did. Before your eyes the Shroud took off – with some meters to spare. Be it because of the engineers or because of Dawsons skill, but it was clear: it was possible. And if something was possible, wouldn't some of the brightest pilots on the world be able to do it?

Launch – and then another and before too long the whole of the 3rd Wing – formerly of the Zephyr – found itself propelled into the air, the familiar element welcoming you with gentle winds as the vast blue ocean stretched out all around you, only a few sharp rocks and tiny island sticking out here and there – for the current was beginning before your eyes and what view it was: The horizon was a churning sea, waves rushing eastwards, a grand spectacle that was elevated from a birds eye – originating from what must be a truly massive maelstrom of some kind, a hole in the ocean that was said to be the gate to the underworld or to some kind of giant tear in the fabric of reality from which leviathans spawned: or maybe it was simply the result of both eastern and western bound current hitting one another, forming an area that allowed for the easier and cheaper travel to either continent.

Still, this also made it interesting to the Leviathans, be it for travel or for swallowing whatever the currents brought to them. But the ocean was vast, features were few and it took the wing valuable time to find their bearings and make out the Henrietta: a tiny dot just south of the raging maelstrom – using it clearly as a kind of cover against the beast.

Of the Leviathan there was no sign just yet, just the peaceful waters to the north and south – and the swift moving currently between them. But you had found the Henrietta and as you approached your radio sparked to life, with a young and more than worried voice sounding out through your cockpit:

"…f the Republican Merchant Vessel Henrietta calling unidentified planes. Verified the appearance of a horned Leviathan to our north – I repeat Lt. Devose of the Republican Merchant Vessel Henrietta calling unidentified planes. Verified the appearance of a horned Leviathan. Rammed our bow and we have taken water – I repeat it rammed our bow – you can expect it to be agitated. Current location….unknown!"
 
Al was not confident seeing the crew fumble around a little with her ammo and scratch their heads as they looked for the filling port for her fuel. They did eventually figure it out but she was not best pleased with that display. The boat rocked up and down with the waves as they pressed on towards their objective. Another thing that she wasn't pleased about, airship float stones kept the vessel remarkably stable even in turbulence or a pitched battle. Add another thing to why she doesn't like this whole situation.

Dawson launched first looking to just barely get enough lift to soar up into the sky. Well, if his beast of a craft could get up surely she could as well. With her engine purring she radioed control reporting ready to launch. With a smart salute to the ground crew she felt the catapult catch her lead wheel and fling her towards the end of the runway. Pulling back on the stick and increasing her throttle the deck disappeared from under her. The Knockout dropped and Al's heart jumped just a little before the air got under her wings and bore her up into the clouds.

By the Queen she missed the Zephyr, and a certain Technician that was once aboard. She still hadn't written a letter to him yet today, something she would have to do…if she was ever given the time.

Once regrouped they set out towards the sighting, though that was easier said than done. Al was leaning heavily on the new maths skills she'd picked up from lessons with Dawson. Had to calculate their speed (Taking into account the windspeed as well as their own velocity), how much distance they'd covered, and their heading to even have a hope of being close to where they needed to be. It was called dead reckoning and Al wished she was dead by the end of it.

Even with Dawson's help they were still off and left searching around for a while before they found a ship on the horizon. Letting out a long exhale the wing lead took up the radio.

"Henrietta this is Lt. Croy of the Duchess Own Patrol Wing 3, apologies for our late arrival we took a wrong turn at the deli." That bit of humor out of the way she turned to her wing. "Songbird start your search pattern towards the north, I'll take the south, Stitch stay close to Henrietta, you're better with dropped munitions and if the Levi wants to go another round I want you on the trigger for the buoy nearest the vessel. Though I will take any pointers you have on search patterns…haven't had much experience myself. If you see anything sing out and we'll regroup on that location."
 
Mavis flitted around the Miss Fortune like her callsign as she kept a eye on the crews that were doing a lot of learning on the job. The redhead paused as she spied an issue, her clarion voice ringing out over the din of the bustling hangar.

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Cool your fuel, boys! That's the WEP tank!" A baby-faced Boatswain's Mate carrying a fuel hose froze in his tracks and gawked at Mavis. "You know...for the fifty-fifty ethanol and water mix," she expounded at the confused crewman who managed to look even more like a deer in the headlights.

Thankfully for her sanity, a man who knew what he was doing showed up. "Damnation, Jenkins are you colorblind? MW-50 is green, AVGAS is red!", the officer thundered as he physically pointed at the different ports. "Sorry Ma'am, we're not as familiar with latest generation of DOP hardware as we'd like to be."

Mavis waved the apology off, "No worries, Lieutenant. Interceptors like the Miss Fortune are a rare sight outside of DOP airbases and assault carriers. Tell your crew to use the centerline racks for the banshees and to load the whole nine yards of AP."

'Because improper weight distribution is a cast-iron bitch on water takeoffs and landings', the redhead groused to herself as she strapped herself into her warbird and started her laundry list of preflight checks that would lead to the interminable hurry-up-and-wait part of deployment. Luckily for her, the go/no-go for launch got a green light soon afterwards. Now all she had to do was offer a prayer to the Lady for all of them not to die taking off as she loitered behind to launch last from the ramshackle construction by dint of her airframe being the lightest of the trio.

The weight of worry left her chest as soon as both Dawling and Al were successfully airborne, and it was now her time to launch off the slapdash deck. A quick look in her mirrors showed that all the crew was out of propwash range, so she opened up the throttle to full and let the Miss Fortunes' rotary engine roar it's battle cry to all aboard the Sparviero. Due to it's pedigree as a racing plane, the Givrian interceptor had a higher minimum stall speed than her wingmates. Which for her meant that unlike her compatriots, Mavis needed to redline her engine to get near maximum RPMs before she ran out of deck and was unceremoniously dropped into the drink. The catapult fired, launching woman and warbird forward in a blur of blazing red, glittering gold, and polished gunmetal grey.

The lithe interceptor practically leapt skyward as it cleared the last of the decking, Mavis being keen on putting as much air between her and the water as possible. "Well, that's one hell of a way to make sure you're awake for the rest of the day," the redhead snarked over the wing's private channel as the Unluckies formed up.

Mavis was taking her time scanning for their quarry against the tableau of beautiful annihilation presented by the legendary Maw of the Ocean. She had read about it (mainly in her ancestors logbooks), but this was her first time seeing it in person, and boy, it didn't disappoint. Sadly though, she was now pretty sure that Mariana 'Red Corsair' Harper was full of ship when she wrote about using the storied current to slingshot her vessel past a Stratos blockade. Still, the spectacle was both awe inspiring and a little humbling when she finally spotted the floundering ship - a miniscule angular dark smudge riding on top of the churning white cauldron of oceanic currents below.

"There she is! Just south of the Maw," the redhead broadcasted to her wingmates.

Soon enough she had her marching, well flying, orders. Mavis dove to zoom over the stricken ship and waggled her wings as she did so, letting the crew see the DOP roundel: a Penrose tribar tricolor encasing a crown. Now came the hard part of the mission...having to fly at an angle so she could scan the waters below, while also fighting the turbulent atmospheric wind shears that arose from the Maws' presence...
 
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Dawson cracked his gum and replied to the launch order, "Roger, Control. Launch is a go."

He gave a thumbs up to the crew, knocked on his helmet for luck, and revved Shroud's mighty engines. The scene before him did feel unnerving. Of course the length of the runway became one issue. The unfamiliarity of the landscape before him proved the larger problem. The water looked a little too close for comfort. If not for some experience at sea, the bobbing of the ship would have been a recipe for seasickness. Especially gazing at the horizon. Still the horizon should not tilt like a pinball machine.

None of that mattered. Seconds later, the catapult hissed and fired. And he meant fired. The Gun Witch catapults were bruisers. This thing was a leviathan in its own right. A true rookie would walk away with whiplash. Even still the velocity forced the air from his lungs. He didn't even feel the characteristic lurch of his stomach, and how the lurch came at about twice normal strength from the water rising up to greet him.

What did matter is that the catapult worked. Shroud roared skyward. Stitch grinned under his mask.

This should be a ribbon too. Ha!

Banking left, Shroud spiraled upward around the Sparviero. Holding pattern set, Stitch became his scanning routine and double-checked some math. He would freely admit that the numbers felt a little fuzzy. Partly from having to rush the initial calculations and partly from the dearth of good data. But you worked the numbers you had, and Stitch felt confident Wing 3 would find the Henrietta. Just had to run the numbers in real time. Dead reckoning. No problem.

Big ocean out there. Not a lot of places to hide though. For a ship.
His eyes dropped down to the ship now-and-again. Yes, he felt more anxious for his Wing mates. If anything, Miss Fortune would have the most trouble. Songbird mentioned once the higher stall speed for her pusher-prop hummingbird. Made the plane a beast in dogfights and a diva on the runway. No wonder Mavis loved the sleek racing plane.

His worries again proved unfounded. First the big brawler (shot caller) named Knockout uppercutted the air. Next leapt the sonorous Miss Fortune herself and her pilot's welcomed snark. Stitch let out the breath he had held and slipped into formation.

Stitch knew a little about leviathans. He knew nothing about the maelstrom. He knew the whirlpool was natural and that was everything. Seeing the dark depths and white waters made him shiver. For some reason he visualized a vast maw, miles wild, churning underneath those waves.

No wonder there are so many stories about this place.

Then Songbird spotted their target.

Stitch continued scanning the roil as Iron Jaw sit-repped with the Henrietta. Horned leviathans... he racked his brain for information on that classification. At the guard order, he opened the Wing channel, "Affirmative, Iron Jaw. On overwatch."

As to search patterns, "Standard circling at 300 meters is our best bet. Low enough to see a breach and high enough to spot a silhouette. Spy for a surly, spiked shadow the size of a steam ship."
 
"Better late than never!", came the relieved reply of the radio operator to Als little bit of humour, the relief in their voice palpable even over the radio waves as they added "We have taken some water, but the pumps have it under control so far. Still, we aren't eager to risk a second collision today.", the last words in a more beseeching tone, most likely mirroring the thoughts of the small dots strewn out across the deck of the cargo vessel, the crew watching the colourful trio spreading out above them with both hope – and trepidation. Something that became quite more visible and eager close up when Mavis took her light interceptor down for a playful little dance, zooming past the vessel with a jaunty wave of her wings, wiggling her place back into formation after leaving the sailors cheering and waving behind her – there were just some days were the sign of the DOPs tricolour was welcomed openly and eagerly and you were the pilots these people put their trusts in.

But both pageantry and fanfare were just one part of the job and at the moment the more serious and demanding one was at the forefront of every single person involved: a leviathan was in the waters and no one was quite sure which size or age it was. With Als orders and Dawsons two cent added to them, the wing was splitting up, heading across the waves – flying low enough to hear the crashing of the water against the few jagged rocks peaking out of the foaming waves and the low drowning gurgle of the maw, as water was disappearing in its depths rapidly and endlessly, as if the ocean was devouring itself before your eyes.

Waves, foam, waves, the crush of waters. It seemed to continue endlessly from one horizon to another, merely the two ships and the few rocks here and there giving you some kind of sense of direction as you flew over the ocean – low and steady, your eyes searching for what neither the people on the Henrietta nor on the Sparviero would be able to spot easily. Not that it was easy for you either: a fin or a shadow, more would not be readily visible of a leviathan if it wouldn't ascend to the surface and the reasons for the later were seldom and hardly known.

Trying to think back to the days of his training and the flights on his first assignment, Dawson was racking his brain for half forgotten knowledge, rushed training and old tales from past wing mates.

One, two, three, four, five,
Once I caught a fish alive,

​
For if you counted to five while flying over a fin before loosing sight it was a juvenile and was neither dangerous nor necessary to bomb it out of the water. Just ignoring it was fine…


Six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
Then I let go again.

​
…cause the young adults simply wanted to play? Or was it because their skin was already thick enough to withstand light cannon fire when beneath the waves deep enough?


Why did you let it go?
Because it bit my finger so.
Which finger did it bite?
This little finger on the right

​
The finger was a metaphor for …. was it the ships screw? Or maybe it was a warning. Something with the warbird? No, something on the right side – the right of what?

Dawson was getting confused and so far none of his two wingmates had noticed a kind of shadow – or at least they weren't sure if the shapes they were seeing beneath the waves were figments of their imagination or actual leviathans. How was one supposed to tell?
 
Mavis beamed underneath her oxygen mask as she zipped over the tramp freighter close enough to see the crew celebrate the arrival of the Unluckies. And why wouldn't they? As the propaganda posters (rightfully) proclaimed, 'Never fear, for the DOP is here!'.

With flagging spirits buoyed and hope restored the DOP aviatrix pulled upwards in a northerly direction to angels one, her interceptors flight path now racing headlong into the Maws' airspace. As soon as the Miss Fortune crossed above the threshold clearly demarcated by sea turning from calm blue to roiling white did the airborne hazard of the Maw come a-calling: gale-force wind shears. The racket coming from the Breath of the Maw outside was immense, sounding akin to the death rattle of an ancient leviathan as her air-frame flexed audibly under the strain of the wind-walls that surrounded the maelstrom. To Mavis, it felt like the Miss Fortune was being swatted at by some invisible giant bothered by a fly.

'Lady weeps,' Mavis thought with a grimace of exertion as she fought against the shifting winds to maintain altitude; her blue eyes scrutinizing the tempest-swept seas below, 'is this what the Stormcrows have to deal with?'

If there was one thing that Mavis did appreciate her parents (mostly mother) for meddling in during her time during flight school was the sheer breadth of 'safe' postings she had been rotated through before being assigned to the Zephyr in the hopes she'd choose something other than being the proverbial spear-point of the Patrol. One of those stops was the DOPs' Oceanic & Atmospheric Research division, better known to the common citizenry of New Boromih as the Rowers. The intellectuals in OAR mostly delivered the weather and sea-state reports, but appearances were often deceiving. The boys and girls of squadron forty-two were bona-fide daredevils, taking their heavily modified and instrument-laden flying boats into the wildest phenomena they could find in the name of science.

Sadly, while she had been on rotation with the Stormcrows for a few weeks, her stay had coincided during a calm period. Due to the infuriatingly cooperative weather, the redhead only got to barrel though a handful of ropy waterspouts. Nothing akin to the tales the old salts had regaled her with; ones of Mother Natures' fury unleashed. But now those yarns were proving oddly prescient with the turbulence slewing her around like the roller coaster at Century Park. Part of her mind that helpfully pointed out that a heavier, slower aircraft would be having less of an issue was quickly smothered by the redhead catching wind (ha!) of an oddity. An anomalous pair of the jagged black volcanic sea stacks that made up the Maws' teeth had seemingly shifted position in the last thirty or so seconds.

'Wait a tic,' the noblewomans' eyes narrowed in suspicion along with her grip as she prepared to flip her warbird around in another pass, 'rocks aren't supposed to move against the current.'

"Potential contact! Bearing: North and twenty-three degrees East of Henrietta. Distance: approximately two klicks. Target angle: unknown. Reacquiring contact for confirmation." Songbird chimed out over the open channel.
 
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Damn.

His missions aboard the Inventionis already felt like a lifetime ago. Not to mention that spotting a leviathan in calm waters was difficult enough as is. The maelstrom proved to be one of the worse-case scenarios. A giant leviathan could hide out here and no one would be the wiser. Just one look at the white, rolling waves testified to that.

Such were Stitch's thoughts as he settled into a pattern above the Henrietta. Even from his vantage point, he could see the maelstrom's crosswinds buffet Songbird's little interceptor. Sure, munitions were his forte, but out here his heavier plane would be an advantage too. Still Ironjaw had her reasons, and his orders were clear enough. Though to be frank, he would have preferred his Long Tom bombs over buoys.

Oh well.

And he didn't see anything. Roils took dark, familiar shapes only to dissipate. The rocks loomed ominous but at least stayed in one place. Rocks, after all, did not move...

...unless the rocks were near Songbird. She had to have seen rocks that were not rocks. Stitch kept scanning the wine-dark sea and silently hoped she was right. If the leviathan paralleled but didn't approach, well, that would be lucky.

Maybe the Henrietta startled it?

At that point he gave up on dredging old knowledge. He had to admit he just did not have enough information. For all he knew, the leviathan lurked right under the Henrietta. He sat upright in shock, and looked down at the Henrietta. More specifically, just under and around the ship.

Unconsciously, he flipped up the arming switch cover for the first buoy. Best to be ready.
 
Al swung south away from the Maw, this intervention was a little out of her wheelhouse. She was a fighter pilot specializing in Hard Target Destruction. Leviathan hunting was not something she was prepared for or trained in but, the basics were simple enough though she worried her eyes wouldn't be sharp enough to catch the movements in the water. While she was good at noticing small changes in her opponents stance and movements in the ring, this was a little different. She was still looking for movement but she was far away from it, the movements of the sea hiding what lies beneath.

Her search continued, unsure if she'll find anything the ocean beneath her she could barely see anything. Letting her eyes unfocus for a moment to rest them. She came back around doing another pass looking for any movement or something that could give her a sign that a monster lurked beneath the waves.

She thought she noticed something a shadow moving, or thought was moving, then Songbird's message came in. Seems she might have found it.

"Noted Songbird." She replied her eyes narrowing again trying to discern if she was just seeing things.
 
Rocks do not move – a truth and wisdom that was most often true: outside of landslides. Even so, with the churning waters all around you it was hard to say if the rocks had indeed moved or if Mavis latest turbulence had simply shaken her enough to loose orientation for a few crucial moments. Still, an alarm was an alarm and as Al moved to have Knockout on the lookout side by side with the Miss Fortune, both pilots kept their eyes peeled and their gaze firmly on the waves below – the endless expanse of the sea hiding their quarry from their inquiries even as they flew looping circles over the windy waters, straining their machines against the wind battering them and straining their eyes with the unfamiliar ground below: a far cry from the land-based targets or the mock-ups of airships that their training had involved spotting.

But as much as the two of them struggled – it was both hard to find the rocks that Mavis had seen and even harder to proof if they were moving or not. From on heigh they were jagged ragged tooth pointing into the sky and it was easy to imagine them as part of a giant sea monsters – but were they? Even as the two of them put their fantasy to work, something else distracted them: a gagging noise of surprise coming over the radio from their third wingmate.

It was Dawson who had a sudden sinking feeling in his guts, like a student who had missed the date of a pop quiz and was now looking at their answers becoming horribly wrong in hindsight. There had been lessons, short ones maybe, but he had listened to a talk or two about Leviathan behaviour – and both the young and the barely adult of this heterogeneous group of giant sea beasts had a preference for keeping behind a ship: be it because they thought it parent, prey or were merely confused by the noises of the ships screw. This thought came of course too late – for it was the belated realisation he had when seeing the dark ship that had hidden itself in the ships wake: a large dark shade that wasn't below the Henrietta, but close enough that the difference was merely academical.

Judging from the size of the sharp fins sticking out he was looking at…an adult? Or maybe a large youth? Images and textbook snippets were swimming before his eyes again, but none of them was of any help with what little information he had: either the thing was a young which saw the Henrietta as a toy and might want to play with it – or it was a youthful adult full of predatory instinct but without the experience to know that steel was hardly a filling meal for it.

…to drop the buoy or not…
 
Stitch could not help but gag and choke. The beast was huge! And close enough to the Henrietta a crewman could hit it with an empty bottle!

"Confirmed Contact! Bearing east... 20... meters aft of the Henrietta... matching the Henrietta's bearing." His voice started high and, word-after-word, lowered to his usual, rumbling monotone.

Without thinking, he flicked the arming switch.

His thoughts raced after the probabilities. Young or youthful adult did not matter too much. Both would be prone to ramming the ship again. But a collision is a different from a bite. Especially of a specimen of this size. He had to make a decision now. Very possibility the leviathan only now surfaced: Wing 3 could have missed it on the fly-by. Which meant it could be moving in for another collision.

It's the same length as the Henrietta. Maybe longer? Wider...

Catastrophic damage. Massive flooding as superstructure and bulkheads collapse. Nil survival rate in maelstrom.

May not have intent to collide. Could be following after initial collision. Buoy could enrage it.

His orders were clear.

This too shall pass...

The Henrietta disappeared under Shroud. The buoy's trajectory mapped over his vision. Water impact starboard of midship. Ship's wake would push the buoy away from the hull. Leviathan would detect the buoy to its right. Minimized opportunities to conflate the buoy with aggression from the ship. Maximized sonic transfer to the leviathan. Let the Banshee work its magic.

Stitch's thumb flipped open the bomb-release switch and pressed the button.

...as but a dream.

"Buoy One away," came the mechanical addendum, "Circling to confirm deployment and target traits."

Beneath the DOP heavy fighter, a conical form dropped free. A white light began flashing and helicopter-like fins opened to slow the buoy's descent. Followed by a splash.
 
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The reversal to re-acquire the contact wasn't going to be a 'fun' one by the redheads' standards as the motion would 'catch the wind' with the Miss Fortunes entire wingspan. Under normal conditions, said turn would be more curved like going round a hairpin turn. Within the Maw, the aerial u-turn was turned into a v-turn the moment the interceptors' wings were parallel to the prevailing winds: shot-putting the aviatrix and her warbird back around with all the vigor of a cartoon trampoline.

Mavis was prepared for the high-g turn: being one of few pilots in the DOP that had to worry about losing consciousness due to her role as a air-to-air intercept specialist. The Miss Fortune had foot-rests installed above the rudder pedals so that her feet and legs could be raised during dogfights to minimize the negative effects of high-speed turns. After all, large rudder deflections were often not necessary during such moves. But being able to cut inside her opponent's turning radius was.

Those modifications were coupled with a breathing technique that 'emphasized the proper mechanics for physiologic enhancement of tolerance' or furball parlance the 'Hook Maneuver'. So named for it's inventor, Captain Killian 'Hook' Barrie. Mavis began tensing her muscles as soon as she felt the downward force of the Gs. Normally when the G-forces pushed downwards, blood would pool in the abdomen and the legs. But by tensing, she kept the blood pumping in her heart and brain. Next the redhead quickly inhaled and intoned "hoo," before stopping the sound for a few moments while strongly exhaling. Once done breathing out Mavis finished the word by uttering the final consonant, "k". Now all noblewoman had to do was rinse and repeat the process until she had completed the turn. By doing these fast breathing repetitions it allowed enough time to let blood flow into her heart and chest, but not so much for the blood to leave her brain and cause a midair blackout. Nevertheless, her vision still went slightly grey at the edges as she powered through the slingshot reversal.

Feet back on the rudder pedals and on intercept course with her potential contact dead ahead, the DOP aviatrix was about to drop down for a closer look when her radio crackled to life with the sound of an alarmed Dawling:

FO Dawson 'Stitch' Loomis said:
"Confirmed Contact! Bearing east...20...meters aft of the Henrietta...matching the Henrietta's bearing."
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

Ruby-painted lips cursed in apt summation, "Merda."

Focus girl. Now is not the time to dwell on your mistakes.

Thankfully, her wingmate was already on the ball as the weighty bulk of the Shroud gracefully nosed downward into a picture perfect dive-bombing run. A quick glance down at her reported contact revealed why it had bamboozled her: what had appeared as a pair of sea stacks was just a solitary one. The waves and currents of the Maw had eroded deep into the dark sedimentary spire, riddling it with passages that funneled seawater all the way through the structure and created marine geysers. The dark waters of the maelstrom rushing into and then out of the the blowholes, caused the true form of the sea stack to be cloaked from sight by being perpetually awash in the shapeless white sea foam.

"No joy on previous contact. Adjusting course to new intercept. Weapons hot," the noblewoman broadcasted simultaneously with the banshee impacting the water right behind the Henrietta. Seconds later, the Miss Fortune clawed its way out of the Maw like a bat out of hell, the succubus of the skies herself fully hellbent in not to being too late to assist with the catch of the day.
 
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Al's eyes focused, putting all her attention on the rolling waves, searching for anything that might be their hulking target. How could something so big be so hard to find? Sure the sea was vast and wide but with a smaller search area it should make it easy. Though they were warned that the best would dive deep into the ocean. That likely made it difficult, feet of water between her and the ship wrecker. She turned again making another pass checking her fuel and altitude as she got back on her search pattern. The turn was slow and wide, not needing to turn hard or quickly, not that her bulky attack craft could turn tighter than a drunk bull. Her eyes began to lose focus seeing nothing but blue sea all around her. Souring her face, her eyes sweep over the rolling waves finding nothing.

Then the call came in from Dawson, her eyes snapped out of their malaise and looked up with focus.

"Bloody Hell," She exclaimed. Turning again she pushed her throttle to the maximum, her engine roaring at her command. "On my way Stitch." Al flipped the arming switch on her buoy prepared to drop hers should Dawson's fail to push the monster away. Again she second guessed herself, should she drop hers as well to double up their chances of heading off this beast, or wait to see if the initial attack works.

Her fingers hovered over the release ready to drop but wondering if she should just do it now…
 
While Mavis was turning with all the grace and daring she could put into her spin and Al was throwing her heavy craft around like a knight coming in for another lance, Dawson was diving down, throwing his warbirds weight into the curve that carried him across the Henrietta – uncaring of just how close he came to its stacks and how tight its smoke was billowing across his canopy for a small endless moment – and then release.

Dawson could only hear the breaking of waves, the cries of the water being rushed against the rocks and the straining of his own engines as the air around him filled with water that was getting thrown up from below. The rest of his wing saw a far mightier spectacle, while their comrade was above it.

Mavis might be excused for thinking that the ground was rushing to meet her as she was already seeing dark spots in the edge of her corner as she pirouetted midair, but Al had a far better vantage point and saw that it wasn't the see ground rising to meet her wing, but rather a mass that easily matched the Sparviero - or even out massed it. From above it looked as if a reef had suddenly replaced the surface of the water next to the Henrietta, at least till it started to unfold. A hardened spine and heavy fins, more akin to spears in their tips than anything, where shaking off the water and moving agitated – while mighty feelers unfolded, soon tasting the air and shifting through the water, each tentacle as thick as a tree and moving with both strength and agitation as they hit the waters surface, trashing through the already churn sea as Dawsons buoy bopped up and down with its red and white inflated ring, its tip alight with an inbuilt lantern, its true purpose unseen to the human eye and only readable by the increased trashing of the leviathan that had surfaced to check on what was torturing its senses.

From above the giant sea creature was a mass of fins, scales and barbed feelers – its back and side showing bright scars and still unhealed wounds, the waters around it reddened, while its scales were shining in a dull dark green that seemed to swallow the light if one peered too closely at it. There was no sign of eyes, for what you saw was merely the tip of the creature – and this was large enough to seriously endanger most civilian ships when colliding. A fate the Henrietta was seemingly spared – Dawsons drop had made the creature surface and the sailors were doing their best to gain some distance. But maybe it was the current, maybe the machinery had been damaged, whatever it was: this was proving a slow manoeuvre and the creature was moving dangerously close to the ship again in its agitation, the buoy successful in pushing it away for the moment – but the currents were pushing it towards the Henrietta in a loop again!
 
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