As the meal wound down, the three young name givers are not quite surprised to find that it's late into the night. The winds have slowly started to pick up, buffeting the air ship from side to side. As the dwarves cleared the remains of the meal, they also began fastening down loose gear and materials aboard the ship.

Wearily returning to their cabins the young name givers stretched out in the bunks, each quietly examining their own thoughts as they drifted off to sleep...

Sleep didn't come easy to any of the three, restless they each rocked to and fro in their hammock style bunks as the ship cut a path through the sky. The air was crisper up this high, cooler-and fresher than anything they'd ever breathed. As each finally drifted off to sleep they wondered what adventures lay ahead of them.

Coaul, experiencing a fitful sleep, awakens Isil sometime during the night, whispering, "Should we take a look around?"

Isil rubs his eyes. "I can't sleep anyway. Might as well look around." He steps out of the hammock and stretches before looking over to Garon and back to Caoul. "We should let him get his sleep."

Garon's hammock had been hastily assembled from several dwarven hammocks, and it still didn't really fit him; his legs, bent at the knee, hung over either side of the end of the bunk, and his head was still at the very edge of the netting. In the first moments he'd tried it, he'd considered just sleeping on the unsteady floor, but sleep took him before he could bother; the excitement of the day, combined with the peace he felt aloft, put him immediately into a deep, restful slumber.

His dreams were powerful, unnaturally real. He felt himself dance from cloud to cloud, his ancestral crystal sword in hand. Energy radiated from it, strings of force empowering him as he leapt through the sky. Joy suffused his being, and his muscles felt charged, anxious to fight, to strive. He had never known anything like this freedom, this openness, this power.

Garon rolled over in his net, a smile on his broad lips. He slept the sleep of a new world.

As Caoul wakens he can hear the rain that has started, washing over the ship. As he stirs, Isil awakens too, looking over at Caoul he shakes the sleep off.

"I can't sleep anyway. Might as well look around." He steps out of the hammock and stretches before looking over to Garon and back to Caoul. "We should let him get his sleep."

Caoul nods, and for a brief second the two simply stare out the small porthole at the rain. Both had read about it, but other than a few small artificially generated showers at the lattice farms neither had really seen rain on this scale before. As the two start towards the hatch that leads out and upward a shrill whistle breaks the near silence! Exchanging brief glances the two wonder briefly what it means, when suddenly dwarven cries of alarm answer that question.

"Alarm!"

"Incoming Raiders!"

"To arms! To arms!"

"Man your battle stations"

Garon shifts in the undersized hammock, and before he can finish rousing he is suddenly thrown to the ground as the ship slams hard to the starboard side. A thunderous explosion throws Caoul and Isil to the ground as well, as the ship dangerously tilts starboard. Cannon fire splits through the night air, some coming from the ship they're on-bit others from afar. Through the porthole they can see gout's of flame ripping through the night sky.

Clearly they were under attack.

Imagined flight becomes briefly real as Garon falls from his bunk; the rough wooden decking rises to meet his face with a sharp crack which would have left another man with a fractured skull or at least abrasions, but the skin of a troll is a thick, leathery thing, full of calcium deposits and hardened to the world. Still, he was no more immune to bruising than anyone else, and this one would be noteable.

He came awake quickly, his senses sharp. Something of his dream bled into reality, and the urge to do battle was very, very strong. He stumbled to his armor as the airship rocked beneath him; comfort aboard ship was one thing, but his air legs were not yet with him. Twice while shrugging into his armor, he fell, and it was only after the second time, when he heard Isil's sharp intake of breath, that the others occurred to him.

He was furious with himself. He'd let himself get too consumed by his own internal sensations, and had forgotten, if only for a moment, his purpose: to keep these two safe. There was little he could tell the kaer of the conditions outside that these could not, but they - with their unique skills and knowledge of magic and fauna - were essential to the eventual survival of their community.

He took his ancestral sword by the hilt and let the biting touch of its rough crystal hilt punish him into adherence. He used the sword as a crutch, to lever himself up against the swaying deck, and said simply, "Come." He looked into the eyes of the other men, and was pleased by what he saw there. Truly, in these two at least, the council had chosen well.

Isil struggles to buckle his armour on as the ship rocks and shakes.

All he can think about is that he has absolutely no idea what makes an airship fly - what subtle and delicate part keeps the whole thing aloft and is no doubt even now being shattered in thousand pieces by... After a moment, his fear eats itself, and he takes on a look of grim determination as he affirms to do anything other than plummet to his death on a falling airship.

The last buckle is in place, and he looks to the door. "We have to get on deck, Garon. Get us up there!"

Coaul stirs at long lost, shaken by all too sudden jolt of the airship, the continous din, and the sight of orange-red tongues of flame. Still callow in great ways, he puts his trust in big Garon to lead the way to safety, "Yes! Garon, please!"

Charged by their courage and confidence, Garon rolled his shoulders beneath his leather armor and brought his sword up. Gently, he placed the flat of the blade against his forehead and concentrated briefly. He'd done this many times before, but he realized just now he'd never truly needed to; this was the first time in his life that'd he'd had to fight for his own survival. Kalf had prepared him well; he knew nothing of fear, but also refused to give in to the passionate call of battle rage. We walked the thin line between.

The bright crystal and dark metal of his grandfather's sword was cool against his bare head, and he concentrated on that sensation, the touch of steel on skin, the skin itself, how it held to his bones and muscles, how it pulled tight against his joints. He felt every inch of it, focused on altering it, matching the hardness of his heart with the hardness of his skin.

In moments, it was as if he were hewn from finest mahogany, its grain rippling across his skin like living wood. Now he was ready. Now he would face them.

Without a word, only a proud and excited look back, Garon led the way onto the deck.

Garon's size was an immediate disadvantage on board the ship, this became clear very quickly. Their movement was slow, but steady-made difficult by the narrow passageways, and by the sudden listing of the ship from side to side as cannon shots impacted it. More than once they were forced to take another route by frantic dwarves who were loading fireshot into cannons, or hauling it to the deck; or performing damage control. Once they had to stop as a cannon shot slammed through the wall in front of them, nearly slamming into Garon, who was hit with shrapnel.

As they came out of the forecastle and onto the deck they could see that chaos had broken out, Trolls were on the deck, each decked out on black leathers with bright and shining crystal swords and axes. Each troll was fighting several dwarves, who were vainly trying to defend the firecannons on the main deck. At the same time rounds were slamming into the ship from the four Troll Drakkar's  that had taken position alongside the starboard side. Two were firing, the other two were trying to disembark more Troll warriors onto the deck.

They saw Junipero on the deck directing the battle. She saw the three young men and concern flashed across her eyes.

The first step onto the broad deck came with a sigh of relief from Garon; the tight confines of the belowdecks made even movement difficult for Garon, and would have made any kind of combat involving his sword - itself longer than any dwarf - nearly impossible. The sight of the combat raging on the deck was no better, though, although at least it had the grace to expose what had, below, been concealed: four drakkars - Garon knew them from his grandfather's tales - full of raiding trolls.

Some part of him rushed across the intervening space, knocked a few attackers from their perches to fall, screaming, into the darkness, lept across the open space to take and hold the drakkar as his own. Fortunately, despite the flights of his fancy, his body remained rooted in place, concealing the belowdecks door behind his bulk.

He put his back to the combat, crowding Isil and Caoul but keeping them guarded. Over the din of combat, but not so loud as to alert their enemies, Garon asked urgently, "Can you cast spells, without --" he made a gesture, indicating madness, or the explosion of one's head; it was difficult to tell. "Is the magic here broke?"

He castigated himself for not asking the other man before now, before it mattered. They'd been too lulled by the dwarves' ways to do the job they'd been sent to do: assess the survivability of this world. But recriminations were for later: right now, he needed to know what Isil could bring to the combat. He had no doubt about Caoul's combat ability; provided the man didn't freeze up or do anything foolish, he'd be perfectly safe, given his barehanded fighting skills, which were probably as great or greater than Garon's own. But if Isil could not use magic, a great advantage would be lost.

Coaul slowly regains his composure admist the clash, realizing that his two companions need him now more than ever. He turns to Isil and speaks, "Any ideas? Probably not wise to charge right into the thicks of things."

Isil's looks a little nervous as Garon makes the head-exploding gesture. "I think I'll be able to use magic. But we may not need to..." He looks out over the battle, lost in thought for a moment.

"Down! We've got to take it down, out of the line of those things!" He shouts and points at the cannons on the drakkars. He turns to Caoul "Get Junipero over to the helm. I've got a plan." A moment later after a particularly nasty shot, he goes dashing for the helm himself.

When he gets there, he starts shouting for the helmsmen to get the ship moving.

Coaul replies, "Certainly." Then bowing his head a little in Junipero's direction, he directs her to follow him, nearly running on all fours as he bobs and weaves from cover to cover, hopefully with the dwarf in tow.