Story
Annona and Fiorente perched on a large platform, suspended by a kite stitched in a cheerful arrangement adjacent to the Windsinger and held in place by a lone rope tied to the bamboo below. Piled around them were bits of cloth, thread, and baubles, from which they were crafting fresh punwheels.
It was tricky to make the large embroidered pinwheels used to decorate Wind flight during the Mistral Jamboree -- especially when there were always many more orders from new clans each year -- but with the experience they'd gained, it was certainly easier than the first time!
“It’s a
bre-easy life?” Fiorente then suggested, the spiral holding up the green and blue pinwheel she was working on.
“Absolutely not,” Annona said, rolling her eyes as Fiorente chirped in delight and began stitching that into the fabric. “Why do you even ask me?”
“That’s the sort of reaction that means it’s a good pun.”
“It’s a terrible pun.”
“That’s what makes it good.”
The skydancer huffed fondly. Spiral humor at its finest, always so punny.
Fiorente squinted, double-checking the punwheel for any missed flaws and blowing at it to make sure that it turned easily enough in the wind, yet slow enough to be able to read the pun that would be embroidered on it. It’d been much easier to craft them with paint, but after a number of them had gotten paint everywhere after an impromptu water balloon fight, a thread was safer.
A shadow fell over them, both dragons instinctively holding down the cloth they were working with as a gust was kicked up. The rest of their supplies was already tied down, a necessary precaution given moody winds and the occasional airship.
“Ooohh,” Fiorente said. A brigantine passed overhead, teal fins narrowly missing their platform. A bright green figurehead of the Windsinger coiled around the ship’s bow, the rest made of some sort of brown wood -- what? she couldn’t tell from here -- with
The Zenith boldly etched into it. A clan she was not familiar with, then. Numerous light green sails fluttered beneath Wind banners. “They are heading straight for the Twisting Crescendo.”
“They’ll be fine,” Annona said. “Lots of dragons live there, and they seem to be handling the current well so far.”
The airship entered the Crescendo, and immediately its sails inverted. A smaller mast snapped off entirely, ropes and sails whipping wildly. The ship paused, then began to careen out of control.
“I’ve been wrong before,” Annona said flatly. “They must have forgotten to-”
“- account for it going the other way now.” Both dragons tucked their punwheels into a basket before launching themselves towards the ship.
Fortunately, the Crescendo chose to push the ship out, sending it crashing into the Reedcleft Ascent. The two waited five, ten, twenty seconds before landing nearby. The ship had crushed a number of bamboo and trees, skidding along before dropping off a small cliff and fracturing where it did. Papers were plucked out of the hull by the wind, and baskets of rations rolled at their feet. What sounded like some sort of engine sputtered and died with a whine.
A pause, and then a purple hookbeak fluttered out of the wreckage. “Not the treasure.”
An exasperated noise from under a pile of sails and wood beat them in replying, followed by, “
Obviously, Biscuit.”
“Are you okay?” Fiorente hurried over, sticking her snout in the wreckage. “Do you need help? Are you hurt?”
“Yes, no, no,” the voice said. Fiorente stepped back, a bright green skydancer in a sparking coat and cutlass wiggling herself free. She rustled her wings and coughed. “I'm fine.”
The figurehead snapped with a loud groan, the skydancer wincing as it crashed into a lake below. “Great. I
just paid this thing off, too.”
“Treasure,” Biscuit chirped, fluttering onto her head.
“Ooohh,” Fiorente said. “What sort of treasure?”
“A treasurey kind,” she said, turning back and digging a bit into the ship. “Vera?”
“Here,” another voice called. “I was saving my beef jerky.”
Some clattering, and a fluffy white and orange banescale clawed her way out, a satchel in her jaw. She draped it over a spine and surveyed the damage. “Aw, babe. We just paid this off, too.”
“I knnoooww,” she whined, pulling at her face. “And the figurehead was a custom. I don’t think that artist even takes commissions anymore.”
“We’ll get another, don’t you worry, Mabel,” the banescale said.
“I’m worrying. I’m
worrying. Look, I’m already losing feathers.”
“I think that’s from the crash. You okay?”
“I’m physically fine.”
“Great! Biscuit?”
“Biscuiting,” the hookbeak confirmed.
“Is there anyone else?” Annona cut in.
“Huh? Oh, nah,” Vera said. “Is the map okay?”
Mabel produced a rolled-up scroll, then rolling her eyes and offering it to the vibrating Fiorente. The spiral eagerly unrolled it.
It was a map of Sornieth, a fading seal she hazarded was one of the Windsinger’s designs in the corner, three X’s across the world marking… something. It had to be wondrous, though, why else would the Windsinger put his mark on it? She looked up at Mabel with big eyes.
“It’s ou-”
“Can I help?” Fiorente chirped. “I mean. Your ship is… wrecked.”
“I think it’s rustic,” Vera said, patting Mabel with a wing.
“My
house,” Mabel gulped. “Is
wrecked.”
“We can finally add that garden you wanted,” Vera said.
“I’m sure we can help you repair it. Or, find help who can,” Annona said, giving the spiral the side-eye and earning a sheepish grin. “The Mistral Jamboree is right around the corner. Lots of dragons are already in Wind terrority, and even more, are on the way. I’m sure we can
enlist their help.”
“Why don’t you go with…?”
“Fiorente,” she chirped.
“Fiorente,” Vera said. “And go find that treasure? By the time you get back, we’ll have the ship even better than new.”
“I... “
“Biscuit can stay here, so you don’t have to worry about him.”
“I guess,” Mabel mumbled. “Promise you won’t fight any gaolers while I’m gone?”
A squint.
“Veerraa-”
“I woonn’tt,” the banescale promised. Biscuit fluttered onto Vera’s horn, the two dragons booping snoots before Vera launched herself into the sky, Fiorente jumping a bit before following.
A pause.
“Sssoo,” Annona said. “Are you like. Pirates?”
“Eehhh,” Vera wibbled a wing.
“Borrow without asking,” Biscuit chirped. “Pirates.”
“Okay, look, using that logic, ridgebacks as a concept, are pirates-”
“Gotta cool ship. Pirates.”
“It’s smashed-”
“Don’t say ‘arrr.’ Hm,” the bird squinted thoughtfully. And then, smugly. “Treasure map. Pirates.”
“Sure. Yes,” Vera said. “Ah. Should we set something up? A stand…?”
“That’ll work. Get a nice kite for attention, offer some treasure-”
Vera looked pained at this idea but nodded.
“And I’m sure it won’t take too long. Where would the garden go?”
“On the deck! So, Mabel was thinking a greenhouse sort of deal…”
