Some cities with airship docks were built for that specific purpose on wide swaths of formerly useless land, and have massive yards and several runways to house larger passenger and cargo ships. Others were already along major trade routes, and adapted a small dock, not enough for the huge ships but enough for the private ones like the Farran or smaller shuttles to larger ports. Rysinth is the former, a center of trade even before the continents knew of each other, when humans and dragons were the only ones to pass through. The streets are more crowded and busy than they ever were then. The charm and curiosity of magic users and creature-folk has long since worn out for the descendants of the natives, and the slow but steady influx of immigrants from the other continent leaves the crowd here looking no less varied than that of, say, Rithara's capital for instance.
One may well wonder how, without a method of remote communication analogous to radio, airships are able to land in anything like an organized fashion on a limited number of runways, and indeed this was the greatest hurdle to their more widespread use for a number of years. However, a system has long since come into practice to deal with the trouble. A flare of a particular color is shot into the air from a tower where four people watch the four directions for incoming ships at the precise moment a ship is noticed; the ship is to fly to a certain position to claim that color, and if two ships arrive at roughly the same time there is an order of right-of-way, but I'll not bore you with that. The next time that same color is shot off, the ship it belongs to lands, and the color is allowed to be reassigned to another ship. Of course, in a busy port this quickly consumes a great many flares, but magical means of producing a flare-like effect are widespread and not terribly difficult. Once the ship lands, the proper authorities are called to apprehend the pirates in the brig, all eight of them; three of them are recognized as higher-priced heads, and otherwise the standard reward for pirate capture is tendered for the rest. After paying in advance for repairs and medical treatment, Conall splits the rest of the money--not much, but at least it's a profit--evenly among the five crew members.
Whys leaves earlier than most of the others, forgoing medical treatment of his rather minor wounds. And he walks the city of Rysinth, using his magic to appear to those around him as a human. This is normal for Fylenis, who have always been secretive, rare, untrusting of the motives and future actions of everyone around them. Even in the present days, where the king has increasingly encouraged their joining the world at large instead of continuing to hide in little holes and obscure sections of forest for centuries on end, most still would not show themselves to people they don't already trust. So while it is no longer so uncommon on Aranor to have seen a Fylenis walking the streets, it remains extremely rare to know that you saw one, rare enough that a Fylenis not hiding his or her true form might draw a few eyes. In other words, Whys doesn't care so much that people know he is a Fylenis, but hides anyway to avoid wasting time and getting stared at. As for what sort of human he looks like, well, that depends on who's looking. Suprisingly, it's easiest to just pull together an image of an 'unremarkable person' from each person's mind and superimpose that on one's one appearance than to try and broadcast a single, constant image to everyone. It has to do with three-dimensional perspective. Besides, a 'nondescript' appearance is far more difficult for one's enemies to follow or properly identify.
Whys isn't looking for anything in particular, simply reaching out with his senses for a familiar pattern of thought, anyone he happens to know who happens to be in town at the moment. Sort of like what a blind Neshobe might do with scent. After a good twenty minutes or so of walking he finds someone in an old two-story tavern, and enters. It's early afternoon, so the tavern only has a few people in it to begin with--it's not hard to find who he's looking for.
An elf, with pointed ears, fair features, a little slimmer and taller than your average human. A woman, athletic and petite but not without a kind of beauty to her. And, like most elves, she looks young; her mind alone betrays an actual age of nearly a millenium. She sits alone on a stool in the middle of a de facto stage--no raised platform, but no tables in it--legs crossed, idly strumming a small harp. She is wearing a bright-colored blouse and ankle-length skirt, both unusually clean for a constant traveler; a tan cloak hung over her shoulder is the most likely explanation for that.
Whys walks up to the woman. "Well, it's good to see you again." She looks up to acknowledge him and he drops the illusion for her. Then she nods, smiling. "I see you actually found him." Here Whys sees things that most people don't, for any Fylenis can pierce the illusion of an equal or lesser one without much trouble. She nods again. "So what about Khazu?" She chuckles.
"That wolf pup turned 'fraidy-cat once the old man showed up. Fear of change is only natural if one isn't out looking for it, I guess. He'll show up sooner or later, he's too tough to get eaten by a few monsters."
Meanwhile, the others remain in a hospital for treatment, Edward to help out the healers. Water makes up much of the human body, and this is a trait which remains true for all of Aranor's demi-humans as well; as such, water magic is generally the most useful for both healing and examining. The Blue Tail Neshoba are particularly well-equipped for medical work, even when untrained, for in addition to a single unique spell, each has the 'Heal' spell (which puts out fires as well as working to repair surface wounds of a person's body) and the 'Diagnose' spell (which gives the caster an impression of what wounds or irregularities are in the body of whoever it is casted upon). Of course, magic is a shortcut best foregone in the case of more severe wounds, since knitting a wound hurts and doing it more rapidly hurts even worse. Conall's burns are largely soothed by a merwoman healer, the worse ones (which are on exposed skin) bandaged, and after changing into a fresh set of clothes taken from the Farran before it was sent to a yard for repairs he sets to the streets in search of a place to eat.
It isn't very long before he comes upon a familiar voice. A very familiar one. With the emphasis on the first three syllables for pun's sake. Two people of particular interest to the captain, one of them the source of the voice, sit at an eatery composed of a kitchen building, a long window, and outdoor seats and tables which are presently exposed to the sun, but presumably would be covered by an awning in unfavorable weather.
"--But she said, 'We will not help the cause of a weak people. You must prove your strength.' And that was when Xindaris challenged the Black Earth's alpha to an arm-wrestling contest--to the death! Or until one of them broke an arm. And she was so sure in her strength she accepted. But they didn't have any tables, so..."
"Err, milady--"
"...Then Elestari suggested they just use a big block of ice made with magic. But it had to be raining for her magic to be strong enough to do that. There was the scent of a rainstorm coming, but it would still be a few hours before that happened. So everyone just sat around waiting..."
"that isn't quite, exactly how--"
"..and it was really awkward for the first few minutes, since none of the--"
"Charlotte." Conall chooses this moment to put his hand on the storyteller's shoulder and interrupt the exhcange. The woman in question, a human with the same color hair and eyes as the captain, wearing a green conical hat, a vest of the same color with a black jacket over it, and black pants with a katana securely sheathed on one side, very nearly draws said weapon and swipes at him, but sees who he is first and relaxes again. "I know it is not very often you get a captive audience, but you might pick a tale he does not already know the true version of."
"Bro? You look like a dragon sneezed at you. Siddown, I gotta know how this happened!" Charlotte pulls Conall to an empty chair and he sits down, wincing slightly.
"S-sir Conall! It is most excellent to see you again." The other one, a young male Neshobe with a very dark blue color of fur, is visibly relieved at the change of subject. He is mostly Black Earth, with maybe one Blue Tail ancestor several generations up to explain the unusual coloration. Conall knows him mostly as a friend's friend's friend, though he did take one trip on the Farran to get to this continent. His name is Khazu, and he isn't quite a century old (which, for Neshoba, is a fairly immature age in a certain sense).
Now, the Black Earth Clan (the word "Clan" with a capital C, in case it wasn't clear, is the usual term for one of the sub-kinds of Neshoba) is, of course, capable of magic that uses rocks or dirt or the like. They are also the most physically strong, even more than the Shadow Fang, and pride themselves on this fact. They value raw physical strength in choosing their leaders. The traditional attitude of the Black Earth has been negatively characterized as greedy or stubborn, but really they simply have a peculiar sense of honor and prefer to be brutally honest about things. This sense of honor involves favors and repayment: Allowing someone to do something for you, without repaying them, is considered highly dishonorable to traditional Black Earth thought; hence, they do not help others without settling on some manner of payment beforehand as a kindness to others, and if one feels one has been dishonored in this manner unwillingly, he or she will often attempt to come up with some kind of repayment. If the dishonor seems particularly intentional, the repayment attempts will likely be the bare minimum that the Black Earth feels can be gotten away with, if not outright bad for the person.
Khazu considers persons of noble birth or position to be considerably better than other people, and in fact, more worth being around and knowing. He is about the closest thing to a believer in the divine right of kings that Aranor could ever have. As such, he tends to claim that merely being in a noble's presence is worth helping them; whether this is his actual belief or merely a way to circumvent Black Earth ideas without outright breaking them is unclear, although if it is all an act it is quite an impressive one. The dragoons qualify as nobles of a sort since Rithara's royal line are the descendants of white one (associated with the White Grass Clan, that is), and the other five's descendants have the kind of distinction and rareness that often comes with nobility, even though many of them are neither terribly well off nor in any sort of political position. So it isn't hard to explain what he's doing listening to Charlotte's heavily embellished and modified version of a part of his own race's history if he clearly doesn't want to.
As for Charlotte, yes, she is Conall's sister. His younger sister by three years, to be exact. The two of them fit the contrasting mold of a protective, responsible, somewhat uptight elder sibling, and a wild, adventerous younger. For three or four years the two of them traveled together on adventures largely decided upon by the younger, while the elder tagged along in an effort to make sure she didn't end up dead. Their teamwork in fighting monsters was said to be matched only by their constant arguments on where to go and what to do next, most of which the younger won through sheer persistence. Whatever he may think of her present lifestyle (wandering, taking odd jobs, slaying monsters--which is a legitimate if highly dangerous occupation--and chasing after rumors of abandoned treasures and the like), Conall owes Charlotte a debt he could not possibly hope to repay, nor does she particularly care to collect on it. So they have a kind of mutual, friendly relationship at the moment. Also, she is quite capable with a katana, having learned swordplay at a young age from a White Grass Neshoban trainer who may also be held partly responsible for her love of the well-told-if-not-necessarily-true story, and the most inaccurate parts of her knowledge of certain historical events.
So Conall relates the events of Verra's attack in as factual and direct a manner as possible, at the least requiring any future embellishment to come from Charlotte herself. Obviously if he tried to lie about it or declined to answer it just would have been delaying the inevitable. No matter how much he might want to keep the story of Verra's near-defeat out of the rumor mill to avoid provoking the insane and highly powerful pirate any further than he's already done by fighting back and surviving, his sister's hunger for more stories is simply insatiable and ultimately undeniable. Well, at least if she's telling the story there's a pretty good chance it'll be told in a way nobody would believe. It would be entirely different if the same account were given to, say, a scrupulous peacekeeper aspiring to catch Verra herself.
Wings are remarkably susceptible to healing improperly and then ceasing to function in their intended manner. Ann's were quickly immobilized after the injury was done, and after a rather long checkup they are still mostly immobilized, just set in better positions to heal. There are no major fractures, so it shouldn't take but a few days; to a more free-spirited, flight-loving eagle person this might as well be a few months, or few years, but to Ann it doesn't matter so much. Walking is fine.
At any rate, she is the last one to leave, and also happened to be the one who agreed to go with Arizan. The dragon is predictably impatient about the delay and noisy about said impatience, but Ann is very, very skilled at the art of ignoring without reaction, for a very. Long. Time. It helps, because if a Fylenis walking the streets and not hiding is unusual, a dragon in a conspicuous fully-scaled humanoid form like Arizan's is far, far more so. Numerous heads are turned by the sight, then promptly turned away by the fire dragon's constant glare and the eagle woman's apparent nonchalance at the whole situation. Unlike certain others in the group, Ann had no prior plans of meeting anyone on today's arrival, and just heads for a restaurant she knows and has been to a few times before now.
(Next)
From: http://www.mspaforums.com/showthread.php?42524-Airships-Over-Aranor-Prose
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