The Sand: II - 10 Feb 186810 FEBRUARY, 1868
The Ophelia struggled against the raging wind, raindrops thundering down upon its rigid frame like rocks. Bullet holes lined the airship, and the squealing hiss of punctured pipes overcame the beastly roar of the weather. Its lone functioning propeller feebly slaved on, forced to the brink. Most of the cells were ripped to shreds, their pressurised gasses exploding out into the ashen air, causing the ship to slowly descend into the ravenous maw of the desert opening below them.
Grey cursed inwardly, but maintained his outer calm. Behind him, Collin wrestled furiously with the wheel. He brutally shunted it against the wind, as the wind mercilessly wrenched the vessel, clawing to get in. Grey impassively monitored the gauges, wearily moving the assortment of levers, trying to tenderly coax his ship to live on. A sudden buck threw him from his feet, and he collapsed on the floor, a crumpled tangle of limbs. Before he could react, Collin had wrapped his paws around
The Sand: I - 21 JUNE 186821 JUNE, 1868
Grey observed the room quietly from his corner, just another secretive adventurer passing through the churning gates of Timbuktu. All around him swirled other patrons, dancing, mingling, feuding. Across his table, Zéphyrine was upright, stiff like a soldier, armed with pen and paper. She looked at the slight englishman before her, her mouth twinging in subtle disgust at his groomed wild hair and practised fool's grin. His features were roguish too, proudly wearing his weather-worn face, slightly-greying hair only adding to his boyish charm.
"It's unlike you to be this quiet, Brown. Shouldn't you be up having the ladies fall about your feet?" came her petite voice, flawlessly hiding her french accent.. Brown's eyes snapped to hers, eyeing up her angled features with a measured playfulness before replying.
"Shouldn't you be acquainting yourself with the charming officers? Capturing a city's hard, and I'm sure you'd