Storms of Truth (HIATUS)

11 (REVISED)

FALORA

The last time I was in the airship district of Notalsald... Flynn was leaving me behind, to devote himself to Ase'Lesinia as a Celestial Templar. Celestan wrapped itself on a volcanic island in the far reaches of the ocean where Arth'lun first fell from the sky to create the molten crater the city built itself around. History merged with religion and muddled all truths. There is something beneath the surface... something that I can draw on paper and bring to life as Dad always had. Bag holstered over her shoulder, she kept an eye on the wayward, amnesiac dragon god who was certainly not a dragon for the moment as they tread through the highest districts. Aetherical chimneys released oxygen for those who lacked Azarian lungs, though the pressure remained on her chest as she swept her gaze over the multitudes of market stalls and homes. "The Golden Clouds..." Falora came to a stop on one bridge to the next section when Orilion faltered behind, his body a little more relaxed at their height. "Seen it?"

"I have not seen a golden cloud." Orilion folded his arms within his cloak, the hood resting against his black locks of tumultuous, furious storms, but his eyes remained the softened cyans of a hurricane's eye.

"No." Falora groaned. "It's the name of the tavern up here. We need a pilot that will work under the radar to get us to Celestan." A sigh escaped her through her nose, but the next inhale stiffened in her throat. Lungs full of pressure, she held onto the railing of the bridge before swiping out her sketchbook to distract herself from the discomfort and to take a picture with her mind's eye and perspective with a quick line or two of the distant skylifts. "We need to hurry before Zyle thinks we decided against their offer and we're stuck."

"Are you having a hard time up here?" Falora opened her mouth to bite at his question, but found a finger pressed into her cheek. It lightened the air around her when Orilion brought his hand back and shook it with the smallest slivers of his power sprinkling off his point of contact. "Temporary, I question how you mortals manage up here without real wings and... actual working lungs."

"Hey—" Falora grabbed his forearm to squeeze it. "Remember, no one knows who you are." Falora twisted her head around, but the loud shouts of peddlers deafened his voice. "Try and act normal will you? I can maybe pass you off as a master Air Elementalist as long as you don't refer to us as mortals. Let's go find this tavern and hope we're not too late." Sketchbook stuffed back into her bag, she broke into a rush, and as expected, Orilion kept an even, effortless pace while she stumbled and tripped her way through the crowds. Elementalists drew upon the world and brought its power to life with their blessed brushes. Orilion tipped his head at the showmanship with a curious frown.

Hanging off a sign, a golden cloud marked double doors people poured out of at varying stages of drunk stupor. "Perfect." Her hand wound around Orilion's to drag him from the show and closer to the pub. Up the small steps, she shoved herself inside past a burly figure, who Orilion pushed aside with ease. They swung around at the ready, but the look Orilion gave him twisted him around once more. I won't complain if he can just keep his mouth shut... Several people sat at the extended bar table and jeered into their cups. Lines swirled around her, and back into her lungs at another steam of mist pulsating through the pipes being fed into the building. Orilion's brow creased as people toppled over their bars, and he muttered something draconic under his breath.

"Never seen a pub before?" Falora asked.

"Not one such as this..." Orilion commented. He shook his head at a shout from one of the larger patrons who smacked his mug against the counter.

"They are quite different from Azarian establishments, I agree!"

Falora leaped into Orilion's arm at the voice beside her. An Azarian man with horns painted with deep twilight mixtures to contrast the dark grey bone, where a ring wrapped around the base. His own dark hair fluttered with the wind pouring through the nearest window. He wore light-fitting garb, unbuttoned to reveal a crystalline necklace dimmed of light, though the metal swirl kept it secure in its place. Instruments she failed to name hung on his toolbelt, though the few she recognized denoted him as a Skyhunter — one pair of aether rappels and an aircharged gun. On his back, a larger harpoon hooked itself out of the way. He blinked his silver eyes then smiled. "I hope I didn't scare you."