Aetherloft

Chapter 4: Rashtari

Rashtari Windtail's whiskers twitched as he ducked through the low entrance of the Taraq tent, the scent of spiced incense and nervous sweat mingling with the sharp tang of burning oil. The gambling den pulsed with the energy of desperate souls and hungry predators, all gathered beneath the glacier's shadow where the eternal ice met the shifting sands of Vash'kara. Flickering lamps cast pools of amber light across the faded carpet, where fortunes and futures waited to be won or squandered with the turn of a card.

Rashtari's golden eyes, slitted and keen, swept the table in one practiced glance. Four players already seated, each radiating a different flavor of desperation or greed. His tail flicked once behind him, the only outward sign of his anticipation as he approached.

"Room for one more?" he asked, voice pitched to a lazy drawl that belied the rapid calculations happening behind his casual smile.

The players looked up, expressions ranging from disinterest to thinly veiled hostility. A durgan, his hand subconsciously stroking one of his horns, merely sniffed and returned to organizing his betting chips with obsessive precision. An Anthrosian merchant—silk robes frayed at the cuffs, suggesting recent financial troubles—nodded with a wary smile that didn't reach her eyes.

But it was the Efritti shardlord who commanded attention, his skin like cracked obsidian with veins of molten fire pulsing beneath. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he regarded Rashtari through ember-bright eyes. Beside him squatted his trell translator, a diminutive creature with an abnormally large head and skin the texture of wet clay.

The shardlord puffed smoke toward his companion, who cleared his throat before translating. "The Exalted Shardlord Obsidian welcomes fresh coin to the table." The trell's own voice was surprisingly melodious, a stark contrast to his master's occasional sulfiric puffs and noises that sounded like rocks grinding against each other.

Rashtari took the empty seat with deliberate casualness, his fur smooth and well-groomed—the picture of a wealthy dilettante rather than the professional gambler and occasional thief he truly was. He placed a modest stack of coins before him, not enough to intimidate but sufficient to warrant a seat at the table.

"The game is Taraq's Ascension," the durgan muttered, his fingers still arranging and rearranging his chips. "Five cards, two draws, blind betting after each. House takes ten percent." Each word was precise like entries in a ledger.

Rashtari nodded, feeling the weight of the stolen emeralds in the hidden pocket of his vest. They would come into play later, when the stakes were properly high and the tells of each player fully cataloged in his mind.

Cards were dealt, their aged parchment decorated with intricate symbology that had evolved over centuries of play across the shattered realms. Rashtari lifted his cards with studied nonchalance, but his keen eyes missed nothing.

The durgan's left eye twitched when dealt a favorable card. It was an almost imperceptible tell, but to Rashtari's trained senses, it might as well have been a shout. The human merchant's breathing changed subtly when bluffing, becoming just a fraction more controlled. And the Efritti—ah, there was the challenge. His alien physiology made traditional tells difficult to read, but Rashtari noted that the molten veins pulsed ever-so-slightly brighter when his hand improved.

"I hear the ice grows restless," Rashtari commented lightly as the first round of betting began. "The locals say it's the worst tremors in a generation."

The merchant nodded too eagerly. "Bad for business. Very bad. Shipments delayed, caravans turning back." She pushed forward three silver coins with a hand that trembled slightly.

"The earth's discomfort is of no consequence," the trell translated as the shardlord emitted something in his olfactory language. "Fire always prevails over ice." The Efritti doubled the merchant's bet with a casual flick.

The durgan said nothing, merely adjusting his spectacles and matching the bet.

Rashtari called, keeping his play conservative. "Yet I saw an entire caravan of fire opals abandoned at the northern checkpoint. The drivers seemed... concerned." He kept his tone conversational, watching for reactions.

The shardlord's ember eyes flared. The trell's translation came quick and defensive. "Cowards and fools who do not understand the honor of serving the Efritti Hegemony."

Interesting. The shardlord had investments in the fire opal trade. Another piece of information to store away.

Cards were drawn, bets placed. Rashtari lost big on the first hand deliberately, won the second modestly, and folded early in the third. All the while, he built his mental catalog of each player's patterns, weaknesses, and motivations.

By the fourth hand, the durgar's left eye had developed a near-constant twitch, the merchant was sweating profusely, and the Efritti's patience visibly thinned with each hand that failed to significantly increase the pot.

"Perhaps," Rashtari suggested during a lull as the cards were being reshuffled, "the stakes are too modest to interest true players." He leaned back, tail swishing with calculated confidence. "I find games of consequence far more... stimulating."

The shardlord emitted something so rank that it made the trell's eyes widen.

"His Magnificence suggests that if the felisari finds these stakes insufficiently stimulating, perhaps he should raise them himself." The trell's voice held a note of challenge.

This was the moment Rashtari had been waiting for. With deliberate slowness, he reached into his vest and withdrew a small velvet pouch. The drawstring slid open, and he upended the contents onto the table with theatrical flourish.

Emeralds cascaded onto the faded felt between them. These were not the common pale green stones traded in Vash'kara's lower markets, but the deep, verdant treasures from the royal mines. Each gem caught the lamplight and transformed it, casting eerie green shadows across the players' faces.

"Vash'karan royal emeralds," Rashtari announced, enjoying the sudden stillness around the table. "Harvested from the deepest veins beneath the sand seas." He didn't mention how he'd acquired them, slipping past royal guards during the confusion of the last major tremor.

The durgan's breathing quickened, his ledger-keeper's mind undoubtedly calculating their exact worth. The merchant's eyes grew round with n***d avarice.

But it was the Efritti's reaction that pleased Rashtari most. The molten veins beneath his obsidian skin pulsed with rapid, intense light. Could this be a flash of genuine interest breaking through his carefully maintained disdain?

The shardlord spoke, his vapors pouring over it like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. This time, the trell didn't need to translate the message. It was clear in the way the Efritti gathered his cards with renewed attention, in the hungry gleam of his ember eyes.

Now the game had truly begun.

Onlookers began to gather, drawn by the whispered rumors of high stakes and higher tensions. Rashtari felt their eyes on his back, felt the weight of the moment building with each new round. The durgan and the merchant folded, retreating to the edges of the table with empty pockets and wounded pride. Then only Rashtari and the Efritti shardlord remained, locked in a silent duel.

"Your emeralds against this," the shardlord said through his translator, placing a curved dagger on the pile. Its blade shimmered with an inner light, like the molten core of the shardlord himself. "An athame forged in the heart of the Hegemony's sacred volcano. It cuts and cauterizes all in a single blow."

Rashtari's whiskers twitched with interest, but he kept his expression neutral. Such a blade was worth twice the emeralds, at least. The Shardlord was either desperate or supremely confident.

"I call," Rashtari said, pushing his remaining emeralds forward.

The hands played out, and Rashtari lost—narrowly, but convincingly. The Efritti's molten veins pulsed with satisfaction as he collected the pot. They played on back and forth, each winning and losing back the same emeralds and chips and dagger.

Finally, it was time to push a little more.

"How about if I add this to the pot?" Rashtari asked, reaching into another hidden pocket and extracting a small, crystalline orb that hummed with barely contained energy. "A singularity sphere. Compressed aether in its purest form." He didn't mention that he'd won it from a drunken artificer the night before who had probably stolen it himself.

The shardlord's ember eyes flared. He spewed something to his translator, who nodded and withdrew a scroll case made of some iridescent metal. "His Magnificence wagers the deed to the obsidian mines of Nath'Harren."

Rashtari's ears perked up despite his efforts to appear unimpressed. Those mines were legendary, but were supposedly exhausted centuries ago. If they still yielded obsidian of any quality it might be worth something, but not much.

The tent had grown more crowded. The air was thick with anticipation and the mingled scents of too many bodies in too small a space. The oil lamps flickered, casting dancing shadows that seemed to take on lives of their own. Outside, the wind had picked up, making the tent walls snap and billow like sails catching a sudden gust.

The ground beneath them trembled. It was enough to make the emeralds still on the table click against each other. No one commented on it. In Vash'kara, acknowledging the tremors was considered poor luck, as if the attention might invite something worse.

Another hand. Another calculated loss for Rashtari, though this one cost him the singularity sphere. The shardlord's confidence swelled visibly with each victory. His obsidian exterior gleamed in the lamplight, the cracks between the plates widening to reveal more of the molten essence within.

"Your luck fails you, cat," the translator sneered, emboldened by his master's success.

Rashtari shrugged, his tail curling lazily behind him. "Luck is for those who lack skill," he replied. From yet another hidden pocket he produced a small bone whistle, yellowed with age and carved with symbols so ancient that even scholars of the Eternal Archive might struggle to identify them. "A siren whistle. It calls to things that dwell in the deep aether." He gave his best smile to the other players and the onlookers. "Things with many teeth."

This time, the Efritti hesitated. His fiery gaze fixed on the whistle, calculating its value, weighing the risk against the potential reward. Finally, he spoke at length to his translator, who seemed to argue briefly before acquiescing.

"His Radiance wagers this." The trell withdrew a small metal box from within his robes. He opened it to reveal a luminous feather that shimmered with colors that had no names in any mortal tongue. "A feather from the wing of Ix'tathla, the Void Phoenix. It grants one resurrection."

A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. If it was genuine, such an item was beyond price. Rashtari studied it carefully, his keen eyes detecting the subtle patterns that confirmed its authenticity. His heart beat faster, but he maintained his facade of casual interest.

"Acceptable," he said, pushing the whistle forward.

This hand Rashtari won, barely, taking the phoenix feather. The shardlord's molten veins pulsed faster, brighter, betraying his growing frustration.

The next rounds brought more rare treasures to the table: a map to a lost city in the frozen north, a vial of quicksilver tears said to heal any wound, a key that supposedly opened any lock in the Shattered Realms. The pot grew, as did the tension. The tremors beneath them intensified, causing the lamps to sway dangerously.

Rashtari won some hands, lost others, always careful to maintain the illusion that this was merely a game of chance rather than the calculated hunt it truly was. He was the predator here, not the Efritti, no matter what the shardlord might believe.

Finally, after a particularly close hand that left the shardlord victorious but clearly unsatisfied with the stakes, the Efritti slammed his obsidian fist on the table. The impact sent cards and small wagers scattering. He snarled something with his volcanic mist that made even his translator flinch.

"His Supreme Magnificence tires of these... trinkets," the trell said, voice quavering slightly. "He proposes a final wager. All that has been won thus far, against something truly valuable."

Rashtari raised an eyebrow, ears tilted forward in genuine curiosity. "And what might that be?"

The shardlord's response was like stones grinding together. And this time his translator looked genuinely alarmed.

"My lord wagers... the aethership The Roving Azimuth, currently docked at the Lower Cascade," the trell said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rashtari's tail went rigid. The Roving Azimuth was no ordinary vessel—it was a legend among smugglers and traders alike. Fast, maneuverable, and supposedly equipped with modifications that defied conventional understanding of aethership technology. It was the prize he'd never dared hope for.

But didn't it belong to some weirdo? How had it come to be in this shardlord's possession?

"Everything I've won tonight against the ship?" Rashtari clarified, struggling to keep his voice level.

The Efritti nodded once, the gesture imperial in its condescension, releasing another bit of volcanic steam, which the trell did not bother translating.

As the swirl of acrid Efritti smoke drifted toward him, Rashtari seized the moment, drawing a sharp, theatrical cough from deep in his chest. "Apologies," he croaked, dabbing his mouth with a folded silk kerchief. In that blink, his fingers slipped deftly inside the kerchief, palming a tiny glass vial capped in silver. As the others eyed him with irritation or indifference, Rashtari tipped the luck potion between his teeth, swallowing it in the shadow of the handkerchief. Its taste was quick and bright, with a sparkling sensation on his tongue. He flashed a sheepish grin and tucked the kerchief away, fur smoothing back to perfect composure.

"Deal the cards," Rashtari said.

The tent fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the soft whisper of parchment as the cards were dealt. Five for each player, face down on the worn tabletop. Rashtari picked up his cards one by one, careful to keep his expression unchanged despite the surge of elation that threatened to betray him.

There, nestled in his hand like a gift from whatever gods watched over fortunate thieves, was the Royal Dawnbird—the rarest and most powerful combination in Taraq's Ascension. The five cards depicted the ancient symbols of the celestial bird in its moment of rebirth: Wing, Talon, Eye, Heart, and Crown. It was a hand so rare that most players went their entire lives without seeing it, let alone holding it.

There was no point in betting. The were all in; everything was wagered. The shardlord's confidence was absolute, his molten veins pulsing like miniature suns beneath his cracked obsidian skin.

When the moment of revelation came, Rashtari laid down his cards with deliberate slowness, savoring each moment.

"Royal Dawnbird," he said softly.

The tent erupted in gasps and exclamations. The shardlord's eyes widened, embers flaring into full flames of disbelief and rage. He slammed his cards down in anger. Rashtari examined them curiously anyway. It was a powerful hand, but nothing compared to the perfection Rashtari had revealed.

For a moment, the Efritti was utterly still, like a volcano in the breathless instant before eruption. Then, with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, he exploded to his feet. Sulfurous smoke billowed from the cracks in his skin, and actual flame licked around his clenched fists.

"CHEATER!" the shardlord's translator bellowed for him. "THIEF! DECEIVER!"

Rashtari remained seated, his posture relaxed despite the inferno of rage looming over him. "The cards were dealt fairly," he said, voice calm but carrying. "The game was played honestly. I have won."

The translator, caught between loyalty to his master and the sacred rules of Taraq, wrung his hands in distress. "My lord, he speaks truth. The Royal Dawnbird cannot be challenged. It is the way."

The shardlord snarled, a sound like boulders being crushed. More smoke poured from him, filling the tent with the acrid stench of brimstone and fury. The onlookers backed away, some already slipping through the tent flaps to safety.

Rashtari stood slowly, gathering his winnings with careful movements. "I'll take my ship now," he said, as if requesting nothing more significant than another round of drinks.

The Efritti looked as if he might reduce the entire tent to ashes. Instead, with visible effort, he mastered his rage enough to spit out a response.

"You will regret this day, cat," the translator conveyed, voice shaking.

Rashtari's whiskers twitched with curiosity, but he merely inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Until then, though, I will be flying in style."

The ground beneath them shuddered again, stronger this time. Dust sifted down from the tent ceiling. No one ignored it now. The tremor was too significant, too ominous. Rashtari felt a prickle of unease race down his spine to the tip of his tail.

Nevertheless, he gestured to a ratling notary who had been watching the game from the shadows, his whiskers quivering with anticipation at such a prestigious transaction. She scurried forward, producing a ledger from within her robes with the flourish of one who took bureaucratic matters very seriously indeed. Her clawed hands moved with practiced efficiency as she prepared the transfer documents, the scratch of her pen against parchment nearly drowned out by another tremor that sent sand sifting down from the tent's ceiling.

"The terms of transfer are quite clear," the qirathi intoned, voice surprisingly deep for her diminutive stature. "All properties, entitlements, and encumbrances of the aethership known as The Roving Azimuth pass to the bearer of this deed." She paused to dip her pen in an inkwell strapped to her forearm. "Any prior claims are hereby rendered null and void."

The shardlord emitted something so foul that it made Rashtari almost regret his win. Almost.

His translator, wisely keeping his distance, relayed the message with evident reluctance. "His Magnificence acknowledges the transfer but wishes it known that the power of the Efritti Hegemony transcend mere... paperwork."

Rashtari's ears flattened briefly against his skull before he forced them upright again. A threat, thinly veiled. Not unexpected, but unpleasant nonetheless.

"Noted," he said, keeping his tone light. "I'm sure we'll have plenty of opportunities to discuss such matters in the future."

The notary cleared her throat pointedly. "If the parties would sign? Time is of some essence." She glanced nervously at the tent ceiling, where more dust trickled down with each new tremor.

Rashtari signed with a flourish, his signature an elegant swirl that spoke of practice in forging various names and documents. The Efritti merely pressed one obsidian thumb against the parchment, leaving a scorch mark that smoked faintly.

"It is done," the ratling declared, applying her official seal—a small stamp that left the imprint of a coiled serpent devouring its own tail. "The aethership belongs to Rashtari Windtail, with all rights and—"

His words cut off as the ground gave a violent lurch. Glasses toppled, spilling across the carpet. A lantern crashed down, igniting a small fire that was quickly stamped out by an alert onlooker.

"We should leave," the notary said, abandoning formality as she hastily rolled up the deed and thrust it into Rashtari's hands. "The ice... it hasn't been this bad in living memory."

Rashtari needed no further encouragement. He gathered his winnings—the phoenix feather, the athame, and most importantly, the deed—and made for the tent's exit. Behind him, the Efritti's volcanic voice rose in one final promise.

"Run all you wish, thief. Fire finds all."

Outside, chaos had descended upon the settlement. The ramshackle collection of tents and semi-permanent structures that clung to the edge of the glacier was in full evacuation. Merchants abandoned their wares, pilgrims dropped their prayers mid-sentence, and everyone—human, qirathi, trell, and a dozen other species—moved with the unified purpose of getting as far from the ice as possible.

Rashtari darted through the panicked crowd, his felisari reflexes allowing him to slip through gaps that others couldn't see, much less navigate. His tail served as both balance and rudder, helping him change direction in an instant when necessary. The deed was secure in an inner pocket, pressed against his chest where he could feel its existence with every heartbeat.

The Roving Azimuth. It was his ship now. If he could reach it before...

Another tremor, stronger than any before, sent a c***k racing through the packed-earth street. Rashtari leaped over it without breaking stride, his sharp eyes already fixed on the path to the Lower Cascade, where the aetherships docked along the edge of the vast ice sheet near the mountain.

Behind him, screams took on a new quality—not just fear of the quaking earth, but specific terror. Rashtari risked a glance back and saw the Efritti Shardlord plowing through the crowd like a living battering ram, leaving scorched footprints in his wake. The sight lent new speed to Rashtari's already flying feet.

The Lower Cascade came into view—a natural formation where the glacier's edge created a series of massive ice shelves dropping down to the desert floor. Aetherships hovered alongside these shelves, tethered to posts driven into the ice. Crews worked frantically to cast off, abandoning the usual careful departure procedures in favor of speed.

And there, moored at the lowest level, was The Roving Azimuth.

Rashtari's breath caught in his throat. The ship was even more magnificent than rumors suggested—sleek and dangerous, with tattered sails stained by aether exposure and a hull patched with mismatched metal that somehow enhanced rather than detracted from its deadly elegance. The vessel seemed to pulse with life, glowing engine vents cycling like a heartbeat along its flanks.

He scrambled down the ice steps cut into the cascade, half-running, half-sliding in his haste. Another violent tremor nearly sent him tumbling, but he caught himself, claws extending to dig into the ice for purchase.

As he neared the ship, he saw a figure standing at the top of the gangplank—a broad-shouldered human in a worn captain's coat, one hand resting on the hilt of a katana. The man's eyes were hard, carrying the weight of years beyond what his appearance suggested.

Kabir. It had to be. The legendary immortal captain, whose existence was itself a rumor whispered by aether-sailors in ports across the Shattered Realms.

Rashtari slowed his approach, catching his breath as he pulled out the deed. "Captain," he called, trying to sound authoritative despite his heaving chest. "I believe you'll find this vessel is now mine."

Kabir's expression didn't change. "The Azimuth belongs to no one," he said, voice as flat and unyielding as a cliff face. "Least of all to a stray cat who is being chased by my first mate."

Rashtari looked behind him, seeing the Efritti Shardlord nearing the end of the gangplank, steam rising from the path behind him. "The deed says otherwise," he said, flashinf the document, careful to keep his distance. The katana at Kabir's side made Rashtari's fur stand on end. "Fair and square, by the rules of Taraq."

"The Efritti had no right to bet the ship," Kabir said, still not moving from his position blocking the entrance to the Azimuth. "It was not his to wager."

Rashtari's ears twitched in irritation. "Then your quarrel is with him, not me. I won this vessel legally."

"Legal." Kabir almost smiled, though it never reached his eyes. "An interesting concept from a member of a race of thieves and cutthroats."

The ground beneath them gave another violent lurch. Ice cracked with reports like cannon fire. From the settlement above came screams of genuine terror.

"We can debate ownership somewhere less... unstable," Rashtari suggested, eyeing the widening cracks in the ice around them. "Preferably from the safety of our ship."

"Our?" Kabir raised an eyebrow.

"I own it, you know how to fly it," Rashtari replied pragmatically. "Seems like an arrangement that benefits us both, at least until we're not in imminent danger of being crushed under a collapsing glacier."

As if to emphasize his point, a massive section of the upper cascade broke free, crashing down with a sound like the end of the world. Aetherships cast off in panic, some colliding with each other in their haste to escape.

Kabir's expression remained impassive, but he stepped aside. "If you survive, we'll revisit the question of ownership."

Rashtari didn't wait for further invitation. He bounded up the gangplank, feeling the deck vibrate beneath his feet—not from the tremors, but from the engines already humming with readiness.

Behind him, Rashtari heard Kabir's stern voice as the shardlord also boarded the ship, "You and I will have words."

The ship was as remarkable inside as out. Gleaming brass instruments lined the helm, each one a mystery of function but collectively promising power and speed. Rashtari ran his fingers over the wheel, feeling the worn smoothness of wood polished by years of handling.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," Kabir warned, coming aboard behind him.

But Rashtari was already in motion, his natural affinity for machines guiding his hands as he examined the controls. "Cast off the moorings," he called out, sounding more confident than he felt. "Unless you'd prefer to stay and greet whatever's coming."

Kabir hesitated only a moment before moving to comply, cutting the tethers with a single s***h of his katana.

The ice beneath the Cascade fractured with a sound like the world splitting in two. A chasm opened, swallowing smaller vessels that hadn't managed to launch in time. The trembling of the earth became a continuous roar, and the air filled with a smell that Rashtari could only describe as ancient—the scent of something that had slumbered for millennia suddenly awakening.

"It's Arumatheus," Kabir said, his usual stoicism finally cracking to reveal something like awe—or terror. "The Devourer of Realms."

Rashtari had heard the legends—who hadn't?—but had dismissed them as sailors' tales. Yet as he watched the ice heave and split, revealing glimpses of something vast and scaled and impossibly old, he felt a primal fear grip his heart.

"Normally I love fish, but in this case... How do we make this thing move?" he demanded, hands flying over the controls.

Kabir moved to the helm, pushing Rashtari aside with calm efficiency. "You don't," he said. "I do."

Before Rashtari could protest, the captain's hands moved across the instruments in a complex sequence. The phlogiston engines responded with a roar that matched the monster rising from below. The deck vibrated with sudden power, and the tattered sails snapped taut despite the lack of wind.

From the depths of the shattering glacier, a titanic form began to emerge—scales like tarnished bronze, eyes like abyssal pits, a maw that could swallow cities whole. Arumatheus. The behemoth of legend, awakening from its frozen prison.

"Hold on to something," Kabir advised, his voice unnaturally calm as he spun the wheel and pushed a lever forward.

The Roving Azimuth leapt into the air with a force that nearly sent Rashtari tumbling. He grabbed the nearest railing, claws doing their best to dig into the metal as the ship accelerated away from the cataclysm below.

Looking back, Rashtari saw the full horror of what they were fleeing: a creature of nightmares, half-reptile and half-something else entirely, its size defying comprehension as it tore free from the ice that had imprisoned it. The settlement was already gone, crushed beneath falling ice or swallowed by the heaving earth.

"What about the others?" he asked, surprising himself with the question. Below he saw a wedding party on the ice. "We should try to save them. Some at least?"

Kabir didn't look back, his attention fixed on navigating their escape. "There are always others," he said, the weight of centuries in his voice.