A Steampunk Story of Triumph, Disaster, Inventors, Insane-asylum escapees, and American Frontiersmen with guns. They are not thieves, merely lady and gentlemen members of the Acquisitions Bureau.
Theodore Thaddeus Thatch the Third...
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It was a slow day at the skyport, as the brisk wind discouraged any sort of flying. Even the birds were tucking themselves up into their alcoves to avoid the bluster that crashed against walls and sent dry leaves and scraps of old paper swirling and skittering across the cobbles. The clouds practically raced across the sky, and Joe was preparing his treasured ship to make mess of the billows whilst everyone else was concerned with battening down. His long red scarf whipped and thrashed, determined to slip away. So it was wrapped around his neck until it crowded his large chin and a sizable knot sat over his shoulder. He was as coarse and knotted as old rope, and he had a smell to him that suggested he was made of the stuff.
The beautiful vessel sat prettily in her moorings, and wore her fresh coat of paint like a young girl in a brand new dress. The name was brushed in white script against the blue back: 'Annabel-Lee'. The ship herself was painted a deep shade of navy above and a soft white below and she bounced and tugged at the cables tying her down, like a puppy on a lead. She was well formed and appeared as near new as any at the skyport, though in truth she was made of as much old rope as Joe was. A ghastly scuff marred her hull, it was received from the careless piloting of an ash barge too near her wet paint. The helmsman of that airship was clearly dozing on the job; a 'Dumbass' as Joe was in the habit of saying. He grumbled to himself as he tightened the cables of Annabel's rigging, tuning her to the nth degree. To fly with loose cables was the height of folly, and Joe would have none of it.
Joe's mate Martin was on land, busy loading ballast and coiling extra tethers so they could hitch Annabel to the dock quick-sharp when they made their return landing. What many landsmen didn't realize about flying in a wind storm, was that it was almost never the flying that held the danger. It was easy enough to fly away from the dock, and stay clear of other ships using the same wind. But it was a different matter when one was being tossed around in a choppy current, and faced with steering around tethered ships and docks that weren't using any wind at all.
A woman; worn at the edges and clad in a ragged, short-hemmed dress approached. She pulled her tatty shawl over her bosom, both to block the wind chill, and to 'close up shop for the day' so to speak. "Martin, Joe's really gonna make you fly today? It's a bad day fer it if I do say so meself." She said.
"Don't you worry none Miss Rosie!" Martin said "Joe and I've been through worse."
"Gullywashers an' Hurrycanes!" Joe shouted from Annabel's top deck. "An' Tunderstorms n such!"
"Ain't nothin' will take Annie-Lee down!" Martin laughed, tossing a heavy coil onto the deck and heaving two sand bags onto each of his great shoulders. "Did I ever tell you about comin' over from the states?" he asked, pausing for a moment to hear her answer.
"You 'ave dearie," Miss Rosie replied "And I ain't 'alf 'ad me fill of it!" She added in a low sort of accent, "anyways, Mary's up the duff again, and I thought I'd bring 'er 'round a bo'le of gin. God bless ya... and tell Joe to stop spittin' on me 'ouse!" She walked on, the bottle she had mentioned concealed under the shawl.
