"It's a good thing I'm ready to go then." He smiled beamingly back at the annoyed woman. "I've got my travel bag right here."
He lifted the oversized rucksack with one arm, the many items inside jingling against each other as they did. He'd already sent all his other luggage on ahead.
His aunt looked less than impressed. "Give me the bag."
"What? You don't trust me?"
She snorted. "Not even a little."
"Hurtful," he muttered as he handed over the bag.
His aunt rifled through the contents, pulling out writing utensils, sketchbooks, journals and then the one thing he'd rather she hadn't.
"What's this?" She asked as she gripped a small leather bag. One of several. Setting the rucksack down, she poured some of the content of one of them into her hand.
"Mud? Sand? Dirt?" she asked, rolling the slightly damp grainy black substance around.
Even as his heart skipped a beat as he glanced in the direction of a nearby torch, William kept a smile on his face.
It's damp, he repeated in his mind. Damp.
"Exfoliation cream, actually. For my face," he said with feigned calm.
"Ex- what?" His aunt asked.
"Skincare," he said. "Given that I'm liable to meet my betrothed at the end of this trip."
The woman stared at the granules for a few moments more before shrugging and dropping it back into its leather container, before shoving that back into the rucksack.
"Well, I suppose even a rebel like you is still a man in the end," she murmured as she wiped her hand on her flight jacket.
"Quite," he grunted with feigned embarrassment.
Smiling for the first time since they'd met, the woman clapped one of the nearby guards on the shoulder. "Alright you lot, let's get this show on the road."
As William slung the rucksack over his shoulder and moved to follow after his aunt – while the guards fell in behind him - he found himself looking out a nearby window.
The view was of the fields just beyond the Ashfield estate, with lush greenery trailing off all the way down to the bay.
And above it all, in defiance of gravity and common sense, flew the Indomitable.
Looking for all the world like a civil-war era ironclad rebuilt from the ground up to fly, even from this distance he could see dozens of portholes for its gas-powered cannons dotted across the things gleaming metal hull. To the rear of it, two powerful rear-mounted propellers pushed it through the blue skies above. Every now and then, small bursts of blue-green aether burst from the sides as its many aether ballasts corrected the ship's altitude.
And emblazoned proudly across the stern was the symbol of House Ashfield, a white raven over a field of darkness, purple and orange flecks spattered across the periphery.
Despite himself, William could admit that it made for an intimidating sight.
While all things had their place in the line of battle, it was an undeniable fact that airships stood at the apex. They were the ultimate expression of power in this world, able to destroy entire armies with impunity from the safety of the clouds. Able to cross an entire continent in a matter of days. In a world of swords and bows, the only thing that could realistically challenge an airship's might was another airship.
A fact of life that was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt nearly a thousand years ago when the first elven settlers subjugated the island nation of Lindway.
His homeland.
An airship was as much a seal of office as it was a weapon of war. A house without one could no longer be said to be able fulfill its military obligations and would soon find itself landless and disowned.
And this might well be the last time for a long time that he'd get the opportunity to view it. Or even the time to luxuriate in a nice view of any kind.
The coming days would be hard.
He couldn't simply attend the academy.
He needed to excel.
To dominate.
His plan called for nothing less.
For now though, for just a moment, he allowed himself to soak it all-
"Hurry up, Will." His aunt called after him. "We've got a deadline to keep."
"…The ship's not leaving for hours yet woman," he grunted under his breath, though not before adjusting the strap of his pack as he jogged slightly to catch up with her.
---------------
Elves.
Elves were complicated. Not as individuals. As individuals they were, in William's unfortunately extensive experience, arrogant snobs who thought that they were God's gift to the universe as a whole.
…Though asking any of them 'which god' might well cause trouble.
As evidenced by the ongoing holy war in their homeland and the balkanization of the once-united Elven Empire.
Fortunately, the local brand of pointed-eared idiots that ruled over his homeland generally had a more cosmopolitan outlook on matters of religion.
No, where they got complicated was in the social realities of race relations.
For example, when a fourth in line daughter of a relatively small barony and captain of a maritime vessel invited the second in line son of a relatively large countship to dine with her, could the man decline?
By rights, even with his gender, William should have held the higher rank. And by law he did.
Indeed, even his aunt, as a sky-knight, was of equivalent rank to their host.
As such, he should have been able to decline were he so inclined.
And he was.
Unfortunately, he was a human. And she was an elf. And given that the nation was run by elves, it was rarely wise to snub one of the long lived beings.
Thus, his aunt had made the socially 'correct' decision and decided to err on the side of caution by accepting her dinner invitation. After all, ignoring everything else, this was a maritime ship rather than an airship – one that happened to be headed to the capital - which meant they'd be stuck with the woman for weeks at least.
Something he grew less and less pleased about with each passing moment.
"No, you idiot. The dessert fork goes on the furthest right of the placemat," the captain of the ship they were traveling on lambasted her orcish servant, pitch black eyes flashing ominously as her elfin features twisted with wrath.
The poor greenskin woman looked positively terrified as the much more diminutive elf glared at her, fingers frozen in the act of laying out the evening's cutlery.
"Ugh, just get out." The elf finally snapped, allowing the poor deckhand to start to scarper in the direction of the exit. "And send Sally in! I don't care if she's sleeping, I need someone who's not completely incompetent."
"Of course, ma'am." The orcish sailor could only nod hastily as she darted out the door, though not before William's eyes alighted on the thornlike tattoo about her throat.
A slave, he thought, fist tightening under the table.
He schooled his expression after a second, once more returning to the same sort of placid disinterest he usually wore at social events.
And though he could see Karla wore the same, he could tell from long experience that she wasn't exactly happy about the orc's presence either.
There were no slaves on the Ashfield estate, mercifully, what with them being positioned on the abolitionist side of the political landscape. More as a result of geography than anything else, but there was no denying that the house as a whole held a certain level of disdain for the practice of slavery as a result – seeing it as uncultured and backward.
A sentiment much of the rest of Lindholm didn't share, unfortunately.
The captain glared after the fleeing slave for just a moment, before giving both William and his aunt a put upon smile.
"I'm sorry you had to see that, young master. Some days it can feel almost impossible to find good help," Captain Nemoa – as she'd introduced herself – apologized.
William nodded absently. "Perhaps it might be easier if your workers were motivated more by remuneration and less by bondage."
The elf just chuckled. "Ah, an interesting perspective, but one I can't help but feel stems just a little from Southern naiveté. Orcs are a violent sort by nature. If one wishes to motivate them, one must speak in a language they understand."
"Yet you have free orcs in your crew, in addition to slaves." Karla pointed out. "Not many, admittedly, but I saw a few nestled amongst your other human workers."
Captain Nemoa shrugged. "An unfortunate reality of maritime trade. Skilled deckhands can be hard to come by, and thus sometimes one is forced to rely on less than perfect stock. Rest assured, the fact that those free orcs exist as a minority on my crew is no coincidence."
Not for the first time since he'd come aboard, William found himself wishing he'd been allowed to travel aboard the Indomitable rather than this, a contracted sea-ship.
Unfortunately, he knew the Indomitable wouldn't be allowed to stray beyond the borders of the Ashfield domain for anything short of a direct summons from the royal family. It was just too valuable to risk. Indeed, it wasn't an exaggeration to say that the thing was more valuable to the family than every member of the family.
Ignoring the not-insignificant cost in iron and wood that made up its construction, the mithril that powered the whole ensemble was in a very literal way priceless.
There was a reason why maritime trade ships still existed despite much faster flying alternatives existing. That said ships were a convenient place for a family's third, fourth and fifth daughters with no skill at arms to be placed was just a coincidence.
"Still, let's not sour the evening with politics," said the woman, just as another figure arrived. A human woman who was dressed much more finely than the orc she'd just replaced. "Especially now that we have some decent serving staff."
Putting action to words, the newly arrived brunette wasted no time in promptly setting out the evening's meal. A pork roast of some sort with accompanying green vegetables and roasted potatoes.
A surprisingly rich dish for a ship at sea, but then this was the captain's table, and they'd only just pulled away from port that morning.
Still, as William cut into his food, he couldn't help but muse about how many plants and animals from Earth also existed on this world. More to the point, that they were available to him here in Lindholm – given his homeland's distinctly renaissance era European vibe.
After all, potatoes had been a new world crop imported from the Americas back on Earth. Here, they were brought over from the Elven Homeland of Evgara by the first elven colonists.
Or invaders, if you felt like being correct.
Still, he could admit that thereafter the conversation flowed pleasantly enough, if one ignored that he was conversing with an unrepentant slaver. Despite her rather condescending demeanour, she was still a trader, and thus privy to a lot of information from across the continent.
Of course, given that his aunt was a pilot by vocation, it didn't take long until the conversation invariably shifted around to the topic of her interest.
William listened quietly as his aunt talked quite animatedly about the North's growing demands for more Shards over airships. Something she was quite certain was a tacit admittance that the occupation of the Sunland Marches had fully ground to a halt and that the Marcher Ladies had quietly resigned themselves to a war of attrition against the recalcitrant orcish tribes there.
William had his own opinions of course, but he kept them to himself. There was nothing to be gained by speaking up.
Not yet at least.