The wind howled like a wounded beast.
Captain Alistair Von Wolfenstein stood at the bow of the Stormrider, his prized skyship, a sleek vessel of polished brass and crimson sails. The gears within the hull hissed and clicked, steam curling into the icy night air. The twin moons hung above, pale and indifferent, casting their ghostly light across the floating city of Vandrel's Reach — a sprawl of suspended bridges and rusted towers, hovering over a chasm of swirling stormclouds.
He smirked, the scar along his jawline tugging at his roguish grin. Another job, another sky city, another dance with death. Just the way he liked it.
Behind him, the crew scurried across the deck, tightening ropes and loading the steam cannons. Alistair's first mate, a gruff, one-eyed engineer named Rogan Blackgear, puffed on an oil-soaked cigar.
"You sure about this, Cap'n?" Rogan muttered, voice as gravelly as the storm below. "The Iron Tempest is a myth. Chasing ghosts'll get us all killed."
Alistair chuckled. "Ghosts don't scare me, Rogan. Pretty women and empty rum bottles — now those are terrifying."
The sky darkened. A shadow slithered through the clouds — too large, too swift for any ordinary skyship. A bone-chilling screech echoed across the sky.
And then, the Stormrider was under attack.