Crash
It began with an incorrect weather forecast from our staff meteorologist. Mistakes happen, as the weather can be unpredictable and our tools are not sophisticated for predicting the weather. After all, we have only recently entered the age of steam. However, this one mistake nearly cost us our lives.
We were now lost in a new land. I’ll get to that a bit later.
Our assignment was simply to fly to Tiwikley Island about five hundred kilometers east of Hemiola, the capital of Neue Victoria. Once there, we would drop off data from the Mendel Institute to Dr. Caravaggio who headed the research station on the island. Then, we would collect the data he had for us, have a spot of lunch, and fly back home before the 4 o’clock storm hit. All in a day’s work, really. We had completed this trip a half dozen times before.
That morning, the skies were blue, with nary a cloud. Waters were calm, and barometric pressure was fair. Tailwind speeds were reasonable, and there was very little crosswind. The aeroport said we were good to fly, so my sister Regina and I set off from Hemiola at 9 o’clock sharp.
The flight was pretty smooth for about an hour. Our biplane’s engine roared like a lion as we sailed over the beautiful blue Atlantean Sea. Having made this trip dozens of times, Regina and I had no cause for concern. The Atlantean Sea had other ideas.
Two hours into our journey, the winds began to pick up speed. A very strong crosswind picked up, making the flight rather turbulent. Crosswinds weren’t a problem normally, but to the southeast, terrible storm clouds appeared out of nowhere. Glancing at the plane’s barometer, I realized we were in trouble. It read 30 when we took off from Neue Victoria, but now it was all the way at 28. There was simply no way we could continue flying in our simple two seater biplane, but according to our maps, land would not appear for at least 200 kilometers.
We had made it about 150 kilometers into our journey before the storm hit. Regina suggested we simply return to the island, and I agreed. Before we could maneuver the plane to its new trajectory, a devilish whirlwind with lightning descended upon us in a flash. The currents were strong, and we were tossed about like a ball. As rains poured, some water must have gotten into the engine, for something shorted, and we lost engine power. One last gust from the crosswind, and I realized that we were likely done for.
Regina and I pulled on the levers, and we were ejected from the plane. We said our prayers, and vowed to swim to the nearest island due south of our last bearing. A fairly large island beckoned, covered with dense foliage.
“Undiscovered,” I thought to myself.
It was perhaps the last thing we saw before we pulled the levers. It wasn’t Tiwikley Island, but at least it was an island. Perhaps all wasn’t lost. I watched my sister sail forward into the air in front of me. I glided backward before pulling the ripcord to my parachute and realized that the papers, tool boxes and instruments we were supposed to take to Tiwikley Island were now spiraling downward in our plane, destined to drown in the bottom of the Atlantean Sea.
Drat.
As I sank into the body of water, it occurred to me that this was no ordinary storm. The waters of the Atlantean Sea were like a warm bath, a clear indication of a hurricane.
“Odd,” I thought, for hurricanes did not occur this time of year. All of us at the Mendel Institute were somewhat versed in basic environmental studies as part of our job training. Regina would be more knowledgeable than I though, having studied the biological sciences at university.
Speaking of Regina, I couldn’t see her at all. I did watch as our plane careened toward the large island. I bobbed in the warm water and worked to disengage myself from the restraints, lest I drown. As I did, I heard a loud crash. Our state of the art biplane now belonged to the Atlantean Sea.
Cold rain mixed with hail pummeled at me from the skies above. The stones tore at my clothing, and with each sting, I noticed a new spot of blood. Sharks would arrive soon if I lingered. I am a slow but somewhat proficient swimmer, so I tightened my goggles and shed excess weight. Then I made a break for it. I wondered if that was a fin in the distance, but decided to hope my eyes simply deceived me.
By the time I reached the sandy shores of the island, the storm had worsened, and the light had begun to fade. Adrenaline levels plummeted, and I realized I couldn’t move another inch. I closed my eyes for what seemed like only a moment, but later I was told that it was several days that I slumbered.
When I woke, I lay supine on the grass. I thought I was dreaming, as I saw a woman dance around me and another form lying on the ground. Was it Regina?
As the woman danced, what could only be lightning danced between her fingertips from one hand to the other. She moved around me and the other body in a circular motion, chanting in a language I could not comprehend. With each crackle of lightning, I felt as though my body was being replenished. Each word of the woman’s chant gave me life, each movement gave me sustenance.
When the dance stopped, I felt whole again. I sat up and spied my sister lying a couple of meters away from me. Her eyes opened, and she smiled.
“Will! I am relieved to see you,” she said. A child approached Regina and helped her to sit up. The woman sat down beside me, and took my hand in hers.
“Tot,” the woman said, nodding her head toward my sister.
“My sister, yes,” I said, thinking she asked if Regina and I were acquainted.
The woman shook her head. “Tot,” she said again before pointing to herself. “Iee gib zee layb un yets tu.”
I realized that the woman spoke an archaic version of our local dialect back on Neue Victoria.
“Tot, ich gebe Sie Leben jetzt.” Tot means dead. “Dead, I give you life now,” the woman said. There was something about what she said, and the way she held my hand that caused me to realize just how dire our situation was. I glanced at Regina, whose face betrayed that same realization, and I began to weep.
As my cartography tools and data reports sat at the bottom of the Atlantean Sea, a kind stranger had the ability to grant life solely with careful movements with her hands and feet. While the storm at sea tried to devour our essence, her voice granted us rebirth.
As I chronicle this, I am at a loss to explain better what happened. Was it magic? Divine serenity from the Goddess? Whatever the answer was, I feel as if I’ve been given a second chance. Duty calls me back to Neue Victoria, but I can already tell that Regina has found a new life here. I don’t wish to return to the world of iron and steam, but I work to rebuild something to return me nonetheless.
Something inside me has changed. I lack the tools I would use back at my workshop in Hemiola, but I have built new ones. This island is very resourceful. I concentrate on rebuilding, but I admit that my passion only surfaces when the wind rustles through the trees. I close my eyes, and I feel the static of electricity crackle between my fingers.
Author notes: Will and Regina come from an old series I once created using the Sims 2 engine called 'Out of the Pit: an Anachronistic Adventure.' A couple of months ago, I realized that I wanted to revisit the story and rewrite it without TS2 references and without game pictures. This story is the untold version featuring Will's point of view. If you would like to take a peek at the original the story from Regina's and the magician's point of view, click on the tag 'ootp' below.
Thanks to scpiper and zedmanauk for help with scientific jargon and proofreading. Thank you for reading.
We were now lost in a new land. I’ll get to that a bit later.
Our assignment was simply to fly to Tiwikley Island about five hundred kilometers east of Hemiola, the capital of Neue Victoria. Once there, we would drop off data from the Mendel Institute to Dr. Caravaggio who headed the research station on the island. Then, we would collect the data he had for us, have a spot of lunch, and fly back home before the 4 o’clock storm hit. All in a day’s work, really. We had completed this trip a half dozen times before.
That morning, the skies were blue, with nary a cloud. Waters were calm, and barometric pressure was fair. Tailwind speeds were reasonable, and there was very little crosswind. The aeroport said we were good to fly, so my sister Regina and I set off from Hemiola at 9 o’clock sharp.
The flight was pretty smooth for about an hour. Our biplane’s engine roared like a lion as we sailed over the beautiful blue Atlantean Sea. Having made this trip dozens of times, Regina and I had no cause for concern. The Atlantean Sea had other ideas.
Two hours into our journey, the winds began to pick up speed. A very strong crosswind picked up, making the flight rather turbulent. Crosswinds weren’t a problem normally, but to the southeast, terrible storm clouds appeared out of nowhere. Glancing at the plane’s barometer, I realized we were in trouble. It read 30 when we took off from Neue Victoria, but now it was all the way at 28. There was simply no way we could continue flying in our simple two seater biplane, but according to our maps, land would not appear for at least 200 kilometers.
We had made it about 150 kilometers into our journey before the storm hit. Regina suggested we simply return to the island, and I agreed. Before we could maneuver the plane to its new trajectory, a devilish whirlwind with lightning descended upon us in a flash. The currents were strong, and we were tossed about like a ball. As rains poured, some water must have gotten into the engine, for something shorted, and we lost engine power. One last gust from the crosswind, and I realized that we were likely done for.
Regina and I pulled on the levers, and we were ejected from the plane. We said our prayers, and vowed to swim to the nearest island due south of our last bearing. A fairly large island beckoned, covered with dense foliage.
“Undiscovered,” I thought to myself.
It was perhaps the last thing we saw before we pulled the levers. It wasn’t Tiwikley Island, but at least it was an island. Perhaps all wasn’t lost. I watched my sister sail forward into the air in front of me. I glided backward before pulling the ripcord to my parachute and realized that the papers, tool boxes and instruments we were supposed to take to Tiwikley Island were now spiraling downward in our plane, destined to drown in the bottom of the Atlantean Sea.
Drat.
As I sank into the body of water, it occurred to me that this was no ordinary storm. The waters of the Atlantean Sea were like a warm bath, a clear indication of a hurricane.
“Odd,” I thought, for hurricanes did not occur this time of year. All of us at the Mendel Institute were somewhat versed in basic environmental studies as part of our job training. Regina would be more knowledgeable than I though, having studied the biological sciences at university.
Speaking of Regina, I couldn’t see her at all. I did watch as our plane careened toward the large island. I bobbed in the warm water and worked to disengage myself from the restraints, lest I drown. As I did, I heard a loud crash. Our state of the art biplane now belonged to the Atlantean Sea.
Cold rain mixed with hail pummeled at me from the skies above. The stones tore at my clothing, and with each sting, I noticed a new spot of blood. Sharks would arrive soon if I lingered. I am a slow but somewhat proficient swimmer, so I tightened my goggles and shed excess weight. Then I made a break for it. I wondered if that was a fin in the distance, but decided to hope my eyes simply deceived me.
By the time I reached the sandy shores of the island, the storm had worsened, and the light had begun to fade. Adrenaline levels plummeted, and I realized I couldn’t move another inch. I closed my eyes for what seemed like only a moment, but later I was told that it was several days that I slumbered.
When I woke, I lay supine on the grass. I thought I was dreaming, as I saw a woman dance around me and another form lying on the ground. Was it Regina?
As the woman danced, what could only be lightning danced between her fingertips from one hand to the other. She moved around me and the other body in a circular motion, chanting in a language I could not comprehend. With each crackle of lightning, I felt as though my body was being replenished. Each word of the woman’s chant gave me life, each movement gave me sustenance.
When the dance stopped, I felt whole again. I sat up and spied my sister lying a couple of meters away from me. Her eyes opened, and she smiled.
“Will! I am relieved to see you,” she said. A child approached Regina and helped her to sit up. The woman sat down beside me, and took my hand in hers.
“Tot,” the woman said, nodding her head toward my sister.
“My sister, yes,” I said, thinking she asked if Regina and I were acquainted.
The woman shook her head. “Tot,” she said again before pointing to herself. “Iee gib zee layb un yets tu.”
I realized that the woman spoke an archaic version of our local dialect back on Neue Victoria.
“Tot, ich gebe Sie Leben jetzt.” Tot means dead. “Dead, I give you life now,” the woman said. There was something about what she said, and the way she held my hand that caused me to realize just how dire our situation was. I glanced at Regina, whose face betrayed that same realization, and I began to weep.
As my cartography tools and data reports sat at the bottom of the Atlantean Sea, a kind stranger had the ability to grant life solely with careful movements with her hands and feet. While the storm at sea tried to devour our essence, her voice granted us rebirth.
As I chronicle this, I am at a loss to explain better what happened. Was it magic? Divine serenity from the Goddess? Whatever the answer was, I feel as if I’ve been given a second chance. Duty calls me back to Neue Victoria, but I can already tell that Regina has found a new life here. I don’t wish to return to the world of iron and steam, but I work to rebuild something to return me nonetheless.
Something inside me has changed. I lack the tools I would use back at my workshop in Hemiola, but I have built new ones. This island is very resourceful. I concentrate on rebuilding, but I admit that my passion only surfaces when the wind rustles through the trees. I close my eyes, and I feel the static of electricity crackle between my fingers.
Author notes: Will and Regina come from an old series I once created using the Sims 2 engine called 'Out of the Pit: an Anachronistic Adventure.' A couple of months ago, I realized that I wanted to revisit the story and rewrite it without TS2 references and without game pictures. This story is the untold version featuring Will's point of view. If you would like to take a peek at the original the story from Regina's and the magician's point of view, click on the tag 'ootp' below.
Thanks to scpiper and zedmanauk for help with scientific jargon and proofreading. Thank you for reading.