To get to where they are needed, they must travel through the maelstrom of lightening, heavy rains, winds, ... and worse. -- Anon Guest
The world was full of scars like this. If 'scar' could apply to an eternal cyclone guaranteed to repel travelers from attempting to breach it. In the middle, in the eye of that permanent storm, was the floating island of Aljanna. A paradise lost to most of the mortal world.
Legend held that they were safeguarding a mighty weapon. One capable of destroying a god. One that these Adventurers needed for just that purpose.
"So this is it," said the Paladin. "Navigating a literal shitstorm to get the one thing we need to defeat a Sorcerer gone mad with power."
"Nobody should seek the power of the gods," intoned the Cleric, "and nobody should be trying to steal it. "Our cause is noble. Our hearts pure. This is only filth. We will become clean again."
"It's filth, and lightning, and hailstones nobody wants to talk about," said the Rogue. "And rains of piss. Sideways rains of piss, I might add."
"Ones made to pierce all known means of defence against them, yes," added the Wizard. "One of us has to weather this weather in order steer this flying ship. You're the most nimble. The most skilled when it comes to minimising harm. We're trusting you to get us through to Aljanna."
"Gods know how I was picked as pure of heart," grumbled the Rogue. "You should have picked a Martialist. Someone who actually lived pure."
"The gods chose you," said the Cleric, blessing the Rogue. "Have faith in them, as they have faith in you."
The Rogue made certain their oiled leather coat and mask were secure. "It'd be easier if they answered my questions once in a while. Or at all."
"We don't do these things because they are easy," said their Sorcerer.
Three of them had close associations with the gods, and then there was the Hellkin Rogue who never heard them but still did what seemed right. Ignored, overlooked, or otherwise dismissed by the Divine. And, they regretted in moments like this, loyal to a fault. "How weird is it that the hallowed three of you are trusting profane li'l ole me to get us through this?"
"The gods love a good laugh," said the Cleric.
They went below. The Rogue lashed themself to the rails and clung to the wheel. They had one chance in hell of making it through. Good thing that the Rogue's bloodline came from there.
So they had a chance.
[Photo by Michael & Diane Weidner on Unsplash]
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