A Little Help

"Elves?" the dwarf sneers. "Yes, elves, you have a problem with elves?' Sheridan interlinks his fingers and cracks his knuckles in a threatening cacophony. 'You racist against elves?" The dwarf cocks his head, mouth turning into a tight frown, "nah, guess I love 'em." "Good."



A wicked black thing, blowing grey smoke, screams through fluffy white clouds. Blobs of muscle move along the deck. The glint of sun on sharp metal and the chant of a war song announce intent. It's the Rever. An orc run skyship known for dealing out death. The reason for never taking shortcuts. The old …