The ship's six nacelles were enclosed in solid steel encasements to protect them from projectiles and fire. It had three pairs of steel-clad aerofoil wings. Each side of the ship was lined with at least 60 cannons, and 20 ballistas: fifteen and five, on each of its four decks. This massive vessel would be manned by three-hundred soldiers; which meant three to six platoons. Something that Temora would have to grow accustomed to.

The ship’s helmsmen were able to tune the elevation of the ship to a precise degree; within a few finger’s widths if they wanted to. Their experience meant that the boarding plank was dead level with the platform, and rock steady. With a ship of this mass, stepping onboard did nothing to move it. Even lowering a floatskid of cannonballs barely made it jiggle.

As the aeroship was loaded, a small team was in charge of walking out onto the nacelles to change the positions of their floatstones to keep the ship from listing. If there was too much weight on the aft cloudside, they would slide the floatstones toward the opposite pitch and roll to offset the list. More plainly, if it was leaning back and right, they would move floatstones forward and left. Mass was an abundant resource for an aeroship; especially one with six nacelles. One of the many perks that comes from exploiting magic stones.

Temora did not take long to get herself acquainted with the vessel, staring in awe at its size. She nearly ended her life walking into the unbarred corner of the boarding area. After returning her mind to a highly alert state, she walked onto its deck and was immediately greeted by higher-ranking military personnel.

A young woman was standing before her in the middle of the ship's top deck, equidistant from both rails, and from its main and middle masts. Upon approach, she appeared older than she had been at a distance. Up close it was still hard to tell, given her short stature, she came up only to Temora’s shoulders.

“I presume you to be Temora Fayn.” Her eyes were practically burning into a clipboard held in hand with a stack of papers clipped into it. It was a roster list of the ship’s passengers, overtop of what might have been the ship’s papers. She was fighting the paper stack with both hands to keep them from being taken by the wind.

“How did you know?”

“There are only fourteen women on the roster. You are the last to arrive.” She began to walk to the back of the craft, implying with her body language that Temora should follow. Her pace was uncomfortable for Temora to match, and slow. She figured that a seasoned professional such as this would be practically jogging, but the young woman was going nowhere fast.

Before them was a door that led to the ship's helm, grand cabin, and enclosed quarter-deck, but they sharply turned before getting to its handle. In front of the cabin were several pallet-sized gratings for lifting material above and below decks. Between them were hatches that remained propped upon, and a steep staircase that felt more like a ladder to descend. This was the first interior deck of the ship, the upper gun deck.

They did not stop to tour the decks nor meet with any of the hundred men that passed them by. All of which were becoming situated with their new living conditions. Despite a large portion of the floor space of each deck being occupied by 30 sizable guns, these areas were more spacious than she imagined.

Each of the guns was maneuverable, resting on a floatskid, and was tucked up against the hull. The massive rope which controlled its recoil was ready to be attached, but hung above the gunport which was currently closed. The center of each gun deck was used for both loading and unloading, as well as quarters for the crew; who were encouraged to take up a place next to, but out of the way of the guns. Bunks were provided in the ship's middle column.

All of this was curious to Temora, who to the best of her knowledge was not trained to man a cannon. At best, she could use one of the many small swivel guns or ballistas on the top deck. The training she had for those would probably carry over to the use of the ship's main guns as well. She would learn that this is not what the military intended for her to do.

Down she went. Steep stairs continued to the middle gun deck, the lower gun deck, then finally the leapover deck. The leapover deck was atop the ship's hold, which stored everything from alcohol and food, to the powder for the guns.

As for the leapover deck, it had the largest range of amenities across the entire ship. Anything with real value was located here. The sails were taken down when coming into port, so they were stored here. The boatswain’s cabin responsible for maintaining the rigging of those sails was next to the carpenter who was in charge of repairing the ship’s wooden hull. The steward who made the food, the purser who managed funds, and the ship’s medical staff were here as well. Most importantly of all, the magazines for charging the ship’s guns were between this deck and the lowest gun deck. Prepared to distribute 120 cannon charges within a single bead.

The young woman continued down the length of the ship to its rear where the purser’s room was located. Outside was a short mob formed of most of her plantoonmates. There Albe and Cocole were standing, along with many others. Their pay was being distributed to each member of the platoon; as a signing bonus.

The young woman quickly turned toward Temora and held out her hand in the Argentian way. “Serra Ruee. Master of the 2nd Year. I am sorry I haven’t the time. I do need to return to the top deck.”

“Oh, yes of course. Temora Fa---”

“I know.” She bleated from further down the hall. Temora looked down to her empty grip which Serra escaped entirely without notice. An incredible skill she was jealous of not possessing. Why didn't she move this fast earlier?

Temora turned to the mob, clueless as to what was going on in front of her. Thankfully, Albe was diligent and arrived two beats before brightset.

“Glad to see you in this place. We are surrounded by chaos.” Albe did not change posture in the least, arms folded and nodding toward the purser’s door. “They insisted the others have their debts settled before us. Maybe because they know we are patient.”

She subtly mirrored his standing position. “You know every other platoon is getting almost nothing right? They all have loans and credits to the government.” In that, Temora was absolutely correct. Many of the other platoons in the company onboard the ship were of a different class of soldier. The knights of a belitboard; expendable and replaceable. Bred from generations of soldiers before them, mostly second and third sons. All happy to be here, and happy to fight for, and even die for, their country.

Cocole stood between both of them and casually put an arm over and around both Albe and Temora’s neck and shoulder. “I’m not going to get a karat out of that room... sure of it. I owe the government a lot of money.” He deeply and nervously laughed. Cole’s debts were extensive, ranging from housing, schooling, asylum immigration fees, as well as levies and taxes owed to the court.

“My only way out of debt is being right here. I have no idea how I’m not over there.” He opened his hand wistfully, with his arms still over their shoulders, toward the group of the biggest men in the room. Those men were slapping each other’s calves with a leather strap to get them to cramp; for fun. “Very... very lucky; to be right here with you two.”