Grigori's family were once great warriors. It was said that the spirit of the fight would take them in battle, making them wild frenzies of death, capable of cleaving through dozens of enemies and felling foes twice their size. It was this rage that gave him the frenzied energy to do the work of four men in the engine room. It was this same energy he was currently using to force himself out from under the wreckage of what was once his ship.

Boom! He knocked his shoulder onto the sealed hatch. "Sixteen damn minutes!" Boom! Again, he drove his shoulder in. "That was all it took you to fell my ship!" Boom! He wasn't sure what was going to give first, the hatch or his shoulder. "You said you could steer a ship!" Boom! With each hit to his shoulder, the pain only magnified the raging anger that churned through his body. Grisha's vision was blinkered and blood red, practically blinded by fury. "FALLING ISN'T BLOODY STEERING, YOU FOOLISH CHILD!" BOOM!

With a final heave, Grigori burst the metal clasp on the hatch. He also felt a pop in his arm and a pain shot through it down to his toes. He gritted his teeth and growled. Taking his arm in the other hand, he twisted and pushed upward. Another burst of pain and another pop. The rage had subsided a bit, and the pain from forcing the door open and relocating his shoulder was getting to him. He felt nausea from the shocks his body was being forced to endure. He was dizzy, and the roaring rage that was always in his ears was going away a bit. He gritted his teeth and breathed. He couldn't let it leave him now, he still had work to do. He looked about what was once the bridge of his ship, to the body laid out spread eagle on the deck. He hurried over and gently shook it.

"Molly, wake up. You gotta wake up, girl."

It had been with great excitement and anticipation that Molly had grasped the wheel of her ship, having finally harassed old Grisha into taking the patchwork thing up into the air despite the fact that it wasn't ready yet in his book. But if they went by his book the blasted thing would most likely not be ready till next Loshis... and she was not willing to wait that long at all. They would fly now, consequences be damned.

Creaking and groaning the unsightly thing began to slowly lumber itself into the inky night air. The cover of the moonless dark a welcomed must as she was not yet willing to unleash her secret on the world. The balloon had swelled, tugging the creaking rigging in harmony with the heavy thrum of the engine her uncle manned below... and it was music to her ears.

She had cackled with glee at the realization of her dreams. The ship flew! She had finally broken that hateful barrier of gravity and was free to soar with the seabirds over land and sea alike, leaving all those landlubbers and scurvy dogs to rot on the ground where they belonged as she mocked them from above.

Nothing would stop her now; with this ship at her command the sky was her oyster and she damned the craven fools who would dare cross her.

Grasping the wheel with all the confidence she had manned her many ships of the sea, Molly took her rightful place at the head of her ship, steering it towards the faint and fair distant horizon...

It was at this moment that she came to the slow realization that something was dreadfully wrong. It crept over her like the gentle mists of the dawn, sending cold shivers of growing horror down her spine as it chilled her to her very bone. Gripping the wheel all the harder, she struggled and fought back her fear even as she strained to maintain control of her airborne vessel.

She couldn't feel it! She couldn't feel anything!

The ship bucked and weaved erratically beneath her, refusing to fall into any old familiar rhythm. Molly had never learned the how or why in sailing, simply relying on her instincts to tell her what to do, to move with the rolling waves and the moods of the temperamental sea. But now those instincts had abandoned her as fully as she had abandoned those cold waters... and she was as helpless in the sky as a bit of flotsam in Hulali's rage.

Trying to quell the jolt of pure fear that was welling up within her, Molly had grit her teeth and fought on, stubbornly determined that she would fly her ship... But it was to no avail, she had no feel for it, no instincts whatsoever to guide her in this hateful void, and the virgin vessel was soon hopelessly out of control; speeding away on a short spiraling collision course with the ground.

She didn't quite know what happened after that. Something heavy and substantial and most likely not meant to be moved had gone flying through the air, one of the many bits and pieces of her ship as it crumbled around her, and had made a sharp and solid contact with the back of her head. She saw bright blinding stars as white hot pain cracked across her mind... and then endless black.

The next thing she became aware of was the sensation of movement, only recognized as such when she came to the conclusion that the rest of her was stationary... a welcomed change from the dreadful turbulence and trembling and groaning and crashing... Crashing!

With that stomach-dropping thought, Molly bolted upright... or rather, tried to, for as soon as she lifted her head off of the ground blindingly screaming pain flooded and ravaged her head. Gasping and groaning, she moved to cradle her wounded cranium... only to groan once more as she discovered the aches and pains did not end with her head. She was battered and bruised all over from the tumbling and thrashing she had sustained in their little joyride back to earth.

Opening her eyes, she tried to focus on one of the swirling scowling faces that floated above her.

“Hey there, Grisha,” she slurred in pain, squinting her scared eye in her attempt to restore her vision, “Tha' was quite th' ride now, wasn't it?”

"Don't talk," Grigori snapped. It wasn't that he was angry, as this should come as no surprise. At the same time, he wasn't particularly angry at Molly, or at least not yet. Right now, his anger was focused on more obvious places of ire. Starting with the twelve feet of metal and wood he'd have to get himself and Molly out of in order to live. He was very, very angry at that.

"Get up Molly. And no, don't talk!" he growled. "I'm in a bit of a state right now, so just do as I say, ya ken?" He didn't bother to let her reply.

"Because of what I can only assume you thought was flying, we are currently buried under what was once my ship. We're going to have to get out, and soon. You, Molly, have to get out. I've got to get down to the engine and shut it off, or we'll probably be part of a rather large light show in a few minutes. So, can ya stand?" Grigori felt a little bad at speaking to Molly like that, but that was dismissed once the next wave of rage rolled over him. He had to stay angry, he needed his strength now. He couldn't stop. He looked towards the small door marked with the black gear, one of his crawl spaces he had built to the engine room. His vision became more focused and red again. His breathing became deeper. He had some work to do.

He wanted her to get up? Now, when the world was so wonderfully still? Opening her mouth to gripe at the unfairness of such a request, Molly snapped her trap shut when Grisha snapped at her. Right, he's in a fit-mood, best not be talking just yet... not if she wanted to avoid another concussion via his trusty wrenches.

Staggering to her feet, Molly suppressed a groan at her protesting muscles, settling for a healthy glare in her foster uncle's direction due to his slanderous words. So she couldn't steer the blasted thing... apparently there was a lot more of difference between sea and sky than she had previously supposed, but that was still no reason to go on insulting her intelligence … this time at least.

Still he did have a point about getting out, and getting out quick. Now that the world had stopped spinning, she could smell the sent of various volatile gasses leaking from their sundry places quite clearly. Grisha would have to shut... whatever it was that was putting out those gasses off, and only he could do it. She would just end up being a hindrance down there in the wreckage of the engine-room at best, and it had been hazardous enough to begin with.

Nodding in agreement, both for standing and having to leave, Molly regarded Grisha with grim solemnity. He would have to go in alone, and she would have to run; it rubbed against her grain to do so, but that was the way it would have to be if they wanted to get out of this mess alive.

“Don't die in there, Old man,” Molly said with a slight smile ghosting across her unusually serious features, “I'd hate ta have ta replace ya so soon.”

He would understand the meaning behind those seemingly cold words, clocks, he was he one who had taught her how to give those backhanded compliments. And turning before she betrayed herself more than she already had, kicked in the loose hanging door that was blocking her exit, and darted out down the cramped and crumpled passageway of the aeroship before the exit was blocked by the falling wrechage yet again.

Grigori nodded, then wrapped his hands around the lock to the engine room hatch. It opened up to a small hole and a ladder. In its past life it had been a piece of sewage pipe, unceremoniously swiped, grafted with flanged ends and bolted into the decks of what had been just a mess of wood and metal. He allowed himself a passing moment of enjoyment. He had worked so hard to turn this into a serviceable tub. So much sweat and blood, he had ground metal and drove nails until his hands were red and unable to grasp a fork to eat, his old joints were so tender.

His rage came back again. All that work would be for naught if he didn't get down and shut off the fuel lines! Steeled again to action, he climbed through the hatch into the engine room.

The engine was the most important piece of equipment in the entire ship. There was absolutely nothing that he could have used for it that fit the job. He had fabricated the entire thing, it was a glorious behemoth of aluminum and steel, with reduction gears that ranged from the diameter of his closed fist to some that were half his size around. He had nestled it in a steel skirt for protection from such an occasion as this. Luckily, it had protected the engine from the shock of crashing as it had been designed to. Looking at the jagged iron edges that had ripped through the walls however, it looked like it would only work once.

"Time to get to work," he said to himself as he headed to the tool cabinet he kept.

But of course, where it had been was another piece of the protective steel skirt, having torn through the wall and apparently launched his bin forcefully away. To where, he had no idea.

His nostrils flared as he tried to take deep breaths. He was a mechanic, and a machinist. He could make this thing work on nothing at all, but he needed tools. Without them, he was just one man. One angry, little man.

"Ent no way I'm dieing in here," he growled as he cinched the back of his blacksmith's apron and began the search for his tools.

Through the wreckage, Molly had climbed, laboriously making her way towards the hatch that lead to the outside and the main deck of her felled ship. The narrow hallways were twisted and skewed so out of proportion that the place hardly resembled itself... and it took the young pirate a few moments before she came to the realization that this was mostly because the ship was resting on its side, and she was running along the walls. Her eyes flying open as her perspective violently swung into place, she yelped in alarm as the 'floor' disappeared out from under her feet and she fell 'down' into the small room below her with a crash.

Cursing her klutziness at a time when all due speed was of the essence, she righted herself and tried to resume her reckless flight, only to find that she was stuck. Violently wrenching her booted foot from where it had become wedged amidst the twisted machinery, she overbalanced and fell heavily to the ground.

She landed halfway across some bit of mangled piping, the wind knocked out of her with a gusty 'oof', and she was brought to the conclusion that she could spare a few minutes to rest... as soon as she could inhale again.

Dazed her eyes came to rest upon a peculiar object, starring at it unseeingly until it finally registered with her why it was holding her attention so.

How Grisha's toolbox had made it into this room, only the gods would know... How it managed to get itself jammed halfway through the aluminum wall was another thing entirely. But one thing she did know, and this was with certainty, was that if Grisha's tools were stuck here... then that meant that Grisha didn't have them. And a tool-less Grisha is an angry Grisha... especially if his life is in jeopardy.

She had to get him his tools, so that he could save the ship and his own bloomin' neck. She knew that old man, and it would take death itself to pry his cold dead fingers way from fixing this deathtrap, with or without the proper tools to do the job. Heck this entire vessel was a testament to the old sailors stubborn ingenuity... But Grisha didn't have the time to bang his way through it this time... he needed those tools, and she would have to take them too him.

Finally able to breath again, Molly scrambled to her feet and over to where the toolbox was jammed. Grabbing hold, she jerked the stubborn box out with an agonizingly slow shrieking creak, having the wall finally give up its hold about halfway through.

Tucking the battered box under one arm, she grasped hold of the door frame above her head and heaved herself up and back into the hallway. Rolling to her feet, she then took off back down the way she had come, scrambling over the piles and debris she had had to traverse before and smashed her way through the cluttered doorway that she had left in her wake.

“Oi, Grisha!” She called as she looked about the room hurriedly, then rolling her eyes at her foolishness. 'He's in the engine room already, ye daft girl,' she scolded herself as she thought, darting down the way towards the hatch. And indeed he was, as she could already hear the sounds of cursings and bangings that always accompanied the old mechanic when he was at work.

Throwing open the hatch door with a bang she slid down the ladder and into the room with a flourish.

“Hey, Grisha,”She said with a smirk as she held the box aloft, “Ya loose som'min?”

Grigori, unable to close the gas lines without his gas line wrench, had moved onto his normal contingency plan of beating the equipment into submission while yelling incoherently at it.It was working about as well as one would expect.



Grisha's teeth ground together as he heard the other voice over his curses. "You idiot slip! I told you to-" when he saw the toolbox in her grip, he stopped talking for a second. He growled as he snatched it from her grip.

"If you don't get out of here soon, I'll have cut the gas for nothing. The ship wasn't made to lie on its side like this. It's liable to-"

His sentence was cut by the ominous creaking of the walls themselves. Grigori turned his head to and fro, trying to pinpoint if anything important was fixing to break down. So far, it was just the ship settling down into its grave. This wasn't a very comforting thought.

"Molly, if you don't get out of here nowish, yer gonna have a big, metal coffin to lie in! Get!"

As he shooed her off, he opened up his tool box. Experienced hands flipped up the top panels and he got the two tools he needed, the rectangular gas line wrench, and his steel striking mallet. Fitting it over the square valve opening in the wall, he started to hammer it shut with frenzied strikes. The heat was on, and his prized ship was quick becoming a short fuzed bomb.

"Ent no way I'm dieing in here," he repeated to himself, almost reflexively.

Molly had rolled her eyes as her foster father hardly even paused in his tirade to grab the needed toolbox. She was only slightly put out that there was no gushing words of gratitude, having rushed back here and saved his life and all, such as it was. But she really hadn't expected any other response, the man was consistent if nothing else.

The humorous thoughts were cut off as an agonizing groan echoed and shrieked, rattling the walls of the ship with an ominous shuddering creak. A chill went down the pirate's spine as she heard it rattling her bones. She new that sound, for all the strange overtones, it was the sound of a ship settling into a sideways death. Ships are not supposed to lie like this, and beached ships always had this danger; apparently it was the same for a ship of the skies. A slow death on an improper grounding.

Grisha had hardly stopped speaking before Molly had turned and began clambering back up the latter. Only pausing long enough to send a half salute the old mechanics way (not that he noticed) she scurried up and out like rat off a sinking ship... the simile was not appreciated.

Darting once again down those twisted halls, Molly's bruised and battered body protested loudly as she rushed on as fast as was physically possible. Her breath rushed through her lungs and a burning stitch was cutting into her side painfully as her pulse pounded in her ears.

The groaning had started up again, along with a horrible creaking shudder that made the walls tremble and shake. Bits of debris had begun falling again, shaken loose and swinging as it was left to hang, Molly's escape from the dieing ship was made all the more treacherous. Darting and swerving to avoid the obstacles and cutting it far to close for comfort, she made her way as swiftly as she could.

There! The hatch out was right in front of her. Taking a final leap, she skidded to a stop and grabbed hold of the circular hatch handle and spinning it as quickly as she dared. The door swung open not a moment too soon- but that moments pause had turned into disaster. Stationary, and completely oblivious to anything but getting that door open, the pirate lass did not notice that the shuddering of the ship had rendered loose a bit of pipework behind her- A pipe which, unobserved, made sharp and sudden contact with the back of Molly's head.

The hatchway door swung open unaided as the senseless Molly Scarlette fell limp across the threshold.

Grigori's eye's popped out of their sockets as he heaved on the wrench. Finally, in a metallic scream, the square tip of the valve's stem was sheared off. He knew that he wasn't going to be reusing the system, and it was safer that the valve could in no way be unloosened.

The gas now cut, he looked out to where the engine was. He knew that he would never be able to drag the thing out as his ship came crashing down around his ears. All he could do was hope that the steel skirt would hold out as the rest of the ship imploded on itself.

Flinging the gas valve wrench into his toolbox with the hammer and slamming it shut, he gripped the handle in one hand as he shimmied up the hatch to the cacophany of tearing metal and splintering wood. He already new what was going to happen. The entire ship was going to flatten under its own weight. The gas would compress. The balloon, already ruptured, was leaking its own gas. It wouldn't take anything more than a stray coal from the boiler to set the entire thing off like a pile of dried pine needles and he had no time to go through the rubble that became of the ship's pipes and fittings just to snuff out the embers he knew burned in there. Time to get out of here.

He hauled his body out of the hatch and took a quick look around. He had no mona to negotiate with, but lurking in the dark compartments deep in warships for most of his adult life had given him excellent low light vision. Through the twisted wreckage, he saw a door, still swinging a bit. He sighed a bit in relief. So his daughter had made it through with no problems.

Popping his neck, he began to navigate through the remains of the ship. He'd built the whole thing. He knew every crannie, every space, every void of it.

The unconscious pirate girl in front of the exit out of the bridge though, this was new.

Grisha looked and sighed. Even with the ship crashing down around him, the main feeling he had for his foster daughter was resignation. He stooped down, and gritted his teeth as he started to drag her through.

"Molly," he said, with all the tenderness he could muster, "wake up, girl. Waking you up once today is too much for this old man."

This was the second time the daylight had been knocked out of her within the hour, and this time was by far the more unpleasant experience. Awareness danced around her senses with a fickle whimsy, just enough to let her know that regaining full consciousness would hurt like a female banderwolf and would not be denied.

Gritting her teeth against the pain of being jostled, the pirate woman bit back a groan as she reached back a hand. Squinting her good eye, she looked to see that although her head was cut it was not bleeding nearly as much as she had feared.

“Clocks, ah ent ever gonna grow them eyes now am I?” Molly chuckled lightly, the pounding pain of her skull only slightly coloring her voice as she darted a slightly amused glance up at the mechanic hovering over her.

Her gaze was distracted however, but the sudden and forced realization that they were still, in fact, within the fallen ship, and that said ship was still in the process of crumbling about them... By the way of the heavy sheets of scrap-metal made walls creaking and groaning as it gave warning of its slow demise, releasing one of the panels from its twisted hold and sent it tumbling their way.

Eyes widening a the sudden threat, Molly's battered body was suddenly mobilized. Scrambling to her feet with the suddenness inspired by that rush of adrenalin, the pirate grabbed her foster father by the arm and hauled them both through the still swinging door and out of harms way as the panel crashed down thunderously behind them. Sliding down the slanted deck, Molly hit one of the guard rails hard in the side, and winded slightly, still managed to grab a firm hold on it to prevent her sliding further.

“Ye all right ol'man?” She shouted over the increasing sound of twisting metal and breaking binds, looking towards where Grisha had landed. She wasn't greatly concerned that he hurt himself though, the man was as tough as a man could get, and the majority of her attention was caught up in trying to judge a safe way down.

Nope, she rolled her eyes. None that she could see at least, so it would have to be the risky way- jump first and ask questions later.

Letting go of her handhold, Molly half fell, half slid the rest of the way down the deck, kicking her way around the more dangerous objects and with a twist and a short plunge off the side, landed on the damp spongy ground hard, backside first.

“Hurry up Grisha!” Molly hollered up at him as she staggered to her feet, “Th' ground's no as far as it seems! Get yer arse down here!”