It was a good day for contrails, he saw. The sky was the vibrant hue of a robin’s egg, so crystal clear that he fancied he could even make out the stars despite the midnoon sun. The only blemishes upon the cloudless azure were a pair of white streaks lazily making their way overhead, thick plumes that trailed outwards in their wake due to wind shear.

Somebody’s already up there.

He stood perched upon the very edge of the sheer precipice, sandy brown rock falling away at his feet like some hungering maw. All around him was difficult mountain terrain, jagged peaks and etched valleys carved into the landscape eons ago by retreating glaciers, but what made his current location especially valuable was the blast of cold wind that whipped violently at his face and harried his long black hair. The thermal updrafts, or the ‘daemon breaths’ as the locals called them, were singularly essential to the task he was about to undertake.

Neither did he stand alone in the face of his undertaking: at his feet rested a Hibernian cloudskimmer, a sleek craft native to the inhabitants of this inhospitable land. Its body was mostly hollow to save weight, carved from fossilised lightwood excavated from the lowland bogs. Attached to this were two gull wings, frames of the same material as the body spanned with lightweight canvas sail, and an upturned u-shaped grip which the pilot could use to steer and control his craft. Vectored thrust was provided by an ancient and priceless mana engine embedded in the rear, which also powered the enchantments that protected the pilot from the destructive forces of flying such a vehicle. The cloudskimmer was about as generic as such craft got – Hibernian windriders were known to be as unorthodox and rebellious as the winds that bore them, and loved nothing more than to display such attitudes on their beloved steeds – but even then it was a lovely natural shade of greenish blue, its nose tapered and threatening, its back slightly hunched so as to give its pilot a better view.

Regrettably, said cloudskimmer did not belong to him. It belonged to the red-haired, red-bearded, red-freckled Hibernian windrider who was currently bellowing at him at the top of his lungs. Not that Ywain could hear him, however, for the howling wind simply whisked every last bellow into the cloudless sky above. He couldn’t even read the man’s lips, due to the bristly red moustache that obscured his view and his general unfamiliarity with the Hibernian tongue.

No doubt something to do with keeping the craft safe, not taking any unnecessary risks, not underestimating the wrath of the sky-goddess Cailleach Bheur, so on, so forth.

Ywain responded as best as he felt able, by meeting his fellow’s eyes – thankfully not red, but the same celestial hue as the sky he sought to ride – and nodding and smiling pleasantly. Unfortunately his actions seemed to have the exact opposite effect as intended. The pale-skinned Hibernian, already close to popping a blood vessel with the sheer effort of trying to talk over the wind, started to accentuate his renewed mute shouting with violent waves of his ruddy hands and viciously flaming glares.

Much more of this, and he’s literally going to fall off the edge. And that would be bad, given that it was a long, long way down… and it was Ywain, not the Hibernian windrider, who had one hand on the cloudskimmer’s controls. I wonder what he’s trying to tell me. What to do if the mana engine fails mid-flight, perhaps? Or how to land the thing?

Whatever it was, the rogue had to admit, it certainly made for an interesting sight – a wild-eyed small Hibernian, dressed in gaudy leather jerkin and breeches and clutching the prestigious winged crop of his profession, capering about the narrow ledge like a madman. No matter how hard he screamed and gestured and bared his yellowed teeth in Ywain’s direction, the relentless gale stole all semblance of meaning and intent into the great beyond. He might as well have been a mummer’s act, or Ywain deaf and dumb, in the face of his unforgiving surroundings.
Time, perhaps, for a slightly different tack.

“Don’t. Worry,” the rogue mouthed, not bothering to expend the effort of attempting to overcome the constant howl in his ears. “I’ll. Be. Okay.”

If anything, the already white face of the Hibernian windrider grew even whiter. The small man redoubled his efforts frantically, and then a desperate wave of his arms overbalanced him dangerously and nearly carried him over the cliff, almost plucked away by pagan Cailleach Bheur herself. He tottered backwards before collapsing on his haunches, suddenly drained by his brush with death.

Well, there’s only one thing to do now, then.

The grin that spread over Ywain’s face was somewhat cheeky, somewhat apologetic… and wholly lost in anticipation of the thrill to follow. One long leg kick-started the cloudskimmer by pushing it over the brink, honed reflexes ensuring that he was in full control before it was swept away from beneath him. The mana engine stuttered once before firing, and in the brief instant before the ground below disappeared into the distance, he could make out the terrible wrath and despair written on the windrider’s coarse features. And then the Hibernian was just a speck amongst the dusty brown, and the whistling wind finally faded into the background as the cloudskimmer’s protective wards kicked in.

Actually, I wonder if he was telling me not to take his cloudskimmer without his permission?

Ah well, who cared? The entire sky was his, now, and the paired contrails overhead beckoned like an implicit challenge. Keen eyes forward, long black hair streaming behind him like a makeshift cape, Ywain revved the cloudskimmer’s engine and gave chase.