This fanfic is set at the beginning of the Third Age of Flight, seven years after the events in 'The Blooding of Rufus Filatine'. Mild spoilers for those who haven't read the story, but even if you haven't there will be an explanation in this, so it's easy to follow.

"Gaaaah!" The cry of frustration and pain echoed across the room. No one looked up. It happened at least once every 5 minutes; a young apprentice would grow confident, almost reckless with their phraxfire globe, and with a hiss and a shimmering exhalation of wispy smoke, they would acquire another thin, snaking indigo scar. The scars were what marked these academics out. Nicknamed the Purple-Sleeves by everyone else, the unofficial criteria for becoming a full academic was that you had to have had at least 50 scars. Their leader, High Professor Tamil Whytewinter, had gone as far as to make the sleeves of his senior academics the deep purple of a phrax-filter lake. And as for the pilots. . .

"Rrrrrgh. . ." the apprentice muttered between clenched teeth. Sweat streamed down his face like glistening raindrops, leaving snail-tracks through the encrusted mess of ash and soot on his face and staining his purple-and-white checkerboard collar. A spindlebug hurrried over, clicking sympathetically. "Oh dear oh dear young master," the old creature trilled. "That looks nasty." Rush grimaced in pain and quickly unscrewed his phraxfire globe. Too quickly. With a sickening whirr a stray flameguard embedded itself into Rush's bleeding shoulder. Rush heard a sickening, tortured scream echo round the suddenly alert chamber. It was only as the world fell away into a dark pit that he realized he was making it. . .

Rushin Mistdancer lay unmoving in the lufwood cabin. Pale blood trickled from the long, slanting scar writhing down his shoulders. The edge of the wound was harsh and fissured where Bulbiurr had sealed the burn with a splinter of burning leadwood. This was his 27th scar and by far the nastiest. It was impossible to tell how badly an academic had been burnt when they were; more often than not it was barely visible. That's why no experienced academic even glanced over to check. But this time. . . .

Bulbiurr hurried in, his translucent shell grimy with soot and blood. "Master Rushin?" No reply. The spindlebug tutted agitatedly, a set of claws hovering next to the small surgical knife. Aged as he was, the spindlebug had never had to use the cruel blade. He had been lucky. The blade had an uncanny knack of slipping and turning astray. Why, only last week his half-cousin, Grizmoor, was forced to saw off a Lancer's right arm. The Lancer died screaming in agony as the blade twisted into his maggot-fouled neck. Grizmoor was found dead a day later with a neat sky-riders hook knot tied into his necktie.

The delicate creature shuddered at just the memory, his translucent eye-shells bubbling with briny, glue-splotched tears. "Pull yourself together!" he gurgled angrily, glancing at Rush. The boy just lay there, his face deathly pale under the the burn had been infected by the grimy flameguard. . .The old spindlebug swallowed slowly. His nerveless fingers gripped the clam-bone hilt of the knife intensely. Sick to the stomach with fear, Bulbiurr lowered the small, slight blade, first slowly then faster and faster. . .

Sqqqqqqqueak! The lullabee-wood door swung open and Bulbiurr hurriedly put the knife down. Who was it? A senior medic, a professor, the High Professor himself? The aged spindlebug slowly turned around. . .

So this is my first fanfic. I'm nervous but also excited, and I hope to make this into a regular writing thing for me. I really appreciate reviews - even just a few encouraging words would help - so just comment on how you found the story. Follow-up soon (although with my broadband I can't promise anything), so please take the time to read that too.

I sound nothing like myslef I'm so excited, so I guess I'd better sign off. . .

Querulous Night