The Skyrat’s Gambit
The Skyrat sliced through the mist of the Ironfang Canyon, its brass hull glinting dully under a sky choked with clouds. Smokestacks coughed plumes of black into the air, and gears whirred as the steampunk airship banked hard against the wind. On its deck, a crew of goblins scurried about—short, wiry figures with oversized goggles and patched leather vests, their clawed hands tugging levers and ropes. Their leader, Captain Gritzk, stood at the helm, his grin sharp as the canyon’s jagged peaks, a monocle glinting over one yellow eye.
The Skyrat wasn’t built for beauty; it was a scavenger’s dream, patched together from stolen parts and goblin ingenuity. Its steam engine roared, a glowing beast of orange light that kept the ship aloft. The goblins had spent years raiding merchant caravans below, but today was different. Today, they chased a prize worth more than gold: the Clockwork Compass, a relic rumored to point to the lost Vault of Veydris, buried somewhere in the canyon’s depths.
Gritzk had snatched the rumor from a drunken dwarf in a tavern, then rallied his crew—Sniv, the twitchy engineer; Blix, the sharpshooter with a crossbow; and Zog, who mostly ate bolts but was handy in a fight. The compass was aboard a human trade ship, a sleek ballooned vessel that had vanished into the canyon hours ago. The Skyrat followed, its engines straining as the walls closed in, mist curling around the ship like ghostly fingers.
“Faster, Sniv!” Gritzk barked, his voice rasping over the wind. Sniv yanked a lever, and the engine spat sparks, the ship lurching forward. Blix perched on the railing, her crossbow trained on the swirling clouds. “There!” she squeaked, pointing to a shadow ahead—the trade ship, its balloon taut, its crew oblivious to the goblins’ approach.
The Skyrat dove, cannons rattling as Blix fired a grappling hook. It snagged the trade ship’s rigging, and the goblins cheered, swinging across on ropes with gleeful cackles. Gritzk led the charge, his rusty cutlass flashing as he landed on the deck. The humans—burly guards in pressed uniforms—drew swords, but the goblins were chaos incarnate. Zog barreled through, knocking men overboard, while Sniv lobbed a smoke bomb, blinding the rest.
Gritzk found the captain’s quarters, kicking the door open to reveal a velvet-lined box. Inside gleamed the Clockwork Compass, its gears ticking like a heartbeat, its needle spinning wildly. He snatched it, triumph lighting his grin, just as the trade ship’s balloon ruptured from a stray cannon shot. The vessel plummeted, but the Skyrat swooped in, engines screaming as the goblins leapt back aboard.
The canyon walls loomed as they climbed, the compass now pointing southeast toward uncharted cliffs. Gritzk clutched it, his crew panting around him. “Vault’s ours, lads,” he said, voice thick with greed. “No more scraps—we’ll be kings!”
The Skyrat soared on, a steampunk speck against the canyon’s vastness, its goblin crew riding the edge of madness and glory. The Vault of Veydris awaited, and with it, a legacy forged in steam and cunning.