Got 2553 x Survey of the Neath's Roof and no wounds from a success at 111 Afield. Maybe 23xAfield.

Heave ho!

Without wind, one must rely on fire. You stand by the stokers and keep the boilers kindled with whatever you can; hurled amber, the last embers of the coal, the shirts off your back. The flame must live so that you might yet fall free.

A great whoosh goes up from the boilers. The deck is wreathed in smoke, but the propellers turn, and the balloon begins to sink. Cheers from the crew, hushed for fear of the Starved hearing, and then you are in freefall. It is an unsteady descent, managed by haphazardly pushing and then pulling ballast across the lurching deck.

When you land at last, crew from Station IX race to put out the flames, but there is admiration in their faces at the steadiness of your descent, the resolve in your crew for making it.