"Well," he said out loud, trying to defuse their impending panic, "too bad Grumby cut out with the only available Chultian air support… wait! That's it! It just might work!"
Passepout and Curtis were shocked by the sudden change in the calm conduct of their airship captain, who was quickly undoing ropes and rushing around the deck like an ant on the edge of the abyss.
"Here!" their animated leader instructed. "Tie these ropes to each of the four corners of the lizard skin. Fast!"
"Why?" the two crewman replied, while simultaneously following orders.
"I remember reading in the papers of the explorer Artus Cimber on some of the obscure customs of some of tribes of Chult. I think it was the Tabaxi who had some sort of manhood ritual whereby the young males, upon reaching maturity, would have to throw themselves off a cliff with only an umbrella-shaped blanket to slow them down. You see, the warm air currents would slow their descent just like the geyser that inflated our balloon, thus allowing them to survive the fall. Supposedly it was done in honor of three Tabaxi who saved their king by helping him escape from the Batiri goblin tribes. I think their names were Gherri, Aahnnie, and Modesti."
"But how does this help us?" Passepout implored.
Volo pointed to the ground that they were approaching.
"There!" he instructed. "If we stay on board at our current rate of descent we will be bashed to our deaths on those rocky ridges. Ergo, we must abandon ship before we reach there."
"So we can be bashed to our deaths on the plains below?" Passepout asked.
"Maybe," Volo replied, "but hopefully not. Good, that should be secure enough. Curtis, pass me my pack."
The lad complied without thinking.
"Good," the master traveler responded, hoisting it into place on his back, with the shoulder straps. "Now quickly, take the other end of one of the ropes, and attach it to the front of your belt. On second thought, Passepout attach an end on each side."
Both complied, unaware of the rhyme or the reason for their actions, and ever aware of the approaching doom of the rocky mountain cliffs.
"Good, now one more rope, tied around us, holding us back to back to back," the master traveler continued. "Better make it twice around. Good."
"But I don't understand," Curtis queried, while still complying.
"We're all going to die," the thespian replied in resignation.
"I hope not," Volo responded, shifting their bound, three-person bulk toward the ship's bow. "If it works for the Tabaxi, it might work for us."
"What did you say those guys' names were?" Passepout asked.
Volo checked the security of the ropes and straightened out the unfurled thunder lizard's skin as he replied. "Gherri, Aahnnie, Mo…"
Once again the ship lurched. The hull cracked in two. The three bound travelers were thrown backward over the bow, the lizard skin following at a rope's length.
Falling.
Falling.
Falling… lurch upward.
The skin caught the wind and became inflated, slowing their descent drastically.
"It's working!" Curtis replied.
"We're going to die!" Passepout cried.
"Hold the ropes!" Volo shouted. "Use both hands! We should hit the plains in seconds."
True to his word, they did.
Volo managed to extricate himself first from beneath the lizard skin that had landed on top of them, and managed to catch one last look at the airship Minnow as it crashed into the rocky ridge and tumbled down the mountainside, breaking into unrecognizable splinters and shards of airbag and wood.
Under his breath, and unheard by his crew members, Volo breathed a sigh of relief, saying, "I honestly didn't think we'd make it. I guess I owe Artus Cimber one."
The master traveler then turned his attention back to Passepout and Curtis, who were having trouble extricating themselves from the rope-and-skin contraption that had saved their lives.
"My aching body," Passepout complained, "and we forgot the food."
"We made it!" Curtis announced in disbelief.
"Of course," Volo replied. "Was there ever any doubt? Let's make camp here. The sun is setting, and our makeshift sky sail will also make a perfect windbreak and blanket to protect us from the evening chill."
Few words were spoken, and the exhausted threesome were at rest before the sun had fully dipped below the horizon.
Fatigue had won out over caution, and the night passed uneventfully despite the lack of a guard on watch.
As the sun made its appearance on the opposite horizon, Curtis and Passepout awoke to muscles and joints that were now just beginning to make known their complaints about the activities of the previous day.
"Good morning," greeted Volo, who had obviously been up since the first crack of sunlight had started to illuminate the shadow-ridden plains. He was contemplating the enchanted map, which he had luckily placed in his pack at the first sign of trouble with the Red Wizard. "As best I can estimate, we're somewhere around here, in the northern part of the Quoya Desert, around the Horse Plains."
"Huh?" Passepout replied, wiping the sands of slumber from his eyes and yawning.
"The Horse Plains, also called the Hordelands, or Taan as it's known in the native tongue," Volo elaborated. "Not too bad, considering the alternative."
"What alternative?" the thespian groaned, the complaints of his joints drowned out by the rumblings of his stomach.
"Death," the master traveler succinctly replied.
"Oh," the thespian acquiesced.
"But aren't the people of the Hordelands hostile?" Curtis asked. "And didn't King Azoun and his Purple Dragons defeat them and their savage and barbaric ways during the Horde Wars?"
Volo chuckled.
"Well, I guess we found an area that your alleged education is lacking in. Sure, Azoun and his boys managed to turn back the Horde invasion… but savage and barbaric ways? I don't think so, that is unless you happen to be one of the merchants whose caravans were plundered of their wealth and wares. From what I understand, Yamun Khahan, leader of the Tuigan (that's what they call themselves, the Horde is a western moniker) would even offer his captives the choice of joining him and his raiding party on their invasion westward."
"What if a prisoner declined the offer?" Curtis asked.
"If he or she was of value as a hostage, they were ransomed. If not, they were killed, not unlike any other civilized culture engaged in the uncivilized practice of making war. Savage and barbaric? No more than any other special interest group of our own fair Faerun."
"I'm hungry," Passepout grumbled to no one in particular.
"So I hear," Volo replied, pointing to the thespian's ample abdomen, whose rumblings were hard to miss. "As are we all."
"So what do we do now?" Curtis inquired.
"Just wait right here until that cloud of dust on the horizon catches up with us."
"Oh, great! A dust storm! Just what we need," commented the sarcastic thespian.
"Not a dust storm, my friends," Volo corrected. "That cloud is too self-contained to be a manifestation of nature's wrath. No, if I don't miss my guess, I'd say that's a Tuigan minghan-or, shall I say, raiding party-coming our way. No doubt they saw our rapid descent of yesterday and are on their way to lay claim to anything that has survived the crash. So the real question, gentlemen, is whether we prefer to be dead, new recruits, or hostages. Any questions?"
The horse-borne raiding party arrived within the hour and were shocked to find survivors from the ship that had fallen out of the sky. Volo, Passepout, and Curtis were taken prisoner, bound, and led on horseback back to the camp of the party's leader under armed guard, while the rest of the party proceeded to the mountainside to pick among the rubble of the Minnow for something of value.
The Tuigan camp was not far from the crash site, and in less than two hours, the three travelers found themselves in audience with the Horde leader Jamign, or as he preferred to be called, Aleekhan.