You're not a person, they say, circling. You're one of Them. From the other side.

"Well played," muttered Rogers, the majordomo of the Wanderers' Club, amidst the gentlemanly utterances of "Good show," "Hear, hear," and even "Huzzah" as Sir Algernon Hogshead finished his tale with a dramatic flourish.

Though not so socially gregarious as to partake in the verbal bonhomie, I thumped my ivory serpent's-head cane a few times, myself, in collegial support of my frenetic friend as his bizarre, but well-told, tale had come to its breathtaking and remarkable conclusion. Truth told, the hubbub of excited utterances and exclamations regarding Sir Hogshead's fanciful quest were well-said, but, greater truth yet, I had become more and more pensive and apprehensive as the tale progressed.

I knew what was coming next. Not within the story, but after.

Yes, you're right. I can see how the ships look like the black skeletons of birds, burned and splayed across the sky. No, no, it makes sense. I just had to squint my eyes first to see it, that's all.