[ WP ] In a world of airships and steamers you are the first airplane pilot .

High above the Broken Lands, knights of the sky fought their dance of death. 
 
 Seated in the open cockpit of his Holland & Sons FE-3b *Lancer, * Commander Richard Turpin had a god's eye view of the air battle. Off towards the western side of the struggle could be seen the fleeing convoy of merchantmen, their coal fed steam engines sending plumes of black smoke high into the sky. A few revenue cutters, taken out of mothball and outfitted with extra armor and guns shepherded their charges like loyal guard dogs, ringing the steamers and their precious cargo. One cutter was already sinking, a deadly black wound in its side. A flight of bombers had skimmed over the water and released their payload of torpedoes. The cutter's captain, his name unknown to Turpin had ordered his ship between the wake of the torpedoes and his charges. He took one meant for an oil tanker the Duchy could scarce afford to lose. Turpin saluted him for his bravery. 
 
 Just below him Falcon and Griffon Squadrons were fighting in a massive furball against the convoy's attackers. The foe's insignia was unknown to Turpin, depicting a cloaked skeleton holding both scythe and hour-glass. A mercenary unit, same as his. 
 
 An enemy biplane tried to loop behind Captain Kellerman's *Sparrowhawk, but the veteran pilot refused it, cutting back on the throttle and shredding excess speed. The biplane fell right under Kellerman's sights, his three machine guns shredding the heavier machine from nose to tail. First the bullets flashed bright as they hit the engine, then they splashed red from the pilot's blood. The sound of the lead rounds stitching through taunt canvas was like the roll of a snare drum. 
 
 Escorted by his pair of wingmates, Turpin's Command Triple had little to fear at six thousand meters. The air was thin, and even under the thick layers of wool and flying leathers he could feel the icy bite of the wind. There. Flying at perhaps four thousand meters and moving towards the ships, a pair of enemy bombers. Wiggling his wings to attract the attention of his comrades Tuprin pointed towards their prey. Gesturing that they understood, Turpin leaned his stick forwards and to the left, spilling down and towards their target. 
 
 His altimeter spun down as he hurtled towards the ground, his speedometer ticking steadily upwards. *170... 175... 180... * 
 
 The lumbering two-seaters never had a chance. One of them, crewed by a more observant rear gunner, opened up, his tracings stitching an orange stream across the sky. None of them flew near Turpin whose ears were deafened by the roar of his engine and whistling wind. The lead bomber fell under his sights. No. Closer. 
 
 The second gunner opened up, the paths of their bullets crossing one another as they fired up at the descending triple. Turpin's vision was completely filled with the sight of his target. He saw everything, the lozenge pattern camouflage, the rear gunner with tinted goggles and white scarf trying to reload his weapon, the black cough of their in-line engines... 
 
 Now. 
 
 Turpin's twin 7.7mm machines answered to his commands, spitting violet tracers and invisible lead down onto his prey. There was no way he could miss, each bullet finding its way towards the enemy plane. The rear gunner's head vanished in a spray of red mist, his body slumping over his gun. The engine caught fire and began to engulf the cockpit and although he knew it to be impossible, Turpin swore he heard the enemy pilot screaming. 
 
 And just like that he was past, turning back towards the sky to regain precious altitude. His kill fell in a blazing inferno, a cloud of acrid smoke billowing in its wake. The other bomber tumbled from the sky like a broken bird, its right wing shattered in two. It was Turpin third kill of the day.
