Pipes of a colossal organ run about the columns of the entire sanctuary, emitting airy and heavenly-sounding music that echoes through the furthest recesses of the grand chamber. At each column is a row of pews, with aisles down each side and down the middle. An upper balcony expands the capacity of the cathedral, while perches in the awnings seat several more fliers. Up by the podium, a baptismal receptacle holds holy oil to be used in ceremonies, and to the other side is a glassed-in case where the Holy Manual of Life is stored until opened up for special ceremonies.

Steam puffs from engines along the walls that seem to serve no purpose other than to look neat and to generate heat … a very useful purpose at the moment, since it's pretty cold outside, in the winter weeks before Landing Day. At least it's fairly sunny as Chronotopian days, casting colorful patterns through the stained glass windows, and making the gas-lights almost unnecessary.

The awning perches are packed to capacity, with quite possibly every St. Germain capable of flying in Chronotopia. Several more sit in the pews below … intermingled with a motley-looking bunch of airshipmen, many of whom are clearly not from these parts. Old Korvs murmur amongst themselves about how big that egg is, and gossip about not having been told about the wedding, and make guesses about who the mother might be.

In addition to the extended family, there is most of the crew of the Wench o' Babel … the rest being those who were so inebriated from last night's partying that they couldn't be possibly be brought in without loading them on a cart. Rovert is wearing a fire-wagon red suit that looks like he slept in it (he did, and looks like he's still trying to), occasionally prodded by Rufflefeather, a Vartan whose idea of dressing up for the occasion is getting a good sand-bath (he's still got several grains visible in his feathers), putting on a hat with a new feather in it (one of his, incidentally), and tying on all his best shinies.

A Korv in flowing black robes shuffles through the halls outside of the sanctuary and pauses. "Just this way, cousin. Kaw, but what a glorious day it is for your egg's Ovum Baptae! It could be sleeting, snowing, or hailing, but instead, the clouds are as solemn and gray as you please, and why, you can even see the sun at times! Truly, the Star smiles upon our efforts this day." He pats his leather-bound book and looks pleased.

A somewhat nervous Korv stands in one of the alcoves of the church, his airship pin-studded greatcoat a dark contrast to the cream-colored egg held in his wings. "Aye, grand," caws Kensington distractedly, glancing at his cousin, then peering out at the perches. "Gretchin's grinding gears, did every St. Germain from here to the Savan show up?"

By the looks of it, one would think so. "Oh!" flutters an old crow, "He's all grown up now!" She starts daubing at her eyes with a handkerchief, bawling openly.

An old crotchety crow mumbles to someone seated next to him, "Eh? You say that's out of wedlock? Well, how'd Kensington lay an egg on his – URK!" His wife grabs his beak, clamping it shut.

"Just about," Gergesene says. "And there's your crew, if I don't mistake them! By the Gear, they look as out of place as, well… " He abruptly remembers good manners and covers his beak with a wing-hand. "Sorry, cousin. Shall we go in before they begin to wonder if I've gotten you lost?"

An old crow marm softly caws, "Oh, look! It's that precious little thing, Gergesene. Doesn't he look sharp in those priestly robes? Oh, dear, he must have broken so many hearts when he took up the vows… "

The corsair's neck feathers ruffle out with embarrassment. "Even Auntie's here… " He shakes his head. "And me crew. I'll 'ave ta talks widdem when I gets th' chance. But I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be, Gerry. 'Ere, yer the godfeather… Ye should carry the egg out, so people'll knows I chose ye."

Gergesene can't help but puff up a bit, though with a certain look of regret. He beams to Kensington. "'Twould be a great honor, cousin!"

A few more snippets of whispered conversation … "… I can't see very well. Where's the mother?… " "… Oh, I hear she can't make it. Come down ill… " "… How dreadful! We must bake her something… "

"Gently, now." Kensington's wince at the words from above is suppressed by the care he takes in proffering the egg to Gergesene.

The priestly Korv takes the egg with as great care, cradling it tenderly in his wing-arms. "Ah, big one, aren't you? You'll soon be outdoing your father for deeds of daring and valor, I expect," he coos. Straightening up, he begins to walk through the great hall.

Crewmembers flash grins and thumbs-up signs to their captain. Relatives puff up proudly or shift a bit for a better look at the soon-to-be newest addition to their clan.

The organ music blares throughout the cathedral, as the processional plays in time with each step of the priestly Korv and the proud soon-to-be father.

Several priests wait up at the altar … a mixture of expressions on their faces, truth be told, though all of them put on at the very least a polite smile once the two get within range.

The priestly Korv looks oblivious to the odd looks. Today is the day that his very own cousin returns to the nest of Chronotopian order, and today he bears the instrument of that return, the newest of the St. Germain lineage. Soon surely, it will hatch out some new champion to uphold their proud reputation – That the reputation exists mostly in his own mind matters little. The egg's top barely peeks out from his wings that wrap around it.

Kensington follows along, shoulders kind of hunched for a moment. As he moves farther, his resolve seems to strengthen, and he holds his head and shoulders back, walking towards the altar with a purpose, and a prouder bearing. He nods as he passes his crewmen, tucking his wings neatly against his sides.

The priests wait until the two make it up to the stage. One of them gestures toward a nest of straw and cotton supported on a sturdy column, located near the baptismal bowl and the altar.

Kensington makes his way to the column, his tailfeathers fanning as he stands before it and unfolds his wings, stretching them out toward his cousin.

Gergesene looks lost in a moment of reverie. "With this wrench blessed of the… Rrk?" Startled by his cousin's movement, he almost fumbles the egg, but catches his breath. "Ah! Sorry, Kensington," he mutters and passes the egg to his cousin with what might pass for ritual poise or might be slowness born out of embarrassment.

The high priest looks expectantly to Kensington, patiently gesturing to the nest.

Though the corsair stiffens for a moment, he relaxes again, and accepts the egg, the corners of his beak betraying a quick grin at Gergesene before returning to its solemn mask. He takes a few more strides to the nest upon the column, and lays his charge carefully into it, perhaps taking unnecessarily long in doing so. Once satisfied, he steps back and away, bending his legs in a bow as a gesture of respect for the church.

Gergesene lowers his head, looking quite contrite.

The music crescendos, after the holding pattern it took during the passing of the egg, and the high priest lifts his wing-claws up toward the ceiling. "Oh, Great Gear, we come today to present to you a new cog to be added to the gears in your Great Machine … "

Gergesene looks up skyward as well. Oh, what a wonderful day this is! Today the Great Machine grows larger by that much. And his cousin made that contribution!

"… created of the … " there's a pause, as the priest skips the part that would normally go, "union of (the father's name) and (the mother's name)", "… love of the father, Kensington St. Germain, son of … " The high priest then goes on, rattling off Kensington's lineage back a few generations.

Kensington's head remains bowed. He seems to be listening, as his tailfeathers flick at the part where marriage would be indicated, but he seems preoccupied with various thoughts. Stressful ones, if the tug at his collar indicates anything.

Several crows out in the congregation puff up a bit as they happen to get named in the lineage. Meanwhile, the priest continues on … and on … and on … "… It is important to realize that, though this little one has not yet been hatched," there's a cracking noise that emphasizes the word, "he or she is still important to the Great Gear, as are we all, great or small, young or old, and his or her place has already been ordained… " Ramble, ramble.

Crack

That, Kensington hears. His head jerks upright, and his face looks disoriented, as though being brought back to the here and now was quite a jarring trip.

Gergesene looks oblivious, lost in a world of little chicks guided by wise and knowing priests and Luftrittern captains. Oh, world that has such greatness in it!

"… and there is a great symbolism in hatching forth from the egg … that comfortable, dark little place where we are masters of our own world, where we have no concerns for the worries that lie outside … but if we are to grow, if we are to mature, if we are to become all that we were created to be, we must break … " scratch scratch CRACK "… free!"

The crackling noise is most certainly not coming from the high priest.

The noises seem to jerk Kensington toward the altar, and he nearly stumbles. With a stagger, and a jangle of the saber chains from his waist, he hurries up to the column to gaze over the nest, beak gaping.

Yes, there is a big crack in the eggshell … and a tiny little sharp tip pokes out now and then, through the tiniest of gaps.

The high priest pauses in his monologue, gasping at the sight. "A name … do you have a name picked out?"

Kensington's wingclaws shake a little as he reaches down toward the shell… hesitantly at first, but then with a little more urgency as he tries to help the almost-born out of its shell. "A name… "

The high priest looks expectantly to Kensington. "Yes … a name?"

The corsair doesn't reply yet, instead trying to get a glimpse at the hatching chick as he widens cracks with his wingclaws. A boy, a girl? What could it possibly look like?

A hooked bill cracks through the egg, and behind it, a fluffy white fuzzball of a bird head pokes out.

The little fuzzball says his first words, "Peeppeeppeeppeep!"

Gergesene's beak drops as he catches sight of the not-quite-corvid look of the bird-child's face. "Great Gear! Kensington, where have you been? Oh, the shame, oh, the Korvity of it all, you've grafted our family tree to some … some monstrous shrubbery!" And then he flops backward, and passes out.

The little avian shoves his way out of the egg, peeping loudly … then, once he's out of it … collapses in an exhausted heap. Hmm. He doesn't have any claws on his wings. And he has that distinctive predatory shape to his beak.

Kensington reaches out to the chick to pick it up in his wingclaws, his face registering disbelief. "I… I don'ts understand… "

The high priest looks pretty shocked, too … and, quite out of character, he seems at a total loss for words. Meanwhile, a hush falls upon those gathered … though several of them shuffle for a better chance to see the newest St. Germain.

The chick, exhausted from its ordeal, just lies, collapsed, in Kensington's wing-claws. For all the world, it looks exactly like a baby rakhtor. It feels like a baby rakhtor. It sounds like a baby rakhtor. Smells like one, too. Whew!

Feathers rise along the back of Kensington's neck, and his crest stands upright as well, shame burning him even deeper than before. As he speaks, it's not in his accented Standard, but in Chronotopian. "No… it can't… things were going to change… NO!" With the chick in his wings, he wheels away from the altar, rushing down the aisle.

"Peeppeeppeeppeep!" comes the muffled cry of the hungry chick from the crate … a rakhtor chick, there's no doubt about it.

There's a timid knock at the door. "Uh … Captain?" It's the voice of Rovert, the Khatta.

Kensington stands in the midst of the aftermath, panting heavily, both glinting swords edging his wings, his back to the door. He doesn't reply.

The door creaks inward a bit, and the tip of some whiskers and a cat ear peek around the edge. "Ah … Captain? Are you all right?"

It's a long, long moment of silence before Kensington turns around, staring at Rovert with smoldering black eyes. He points a saber. "Get th' crew together," he croaks. "I'm outcaste. There be no more St. Germain. No more Kensington. Only the Cutlass. We be settin' sail now, and it's to find the Scorned Khatta."