Dio Eraclea was slowly going mad. Correction: he was already partly mad; now the wild gusts of the Grand Stream were ponying up their efforts to finish the job.
He had no helmet and no goggles; the wind was constantly hitting him in the face, whipping his skin raw. His airship was flying at a crooked angle, but it didn't matter. A piece of aluminum siding had ripped off and gone skittering into thin air, but it didn't matter. His mind was in another place.
He was flying without a vehicle, without a metal bird to guide him. Everything was white and downy, like the wool of a young lamb. Dio could hear, in the distance, the sounds of the Guild bells, heralding the current hour. He heard the tinkle of laughter and the soft slap of bare feet on hard tile floor. There was the smell of lilacs and herbs, of boiling water and fresh snow. Two hands, transparent but real, cupped an immobile face and a gentle kiss was laid upon Dio's pale brow. His mouth was filled with the taste of copper and rose water, and his veins turned into a maze of ice water, numbing every part of his body until he couldn't tell what was the wind and sky, and what was his body, his essence.
Reality struck him in the face - a curve of wind from a stray Disith airship, flying close enough to see Dio's ship in the haze of battle. The pilot inside took a quick glance, then quickly flew away, afraid to report what he had seen. The scene was indeed grotesque: Dio's face was stuck in a permanent grin and his body was twisted to stare blankly at the area where Luciola should have been. Dio did not want to see the absence, so he closed his eyes and thought of rustling fabrics and hushed giggles, of comfort from once before. Then he opened them again, expecting to see Luciola pop out from wherever he had been hiding.
An anguished howl, feral in nature, vibrated through the whole of the Grand Stream.