Flames in the Night

[Jirai]

They were dead.

Let's backtrack a little. It was a small farm, nothing special, really. A remote place in Myrken Wood, just a little house, a small stable, and a field of one crop or another. It doesn't really matter which kind. It was a pretty place, once, all waving grain and green trees. There was even a small little brook running behind the farmhouse.

Things had changed. That field, the field that had glowed so golden in the sunset last night, was gone. All that was left was a smoldering, blackened patch of ground. The arsonist had been careful - the flames had not spread beyond the boundries of the fields.

Arsonist? Better to name that person murderer. It was more accurate, and accuracy was important, wasn't it? See, the field had been burnt, but what of the farmers themselves? The house was empty, the stables quiet. But the field... How close would you get? Close enough only to see the damage? Or closer yet, close enough to see the bodies lying in the center? Five bodies, three smaller than the first two. Burnt and blackened beyond recognition, but it was a small enough assumption to connect these bodies with the missing farmers. The numbers were right. There really was no doubt.

They were dead.

[Treadwell]

"Oh my. . . ."

It was a farm that Treadwell wouldn't be collecting taxes from any more. It had been, until a few moments ago, next on his list of places to see today. He hadn't stayed around long enough to notice the bodies--the rest of the destruction was plain enough--and so it was that the purple-robed, pink-suited tax collector found himself scurrying back toward his too-small carriage drawn by his too-round horse. It looked like he had something to report to the guards.

[channe]

It had been a good day for Channe. Ten full bolts of upholstery, sold to a man in a local town who was starting a furniture-restoration and carpentry business. Ten full bolts, and the possibility of a long-standing sales relationship, she reminded herself, whistling happily as her small carriage clattered down the road.

She'd taken the scenic route in celebration. After all, there was nothing left to do at the Dagger but meet up with her old friends Ale and Port, and today was a wonderful day -- perfectly sunny, with a small breeze. And the countryside was charming in Myrken Wood, just charming. For a while, she forgot why she was selling fabric, why she had come this far from her home, why --

-- she stopped the horse.

In front of her was a sight: the jagged, toothpick forms of burned wooden buildings, the skeletal frame of the barn, the charred remains of the field. From the look of it, all recently made this way.

"Hallo?" she called. "Hallo the farm!"

A sparrow answered her cheerily from a tree.

She tied the horse and carriage and stepped into the field. What if there'd be someone there that needed help? She stepped forward, checking around the houses -- nothing. It was only when she stepped in the field that she noticed the five burned bodies.

Eventually -- when she recovered from the shock -- she would draw the scene and make notes of her situation, and head off for Myrkentown at a quick clip, attempting to find someone in charge. She knew she would have a hard time putting it into words -- after all, everything she knew had gone up in flames, as well. A parchment would have to do.

[Rattrap]

Private Janis Williams stepped carefully around the remains of the farm building, sifting her hand through piles of ash, here and there. Debris was moved aside to see under, and whatever other obstacles presented themselves were removed, for the most part, as the party searched for any clues.

Sergeant Hickensen called out from the field, and the private left the farm's remains to join him and the other couple of guardsmen in the burned field. "Looks like them. And their three children," he said with a grim, but altogether undisturbed tone. Hickensen had seen enough murders to form a hearty fortitude to such things.

"What do you think happened?" one of the younger guardsmen asked.

"Oh, it's murder. See how the bodies are lying? And the boundaries of the burn are controlled. Had the fire been natural, the family wouldn't have only made it this far to be burned to death. No; there's something foul, here," answered Hickensen. Janis agreed with a nod.

"All right, then. Let's get some more people out here to remove the bodies and then see if we can't find any obvious means of the burn. Ask some of the locals if they saw anything."

They all nodded at the sergeant and shuffled off to their respective parts in the investigation. Janis returned to the building, and wondered what the possibility was of somebody being able to control a flame of this size; certainly not alone, unless it was of magical origin. But, it was quite possible it did come from a magical origin. And that was a pain to track.

[Treadwell]

"Mmph. No one of any *real* importance. Breckenridge family--father, mother, three children, a loony old grandfather who's apparently unaccounted for. Poor folks, mostly. Never could pay taxes in coin, instead resorting to food or favors."

The tax collector said this to Channe earlier tonight in discussing the situation up in her room at the Dagger. It stuck with him reasonably well, nagging him the rest of the night. Five of six burned while trying to escape their home, it seems. But. . . where was the sixth? Where was that "loony old grandfather," better known as Ol' Tom Breckenridge?

The old man would be fairly obvious if he were anywhere in sight--beat up brown robes, a floppy old brown hat, a raggedy gray beard on his face, and a horrendous, twangy sort of accent.

But he's not anywhere in sight.

In fact, he's missing.

Then again. . . who cares about the town madman?

[Jirai]

Magic, certainly. Either that, or more people than is efficient would be required to control the blaze to the degree it seemed to have been.

Perhaps the presence of more attackers would have ensured that all six had died, and not just five.

Or perhaps there was a reason the crazy old man had not been found dead. He was crazy after all. Could he have done it?

Where was Tom Breckenridge?

Treadwell was not the only one wondering.