The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Patience Mayfield would be among those who gathered at the scarred priory in the days after the hunt for Ashfiend. Neighbors and strangers alike would meet on those torn grounds, searching for what would remain of loved ones the fiend had taken into his service, if indeed there were any to be found. Some had spades, and others would build small pyers from what dry scraps of wood they could find outside the priory, but the remains of the old building itself would not be disturbed.

The young squire would find three of her own, all torn in the ways one could expect of those fighting without a care for life or limb. The smallest, a boy of no more than nine summers, was missing fingers; the digits had probably met their end at someone's blade only a night ago, and yet showed no signs that they had bled or scabbed prior to his second death. Mother, brother, father, all would be gathered in a borrowed cart pulled by a borrowed horse back to town. There her dear aunt had pledged the funds to see their bodies washed and laid to rest properly, as they should have been months ago.

Patience would return to Snowstill the next day, after her morning training, to aid with the burial and markers for those who had not been claimed by kin. They were all her people, and none deserved to be left behind as the fodder Ashfiend had made of them. After the last grave had been dug, and marker set in place, a voice raised in song, a song for the dead. Gradually more would join that lone voice, until all would sing, or stand in silent respect of the dead. Few cheeks remained dry, but it was a glad sort of mourning. Their families had come home at last, and maybe now there could be some peace.

Vraal watched from a broad, slightly sloped rock that only emerged rather peevishly from the grassy, tangled farm that had since grown into tangled briars probably around the time of the first great battle to be waged here. Several people sang but his voice remained silent. Most of the people cried but he shed not a tear.

It has been said that reptiles cannot weep.

Arms clothed in a stark, white cotton shirt, both sleeved and collared, stood in bold contrast to boots, gloves and slacks that wore the exact opposite color. It marked him as a contrasting creature with sharp boundaries and little space between such potent poles. For their part, the iron bangles that curled about his elbows and bore the ornate likeness of serpents, regarded the event as an item of jewelry ought to - silent and steady and watching with their rubied, still eyes.

He marked what people he knew, a surprising number with his speeches and name that passed, albeit only occasionally, about town. Some decried him as a treacherous snake without evidence to support their claims. others proclaimed him a savior and the bearer of liberation for all who desired it. But for the moment he stood tall and silent, observing the scene before him and the remaining devastation through slitted, obsidian eyes that spoke of a starless, primordial night sky.

Such battle and nothing to show for it, at least insofar as the Ashfiend was likely concerned. He wondered at the creature's true plans as his eyes took note of young Patience in particular, whose name proceeded her somewhat as the only, first, and female (if not exactly feminine squire) of the somewhat enigmatic Sir Malaroth Deucalios.

Just what was going on, he thought, black-sheathed fingertips tracing the lines of a slender, angled jaw to touch upon the corners of thin lips. What was really happening in Myrken Wood?