All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Cinnabar]

It's a landscape of wreckage and ruin, stout timbers shattered and charred, and strewn amongst the destruction, the remnants of the lives that were lived here; farming tools crushed into the chill mud where an outbuilding was smashed flat; scorched and blackened barding and bridlewear where the stables burned; shattered dishes and blackened and crushed pans around where the refectory once stood. Nothing within the palisade wall has escaped unscathed, whether charred by flames, stained with the blood of the fallen, or splintered beneath the blow of that vast fist of smoke and fire. Soot-smeared, with scuffs and splinters from hauling broken timber out of the way in the search for survivors amongst the destruction, Cinnabar Calomel pauses to survey what's left of the stronghold.

The effort to bring at least some semblance of order to what's left of the chapterhouse is ongoing, and has been since soon after the Ashfiend left the scene, his work complete. Still more to be done, for all that the bodies have been gathered up and the last remaining fires extinguished. The surviving soldiers of the New Myrken Army who'd been present for the battle did what they could to end those of the ghoul's servants which remained behind, lacking either the initiative or the instructions to scatter into the countryside once their master had departed, but it was unknown how many of the walking dead had escaped. Certainly a good number of them had fallen to the knights' blades, the army's halberds, or even the ghoul's sorcerous flames, but it is equally certain that there are still a sizeable number of them out there, regrouping, waiting for the command to assault their next target.

Calomel had been part of that army contingent, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the halberdiers, holding the line against the lurching, shrieking dead that assailed them. Frustration at the Ashfiend's conjured fire that had separated the army from the knights, preventing them from joining up with Malaroth's men until the flames died down, until it had been far too late.

Too late, again. It had happened too many times. Cost too many lives. So now... now, time to fix it, once and for all.

The artificer Elspeth von Drakken had come up with the suggestion to attack the Ashfiend directly; not the body of ancient sinew and blackened plate that he wore, but his will itself - to strike against the iron-hard core of conviction that guides him, the bitter resolve that moves his long-dead limbs and sustains the millennia-old hatred and fury that fuels him.

Choose warriors, she'd said, and so the message had gone out, specifically to those who had suffered under the Ashfiend's bitter touch, those who might be expected to strive most vigorously against him. They'd been attuned to Elspeth's device, an enchanted artifact which would pit their wills against his own, bringing the Fiend and his adversaries into a shared vision, a constructed dream in which they might do battle, to put an end to the Scourge of Myrken. To unmake the will that drives him on, perhaps once and for all.

The relief work well in hand, the Governor turns from the scene of devastation, strides carrying him away from the gutted chapterhouse and towards his horse; from there, towards town. To organise. To arrange. To prepare.

To end it.

[Cinnabar]

To Ariane Emory at Darkenhold; Agnieszka Kaczmarek at Calomel's Farm; Squire Patience Mayfield of the Shepherd Knights; Seth Bloodmoon at the Broken Dagger Tavern; Miss Kyra at the Broken Dagger Tavern; Glenn Burnie at Esreaux:

We muster against the Ashfiend, to put an end to him. Meet at the Constabulary offices, and come prepared for battle; other arms will be made available, if required, including tools for use against the ghoul's servants.

We move once all are gathered. If you are unable to join us, give word to the messenger who brings you this letter. We can waste no more time.

Sincerely

Cinnabar Calomel

--*--

To Rhaena Olwak at the Broken Dagger Tavern:

Miss Olwak

I hope to move against the Ashfiend imminently. In light of such, we must have some way of locating him in order that we might bring our forces to bear. I seek your aid in this, as you have proven able to find him in the past.

I know that I ask a great deal to make this request of your person and appreciate that this is not without risk to yourself, so I will understand if you must decline.

If you are able to assist, the messenger who brings you this letter has been instructed to wait until you are able to provide the answer we seek. If not, please send word in order that we might proceed with alternative arrangements.

Sincerely

Cinnabar Calomel

--*--

To Sir Osric Storth of the Shepherd Knights:

Sir Osric

We move to bring retribution upon the Ashfiend; for this, in Sir Malaroth's absence, I must request the use of Squire Patience Mayfield of your order.

I would also request the use of any of your knights still fit for battle, particularly those who have received sufficient magical training to impede the ghoul's use of the shadows - Sir Malaroth mentioned such to me, and I have cause to believe that such arts will be much-needed if we are to best the Fiend.

Sincerely

Cinnabar Calomel

[Cinnabar]

A gathering of strength, of purpose, of retribution; the chapterhouse of the Shepherd Knights lies in ashes, and there are concerns over where the Ashfiend might strike next when he does.

It's a sturdy force that gathers in the yard of the Constabulary headquarters, well-armed and armoured, stamping their feet and huddling close to the braziers set around the yard to dispel some of the chill that grows only sharper with midwinter's approach. A small force of Constables and a greater number of soldiers of the New Myrken Army, the former in Night Watch armour, the latter augmenting their padded jacks and pothelms with mailshirts and vambraces of splinted leather; blades and polearms are distributed, and brass cylinders of blessed water, and a monk from the Chapel of St Iona is on hand to offer blessings and benedictions to those who want them.

The Governor stands towards the entrance to the main building, conferring with his subordinates in both Army and Constabulary; confirming marching orders, instructions on encountering the Fiend, key individuals to defend, tactics that may be of use against the ghoul and his servants.

Every so often there is a glance for the gates, awaiting the arrival of those called for this expedition, or at least the messengers dispatched to seek them out. It will not be long. Arrangements are made, and Myrken's defenders are as prepared as they're likely to be, so as soon as the combatants are assembled they will be able to move against the Ashfiend.

[Jirai]

The messenger who had been sent to the tavern returned - but not alone. The veiled girl was with him, dressed in her riding clothes. Her steps were direct, carrying her straight towards the governor. There she would wait patiently until he could speak with her.

Once that happened, she would quietly explain directions for his ears alone. She is fairly certain that she can pinpoint the location to within twenty yards - but there is always the chance of him moving, and she can be more precise the closer they get.

[channe]

Quietly -- at the Constabulary door --

A girl with black hair bound, a girl wearing patched-up black and grey. Ignas' dagger at one hip, and her rapier at the other, the girl will wait with a smirk for Cinnabar or one of his men. She's got a bag; some armor, she notes, is inside it.

"Well past time," she says.

[Glenn]

For perhaps the first time in his life, the young mapmaker arrives somewhere prepared for battle. Oh, he knew what his role would be, had worked it out with Calomel, had trained in that direction with Ariane. He did not wear armor, no. He needed his speed and armor would do little to halt the attacks of the Ashfiend if they were to hit him. It would just have to not come to that.

He would find his way towards Rhaena almost immediately. The general mindset, at least of the mapmaker, and maybe one or two others, had been that it was better to involve her in a controlled way than not to involve her and then have her involve herself however she could. He was not exactly sure what role she had worked out with Cinnabar here on in though. It worried him.

[Seth_Bloodmoon]

The tall elf arrived shortly after the messenger had found him at the Dagger. It hadn't taken him long to gather his things and throw his cloak about his shoulder. He was sober, as he had promised he would be, and in a better mood this day. Of course, knowing they were about to strike out against Teron helped his mood considerably.

The only visible weapon he carried upon his person was Twilight Heart, in its sheath at his left side. He could have brought along a certain mace but had opted to leave it behind.

He would remain quiet and waiting after arriving, though there would be respectful nods to those he knew. Elven features would be unreadable, though brilliant blue eyes flickered with the anticipation of battle.

[Malaroth]

After struggling toe-to-toe against the Ashfiend there was little left in the world to startle the Grand Master of the Shepard Knights. It is neither vengeance nor hope that guides him to answer the call, to wait in silence alone as the Governor-Constable commands and guides. It is duty, honor to the people of Myrken and to his master, to see the creature ended and some semblance of peace, and sanity, offered for Myrken's sake.

It was a simple thing, that spell the Grand Master had learned with Lady Valaeli's assistance. A simple thing that conjured up a spell so common in any sorcerer's inventory, and it invoked something older than the Ashfiend, older than the world itself.

It invoked light.

Taking solace in the light of the future, of honor fulfilled, and the light of heaven itself, he waited patiently with the Constable's message coiled and stuffed within a belt that yet bore the slashes of the Ashfiend's blade.

[Cinnabar]

Governor Calomel moves among those gathering now, checking preparations, offering brief words of reassurance, encouragement, solidarity, determination. The time draws near, and things must be ready. Or as ready as they can be.

A few moments' hushed consultation with Rhaena Olwak, a nod and quiet words of thanks for her assistance.

A nod and grim half-smile for Agnieszka Kaczmarek, hand gripped in greeting, and a suggestion that she might want to put on that armour sooner rather than later.

Glenn Burnie is hailed with a nod and a raised hand, but left to go and stand by Rhaena for now; there's a small frown a moment after, though, helm lofted up to motion that the man should at least wear something to protect his head.

The elf Seth Bloodmoon is noted with a wave, and a nod towards where the others gather, the rest of the half-dozen who'll fight the Ashfiend not in physical combat, but in mental confrontation, their determination against his own.

It's perhaps some small degree of surprise that flits across the Governor's features as he notes Sir Malaroth Deucalios waiting to join the group; certainly after the grievous hurts inflicted upon both mind and body, one might have expected not to see the Grand Master present here, now. But it's a welcome thing all the same, and there is a quiet and formal greeting for the man, hand offered as if to seek some degree of reconciliation after their past disagreements. They'll need to stand united now, if they are to prevail.

That still leaves a number unaccounted-for, and the Governor's gaze turns to the gates, searching the faces of those gathered for the few who have yet to appear before they might set off on this mission.

[Dhugal]

A figure in the robes of a novice of St. Thecla’s approaches the
group and first stops by Sir Malaroth. “Milord, Father Abbot Fidelius
asks me to inform you that the monks of St. Thecla’s will gladly help
you in anyway in the recovery and rebuilding of your chapterhouse.
We will pray for the souls of your dead brethren.â€

[Cinnabar]

The young man's robes are regarded perhaps a touch suspiciously by the Governor; not without reason, given the ongoing efforts by the novices of St Thecla's to slander and undermine him at every turn. Still, the parchment is accepted politely enough with a nod of thanks.

"Is the Abbot expecting a reply?" This as he breaks the seal on the letter, unfolding the parchment to scan its contents. Well, this should be interesting.

[Dhugal]

The novice shakes his head no, then waits silently staring
at the ground before him as Calomel reads:

[I] Governor Cinnabar,
I normally do not write this sort of letter but after giving the matter
some thought, I feel it is incumbent upon me to at least give you
some sort of warning.

You have been cursed. One of my novices pronounced the curse in
a fit of anger after an extended period of tending to some of the men
wounded during recent events. I must shoulder some of the blame for
not monitoring young Mathias more closely. If I had I might have
noticed the state of mind he was in and prevented the curse being
uttered.

He realized afterwards the consequences of his action and sought me
out in my capacity of his confessor to admit his sin. The curse that
he made was said exactly as written below:

[B]“A curse upon you, Calomel Cinnabar. May you know not a moment’s
peace. May the sun never warm you, may the water never bear you,
may the earth deny you sure footing when you walk upon it, may the
wind blow forever against your face. By the four elements, I curse
you, Calomel Cinnabar.â€

[Cinnabar]

That frown deepens as the Governor reads through the letter, than reads it again, more carefully, lips pressing into a thin line. An irritable glance for the novice, then, before he folds the parchment carefully closed.

"This could have come at a less inopportune time, it must be said. Please convey to the Abbot that his concern is appreciated, and that I shall discuss the matter with him further when I next have the opportunity to do so." And the Governor's stern demeanour indicates that this may well be sooner rather than later.

"Unless you are good with a sword and willing to confront the Ashfiend and his servants in battle, I would suggest you return to your monastery. I have pressing matters to attend to."

[Dhugal]

Mathias…for it had been part of his penance to deliver the warning to
the man he had cursed…looked up silently from the ground to look at
Cinnabar. No expression crossed his face as he struggled within to keep
the vow of silence. Ah, if only he could speak, what words he’d have
for the governor! But his eyes spoke for him as he merely nodded and
turned away.

He’d do his penance but he couldn’t change how he felt about Calomel
Cinnabar.

He moved away from the governor and his friends.

[Quincy]

Although Quincy has no power against attacks of the mental kind, she has elected to join in the battle against the dread Ashfiend; she has demanded that she be one of many who are allowed to help watch over the heroic sleepers that will wage a very unusual kind of war.

She came through the gates while Cinnabar was distracted by silent, young Matthias -- who is now walking away from the gathering forces.

It is the look in the eyes of the novice that keeps her from allowing him to pass by without a word. That, and the fact that no one is going anywhere just yet. They have not met before; she is a slender, dark-haired young woman in plate armor. A helm is held in the circle of her arm. A placating hand is empty and open.

"Hey, you all right?"