Breaking the Dawn.

[Cinnabar]

There is a certain amount of power inherent in paper. The adage that knowledge is power is especially apt with regard to the reports that have flowed across Cinnabar Calomel's desk in recent months - first as High Constable, now as Governor. There are also ways to wring knowledge out of other sorts of papers, individually and in quantity. Cross-referencing, checking, correllating, compiling. It is no small coincidence that the government clerks and functionaries moved from the Interim Meetinghouse on Haberdasher's Row were relocated to a converted warehouse adjacent to the Myrkentown Constabulary's headquarters. No coincidence at all, in fact.

Following certain decisions reached in the last meeting of the Judiciary Council - shortly after Calomel's assumption of power - there has been a constant traffic between the two buildings, scribes and officials moving back and forth with document satchels, scroll-cases, leather wallets containing files and dossiers. Certain paths have been followed through the records, investigated, tracks left in ink and parchment and sealingwax. Coincidences noted, patterns traced and documented, points at which various trails converge, leading back to a single point - a hub, a junction. And then, that unifying feature confirmed, other trails are followed out from that nexus, building up a picture of careful and deliberate action carried out subtly, insidiously, discreetly. And yet there is still that chain, those links that connect one point to the other.

At one end of the chain, the complex of buildings that has become known as the home of the Violet Dawn; a temple, a commune, an orphanage; believers with purple marks upon their foreheads, their shining-eyed enthusiasm and unsettlingly abundant vegetable gardens; believers who have donated property, homes and land to their sect. At the other end, a certain Nhilos Ahad, apparently some sort of wealthy philanthropist about whom very little at all is known, but to whom the Violet Dawn's holdings in Myrken Wood had apparently been transferred.

And in the middle of the web, one name. One man. A man who is subtly watched, observed, scrutinised from the shadows.

It is some while before dawn when grey-clad men in dark hoods and stern masks of moulded leather break down the doors of Oliver Whitfield's home, storming into the building from front and back; batons and black sack at the ready to drag the abruptly-prosperous lawyer from his bed; simultaneously an identical scene takes place at his offices, the target this time being any files, documents or paperwork that might be found.

A first move. The second follows soon after.

[Cinnabar]

Later in the morning, some short while after dawn but before the town is truly bustling, at the compound housing the Violet Dawn there arrives a small deputation of neatly-dressed gentlemen, along with a dozen stout and matronly ladies of middling years, and a full score of rather serious-looking fellows in grey tunics and steel helms. Meanwhile in the streets surrounding the three buildings of temple, orphanage and school there are perhaps more Constabulary patrols in evidence than might normally be the case.

These are interesting papers that the neatly-dressed gentlemen bear, writs and warrants and orders in fine profusion; copies of correspondence between one Sin'Vraal and Councilor Aldred, the latter forbidding the construction of the Orphanage (and be extension, associated buildings), the latter vowing to continue in defiance of this. Subsequent resolutions on the part of the Judiciary Council, all stamped and signed and sealed and notarised, mandating the seizure of the Violet Dawn's buildings as illegal constructions; the land, now containing Government buildings, subject to a claim of eminent domain with payment to be rendered to one Nhilos Ahad, who apparently owns the compound in its entirety.

The Orphanage is to continue in operation, with the children become wards of the Government and cared for by a staff appointed by the Council - the previous staff are to vacate the premises, with a Constabulary escort if necessary; the School is appropriated under similar conditions; the Temple remains open for now, but those who have taken up residence within are required to sign their names to a register if they are to continue to reside on Government property. And it most categorically is Government property now.

The Notaries and Matrons and Constables are polite to begin with, but quite firm on the matter; the move has been properly implemented with every i dotted and every t crossed, and if followers of the Violet Dawn are insistent upon protesting this move they should address their complaints to Mr Ahad or Mr Sin'Vraal, who so lamentably failed to obtain proper approval before embarking on such a project. Terribly sorry, but rules are rules, and where would we be if people didn't respect the law?

Meanwhile the Constables oversee the proceedings with stern and watchful eyes, each bearing a number of cylinders of perforated brass at their belts alongside their truncheons and manacles.

[SinVraal]

Where would we be if people did not respect the law?

Right where they had been, comes the peaceful remark at first, voiced by one faceless man amongst the crowd. There had indeed been permission sought, and not permission denied but rather permission *ignored.* No one save this Aldred had even deigned to respond, leaving the orphans tot he streets and the wiles and wills of predators.

Where had the law been then, O Constable? Where was the law to protect its people in the first place?

On what grounds is it illegal for temples and schools to be constructed on land that was legally purchased when only the orphanage is deemed to be on unstable legal ground? On what basis does one apprehend a thief and simply add murder to his crimes?

No where to be found, as another would remark. A handsome, slender woman well into middle age. The government had been content to let people die because it was afraid of monsters and sorcerers and of its own ability to act. Was it against the law for those who would do good to draw into tension with a government who had not even denied but merely remained almost totally silent?

Surely a governor would not object. Not this governor, who had taken power by so similar a justification. Or will you, another would call, fall into such blatant hypocrisy?

The questions are voiced, largely faceless, save by the middle-aged woman who stands tall as a reed but with a cold strength in her shallow, hazel-hued eyes.

Demanding answers to those questions, a great tension spreads throughout the suddenly silent throng. A hush, a heartbeat, as their thoughts, wills and prayers turn towards their common divinity. For though their questions are barbed with penetrative justice their eyes are not closed to reality. Indeed, faith had opened their eyes all the more.

And through the eyes of the faithful, Vraal watched and waited.

[Khalika]

Rebecca remained in the back of the crowd, as the Government came and invaded their home, spouting things she did not understand. Nor did she care, all she could think of now, is that she knew something of what the People of Derry felt, when The Dukes Army placed foot upon their lands. Eminent Domain, the words meant nothing to her, for the suimple fact she didn't know there meaning, all she knew was that the Government was about to take away her job and her home...

She was a teacher in the school, as well she worked the garden, when the invaders arrived, she and most of the school childern were gathered around one of the large trees in the compound, as they discussed the tree own inner power to grow and change.

So as i's are dotted and t's crossed, she is back there southeing frieghtened childern, as they wounder what will happen to them next. What will happen to the family bonds they have created with Rebecca and the others who watch over them in the orphange, who read to them in the school, who sit with them during inner prayer.

slowly she whispers as she rocks one of the younger girls..

"I am the God of my own fate..."

Over and over again, those words fall and soon another voice then another...Childerns voices...As they sit beside her, in a shared voice of faith. It grows louder, as other members, and followers of the violet dawn pull back to the gathering taking a seat...their voices joining the slow chant..

How many other will join?....Will the strength of their combined voices show those who would take....That they are a family that will not easily be removed from their home...

[Cinnabar]

The officials listen to these protests with stolid patience, clearly refusing to be baited or provoked, though a couple of them do murmur quietly to one another at times. Eventually the spokesman, a slightly soft-featured gentleman in his early thirties with a calm and confident manner, nods and steps forward.

The gentleman explains, in a voice pitched to carry across the crowd, that while the previous government - with its reputation, rightly or wrongly, for inaction and delay - might not have tended fully to their needs, the new government considers the needs of Myrken's citizenry to be a very high priority. The needs of Myrken's children are an especially high priority, which is why they have decided to take the step to assume responsibility for the orphanage and school. Both institutions are to remain open, but under Government ownership, and run by government-appointed staff.

This step is being taken because it is felt that due to the current staff's affiliation with the Violet Dawn cult they are unsuitable for involvement in the education or upbringing of children, particularly not the sort of vulnerable children that are to be found in an orphanage.

At this point the official pointedly regards Rebecca and the group at the back of the crowd reciting their mantra, children among them. He then raises his voice slightly and note that activities such as children in the Violet Dawn's care being outside at such an early time in the morning - one of the other officials who has ventured into the orpahanage will whisper briefly into his ear - at such an early time in the morning without even having been fed, apparently in order to engage in cult activities and chanting, reflects extremely poorly on the care practices in place at the Orphanage and School.

He further states that Myrken Wood has had an unpleasant history of interaction with secretive cults and sects that spring up from nowhere, hold an unhealthy degree of control over their members, and are led by mysterious and charismatic individuals of uncertain motives. The murderous Order of the All was one such, and Myrken's government has reason to believe there lies a connection between the individual known as Vraal or Sin'Vraal, founder of the Violet Dawn, and the creature known as the Baie, self-proclaimed god of the Order of the All, via the dream-witch Galacia Tarin-Talus Vraal.

There is a pause while this information is assimilated, by those gathered members of the Violet Dawn, and indeed by early-rising townsfolk who linger at the compound wall, wondering what all the fuss is about.

The spokesman goes on to accept that the members assembled here may not be aware of such a link, and indeed that many if not all of them are good, law-abiding folk who have done no harm and mean to do none. However, he will emphasise that the Council is not willing to risk the wellbeing of innocents to a threat of this kind until such time as they are absolutely certain that no such link exists. If those protesting this measure have any true care for the wellbeing of those orphans housed here, they will allow the Government to assume responsibility for the running of the School and Orphanage and to carry out the necessary investigations, and they will cooperate fully with the officials tasked with such. If this connection is false, they have nothing to fear.

The official concludes by noting that members of the crowd have criticised the Government's failure to act in the past; they have decried the Government's failure to take responsibility for Myrken's poor and defenceless children. Be it known that the Government is acting, and taking measures felt to be in the best interests of the citizenry, particularly the residents at this Orphanage. Surely those assembled will not fall into so blatant a hypocrisy as to protest against the government taking action?

He thanks those assembled for their patience and forebearance, and trusts that they will understand the necessity of this course. He will also note that any hostile action taken against Government personnel involved in this operation will only serve to validate the Council's concerns over the state of affairs at the compound; he recommends that the crowd disperse and be about their business.

By this point there are quite the number of uniformed Constables standing in squads around the compound's perimeter. No antagonistic moves made, no action at all aside from their mere presence. Watching. Waiting.

[SinVraal]

I am the god of my own fate...

"The Violet Dawn is a bad thing for this community? We were there at Foggy Bottom! We have given what we could to the people and asked for nothing in return!"

"We are not afraid, like all the others! We are not afraid of the Ashfiend, or invasion! We do not fear to help!"

I am the god of my own fate...

"The affiliation of the school with our *cult* as you put it, sir, stands us in a much better light than anyone who is associated with the corrupt and dysfunctional government of Myrken Wood!"

"We are not secretive! Let the Order of the All be known for their foul deeds and treachery! We hide nothing! We teach openly!"

"There is no need for cajoling when one bears the truth."

I am the god of my own fate...

"You act against us because you fear us. You fear we are another threat to Myrken Wood, another murderous band of cut-throats and vagabonds who seek nothing more than to fill their purses and slake their own lusts."

The middle-aged woman stepped forward, parting from the rest and raising a hand for them to share in respectful silence. The sudden pall that settled over them broken only by the gleam of staring eyes, bright with candor and faith, each crowned by a vivid Violet Sun tattooed upon their brows.

"We do not fear you either, I am sorry to say," she firmly began in an articulated voice. One hand, fanned by veins, smoothed a gray apron that clung to her slender, lean legs. "Nor do you triumph over us with the capture of this school. Capture or Destroy it, we shall rebuild it anew where you can never again take it away from us - in the hearts of all those who believe."

She spared a cool glance over a bony shoulder towards the silently approving crowd. Her thin lips curled in cool triumph as various heads and faces, young and old, tanned or spared from labor beneath the sun, nodded and glowed in righteous agreement.

"We will not leave, but we do not fear you to use force," she continued in an elegant purr. "The question is do you fear enough unarmed, peaceable pious folk enough to make use of those truncheons of yours."

We are the gods of our own fate...

[Cinnabar]

The spokesman is silent as this representative of the Violet Dawn steps forward, with proud and defiant words; the officials and Constables watch, quietly, impassively, as the woman speaks her fearlessness to the government man. Finally she finishes, and he clears his throat before he addresses the crowd once more.

"This land, and the buildings upon it, are now under Council ownership. We have not been instructed to remove you, but you will not be granted access to the buildings unless you agree to register as residents of the property. Members of the Violet Dawn will not be granted access to the School or Orphanage buildings at all until the Government's investigation is complete. In the meantime, we thank you for your cooperation." Well, lack of outright violence is almost as good as cooperation, as far as the Constables and Government representatives are concerned.

And so the officials leave the crowd to their own devices, carrying on with their work. Audits are taken of the property, assets catalogued and recorded, inventories taken. Anyone bearing the Violet Dawn's mark on their brow is escorted from the Orphanage and School buildings - or carried, if they'll not move - and the Constables take up positions at the entrances to the compound's buildings. Council officials may pass, those bearing the Violet Sun may not.

Once things appear to have settled down, one of the officials - not the spokesman, this one, but a middle-aged fellow of fastidious grooming, brings a desk and chair out of the School building, and arranges himself by the Temple's door. Inkwell, quill, and a neatly-bound ledger are laid out, and he calls for those wishing to enter the Temple building to form an orderly line, and he'll take their names. Once they've registered with the gentleman, they can be signed in, and allowed access to the building.

That's all that's needed. Just their names.

After a while, the smell of cooking breakfast wafts from the Orphanage building.

[SinVraal]

Many had expected violence from the constables, and had prepared themselves for martyrdom and glory thereafter. With this strange turn of events, a forcible yet peaceful moving of the Violet Dawn members outside into the early morning's crisp air, many found themselves merely staring at their former home in silence. A few merely wandered off, this having been a battle already lost, the types of people who wait, desperately, for their religion to march gloriously over any and all opposition without considering what might be the bigger plan.

Some glared and grumbled amongst themselves, just loud enough for others to hear them, constables and fellow believers alike, to stir someone into violence that they themselves feared to initiative. If the law would not bring pain then they would, they shared in their isolated anger.

For her part, the middle-aged woman, willowy yet of impressive bearing, moved like an enchanted statue amidst the middling morass of believers who felt lost and, to a small extent, deserted. She raised a hand to gather attention, reputation and respect unraveling from her gesture as surely as Vraal's tamed, silver serpents claiming the heavens for his desire. A hush sprouted, centered upon her and blossoming out into the waiting crowd whose listlessness turned towards any willing to speak.

"My brethren, do we fear the lord and law that we shall lose this opportunity to secure our holdings within the government's aegis?" Her voice rang strongly, tempered iron even in the midst of current confusion that might threaten the faith of many even in small ways that only later feed into destruction.

"Let them have their books and our names! I am not ashamed for my identity t be known as a true believer! Nor should we miss this opportunity to preach to the lost from within the bounds of the law itself!" She turned, in a flutter of a long, grey skirt while faded auburn hair tumbled past her shoulders in carefully combed, gentle waves. Her smile for the constable's man was a tight one as she offered her name and any other information that was required.

The greater mass followed suit, wandering after her, heady with passion and confusion, as this latest event took on immediate spiritual significance. For many it transcended the mortal world and helped them see their faith in a whole other plane. For others, small but significant in number, it was still the first death knell of yet another Myrken hope.

[Khalika]

I am the God of my own fate...

They continue, even as some do rise to lay a name to paper, Myrken Folk, but not all...Some are foriegn, lost to the world only to fall upon this land in journey. Some Derry refugee's trying to find peace in devastation. But in this place they found common ground with eachother, with themselves....Gods they are of their own fate..

One may notice they do not chant in anger, or loud voice to the sky. More a whisper, a reminder to themselves, that though these people of the governemt may take their livlihood, their homes, they cannot take their faith. The faith they have in themselves and eachother...

It should also be noted, that they do not call out for any deity to save them, nor do they cry for their "teacher" Sin Vraal. No they have been given guidance and now they follow suit on their own accord...

Names are signed then seats retaken, the gathering grows, as they console eachother, childern craddle in the arms of those they have come to trust and love..and Rebecca?...

She has not moved, not stirred, her continued whispers, echo softly by her students who blanket her with their closeness. They wounder still what it was that was done so wrong? They are well fed, well clothed, taught simple things like reading, writing, math, basic things one needs to become a productive member of society. Not just within the realm of the Violet dawn, but in any society. Evenmore they are taught to care and be cared for, something some have never experienced.

Was it the fault of the previous authorities that they and others were merely forgotten?..Does one need to be in a position of power before they see a starving homeless child in the streets? and acts?...these are just normal people, none have political power or resources. they simply acted, why?

They are the Gods of their own fate"

[Teron_Ashfiend]

There had been a fire at the orphanage some months ago, when the blasphemous structure was yet undergoing construction. There had been fire at Foggy Bottom, where the towns folk had fallen onto the dust of the earth, weeping and wailing for murderous half-images that scurried like spiders across wel-lit rooms about their senses. And, as there always had been, a fire within the Ashfiend's core who stood and stared out into the morning sunbreak.

Beneath the aegis of squire, swords woman and servant of the law, myrken Wood had finally chosen a side in the coming conflict. It had, at least temporarily, sided with the 'Fiend against the cruel and insidious Vraal. That the people might trample their leaders underfoot if they had known of such a thing never crossed his aged mind, lost in dust and ghostly memories. That the Council might indeed know nothing remained an inconsequential unknown.

He and Vraal had clashed, and Vraal's plans to obtain the precious urn that hung from his belt had failed. Now, he considered, as the crimson dawn bled across the Silver Lake in propitious prophecy, there might finally be an ending of it. As an armored hand drifted to the urn, disturbing the chain that lashed it to his belt and allowing long fingers to curl protectively against its tarnished side, he took the measure of the rapidly approaching future.

Before the Violet Dawn burned, there was but one small thing to see to first. A small, silver thing to be trusted to a silver woman.

[SinVraal]

Gathered on the now government-owned property,the members of the Violet Dawn turned their gazes, as one, upon their guru along the path of enlightenment. With a simple look into their eyes, when he had met each of them in turn, and the proclamation of his truth, he had knighted each and every one of them as gods. In the wake of Calomel's seizure of the orphanage's property, his calm collection had served as a reminder to those who walked the path that such things could not lessen their power. It was merely another barrier to overcome. And it would be, in time, once they had grown stronger and used their newfound closeness, founded in suspicion, to preach to those in power.

For his part, Vraal was intent upon providing his hunter with what he desired almost more than anything else as well as preparing for the future. The assembled mass of several hundred, in the dark that neared nightfall, strained to hear his every breath. It was cruel to keep them waiting any longer.

The word reminded him of Ariane, and he allowed himself a small, sad smile. Alas that she had proven remarkably ignorant and afraid, just like the other denizens of this backwater little province. Yet in her ignorance he had found the spark of a newer, greater existence.

"My brothers and sisters," he began in a resonant voice that carried, easily, to the farthest ears of the assembly. "These are trying times, and they are about to try you harder still. But fear not, for it is in the fire that gods are forged, and in the aftermath that they are stronger."

He plucked a long, slender dagger from his belt and pressed thin lips into a grim, pink line. His audacity surprised even him, tempting him with smiles and laughter to shatter the illusion that had settled like a grim, funerary pall over his students. A single gesture, a raising of the weapon overhead, stirred a unifying breath of anxious anticipation throughout the crowd. The sound stirred him, eyes fluttering like an addict lost in revelatory hallucinations, and the promise of greater yet to come. Soon, like he had with Ariane, he would hear them breathe. He would feel them move.

"And it is a time that you must carry on through without me," he continued to a growing rumble of fear and discontent. A second raised hand, sealed away beneath taut black leather like the first, yet commanded silence. "Without me as I currently am. For, in our trying times, it is clear to me that we need an example of what it means to be god. This sacrifice I make for you, that in joining me in the ritual to come, though my body will soon perish - yet I will never depart from you."

"Indeed, my brethren!" he cried out into the tense darkness, each word penetrating into the awe and wonder that smoldered and sparkled with hope in their faces, pale beneath the light of moon and stars. "Indeed, after having partaken of me there will never be a parting for us. I will dwell in your heart, in the hearts of all the faithful, and we shall never be parted again. My strength shall become yours, and you will each have access to my counsel, my power, and my faith."

And I, he thought, allowing his own smile to bloom even as he readied the dagger within slender fingers, will make sue of all of yours.

"Come forward, even as the blade penetrates my flesh, and the fountain of my heart's blood blooms from my chest. I shall bleed and yet not die, for I am the god of my own fate. And you, dearest brethren," he turned the point of the weapon towards his audience in a sweeping arc to take them all in, "shall come forward and drink me me, that you may partake of our fellowship forever."

With that the weapon penetrated his flesh, drawing agony over pale features and knitting together a branded brow. Cold, serpentine sweat glistened along his scalp, feeding the slender tail of ebony hair that tumbled between his shoulders. Trembling lips formed a mute prayer to the future, to himself, as trembling frailty bore him to his knees. One by one, touched by their tears and dirty hands, he felt the embrace and suckling kiss of the little godlings. Unable to hide a sharp hiss of ecstatic pain as each partook, leaving with crimson benediction upon their lips, sharpened with salty tears for the sorrowful future to come.

Yet in their breasts a new light had begun to burn. A violet light to herald the seed of a new dawn. And with the coming of the next, he considered, though his star would set - in the future it would rise.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Dawn.

Sunlight streaked in solemn silence across stirring Myrkentown. Shadows crawled at length along the ground, given shape by the light of the world, reflecting their true selves of wood and stone. All shadows save for one, a contrary shadow that defined a shape. A shadow given form by hatred that burned in perpetual restlessness from the enshadowed depths of a low, black hood hemmed in faded gold.

Faded gold for the memory of a man, hidden away beneath battered, scorched steel that strode from the weatherbeaten frame of the Library of Mudd. Not far too tread, from library to orphanage. Not far indeed, save for the great weight that bore down across armored shoulders as he moved swiftly, a venomous and blackened shadow that the world denied in vain through omitting the crunch of dirt beneath worn boots or the clatter of moving, armored plate.

With every step he dragged the weight of lifetimes and ages, the buildings about him rising beneath the hands of slaves and crumbling beneath torrential rains and burning fists from heaven in the scope of his memory's eye. The people his mind populated the avenues with wore long, beige kilts and bore shaved heads one moment, the next melting into dark-skinned men in high-collars and vast opulence chanting the name of Arak, their savior god-king. And through it all, one sound reached him.

It echoed down the long corridors of web-shrouded memory, spurring an armored fist to grasp Deliverance's handle as it erupted from his back in a cold, violent oath. It hastened his steps and set a darker spark within his burning eyes. It forced stale lungs to convulse in a paroxysm of forced air through the remnants of ancient lungs, and seared ruined lips into a vengeful sneer.

It was the sound of a woman's last, rattling breaths.

'Vraal," the rage frothed over lips hidden behind a gray scarf as he affixed his grasp to Deliverance's handle. Fingers curled tightly with knowing ease about the weapon, cloak hastening to keep pace as it flared behind him to trumpet war for the orphanage and its antediluvian master.

[SinVraal]

Kingdoms forged only to be smashed to dust, lives rescued only to be thrown away, and webs woven only to be brushed aside - all had felt the skilled touch of Vraal's hand, sheathed in supple, taut black leather. Now a cult had arisen, a philosophy of fearlessness and strength in the heart of a land dedicated to the One Faith. A small gesture of maddening contempt for the One Above, a fleshy fist risen in angry supplication, soon to be dashed to the ground.

His steps were slow and sluggish with the exertion from the previous evening. The lull of the world throughout the Witching Hour had done little to abate the great effort of sheer will and spiritual demands made upon him by his little ritual. Whatever spiritualization they granted his words, at his own prodding for the same, would yield a ripe harvest of a golden future. In time.

Time, it seemed, was a luxury he no longer possessed. For now there could be no lingering thought for the future with the great coming of the Past. The future would be dictated by the present, and how it, in turn, would reshape the Past. For fire, he mused as he emerged from the temple's squat, double doors, even that which burned for the Ashfiend's vision and painted him the world as dry and ready to burn, could be easily led.

Still, memory breathed a heavy rhythm of suffering beneath his once servant's heavy sword, and another of being cast into the roaring flames of Below by the Ashfiend's armored hand. The thoughts settled upon his casual garb, white collared shirt and black silk cloak, as fine dust disturbed by wandering down an ill-maintained road. His mind threatened to betray him, to mark him as insincere, and it was then that Ariane's taunt hissed into his sensitive ears.

It burned all the same, a fiery dart for heart and pride. Yet it stirred his thoughts, providing direction, even as he ran through what sorceries he knew to visit harm upon his enemy. She had hissed of fear in his obsidian eyes, the light of truth that he too recognized if only because he knew truth's opposite so very well.

He knew, as Teron did, that he could not destroy his once servant. They had both learned, long ago, that serpents did not weep. The two had been locked in endless conflict ever since, one casting the other into shadow, each other's names always upon their lips. He allowed that fear, as it wormed from his heart, to harden the severe angles of his harsh countenance and frame the black brand upon his brow in hard lines.

"Vraal," Teron had growled. And Vraal answered as he stepped outside, into the quiet dawn.

[Cinnabar]

The Constabulary's night shift at the Violet Dawn compound has been a somewhat fraught experience since the strange, shifting creature had attacked a few days since; extra Constables have been posted at the Orphanage's doors, sturdy reinforced shutters installed over the windows, closed and locked from within during the hours of darkness. There'd been that business the evening before, the cult's members gathering at a remove from the buildings for some sort of meeting; creepy bunch, the lot of 'em, with their talk about being their own gods. The officers on duty tonight have passed the time in quiet conversation about what that might've been about; nothing conclusive has been agreed, save that they're still a creepy bunch.

Still, the sun's rising now, and that's certainly something for which to be glad. Almost the end of another shift, and no monsters or horrors or kiddies snatched from their beds. Relief'll be here soon, and then the three Constables on door duty can head back home for some sleep.

Except there's this figure stalking in through the compound gates, looming and armoured in blackened plate, hooded and cloaked and bearing that blade, and it has the officers on duty blinking, straightening, staring, icewater chills of fear racing down their spines. The petty clerk assigned to keeping track of who passes through the Temple's front doors starts awake as this finely-dressed figure steps outside; there's a moment's impulse to insist that he have his name checked against the list of cult members that the clerk guards, but the sight of that armoured figure, that snarled name, and the bureaucrat turns and runs. The walls around the compound aren't that high, and any amount of scrambling and climbing is better than staying here.

The Constables have no such freedom, however, for their orders are clear enough: protect the orphans. So as the ghoul approaches, as Vraal steps outside, one officer is slipping into the Orphanage building to rouse the staff; another is turning to follow the fleeing clerk, only his objective is to summon assistance from other Street Constables on patrol; the third has his heavy-bladed sword drawn and held ready, for all the good it'll do, for all that he can't help but press back into the doorway's shadows, a muttered prayer to the One God in the hopes that the Ashfiend won't see him, won't notice him, won't approach him.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

**********************************************************

[I]Penroll took a single step forward, a mailed hand curling tightly about his sword’s pommel as the electrifying need for vengeance flowed through his veins, overtaking his heart and flowing greedily into a soul that drank it all and still hungered for more. He raised his piercing blue eyes towards the unholy Demon Lord’s onyx own, and peered upon the creature’s blasphemous splendor with narrowed gaze and lips curled in hate.

“So, you have come,â€