Find the man.

[Carnath-Emory]

Two must live. Because a woman has learned terrible things from the scourge she'd inflicted upon the Order, and amongst them is this: that torment is far more effective as a threat, rather than an eventuality. That one very easily plays one man against the other; very successfully. Two must live, because that building is not all ruin, and if a man still struggles for life in there, time is so very crucial; she must have her answers immediately.

She hasn't the luxury of choice, not when Ashfiend and Calomel flank that small group: those men are free agents, and deadly ones too. She hasn't that luxury at all, when time is so pressing, although she'd have taken their appointed mouthpiece for her first, and their leader to his left for the second. Leader, whether he wears its insignia or not, for he marks himself by the easy murmur of his commands, by the closeness with which his eyes attend to this threat.

So to do Ariane's, for she's already discounted the possibility of Ethan's hand in this: mindless ruin is nothing she'd had numbered amongst the brother's interests. But still, there's something in the guttural curves of his accent which is deeply familiar, and if her command of their tongue were better...

At 'n ddrwg ddiwrnodau, she might whisper to these men. To the coming of such very bad days...


But these are realisations that course through her in the space of heartbeats, and to the tune of thundering hooves, for her pace has been unflagging throughout this. It's only as she closes upon these men for true that the warbeast slows, only in these last twelve feet of yard that she is sliding down from its heavy saddle, the schiavona a cold extension of one arm.

"Sylvius Duquesne."

With eyes for that mouthpiece of a man; with eyes for their leader, as well. The others are consigned to what fate Ashfiend and Calomel might prepare for them, and if it is terrible, all the better. As if that man had not flatly refused their questions, as if he had not already discounted this notion of surrender. As if he was likely to spill any answers at all, but here is the secret that she invests herself in: that he will, even if not a single word is spoken. A glance might do it. A smirk. A moment's scowled regret for a man who's escaped them. Even silence will be an answer.

"You buy your lives with his."

[Cinnabar]

Feet scuff to find the proper balance, limbs and spine align themselves to move the young man into a crisp guard stance, fencing blade and narrow dagger held with a loose, flexible grasp. Grey eyes regard the soldiers thoughtfully, considering the armour they wear, the way they heft their weapons. A fleeting glance to the Ashfiend, brows furrowing in annoyance.

"Why are you even here? Haven't you some dismal dungeon you're supposed to be cluttering up?"

Let's see now. Chain, leather and plate. A troublesome combination, which the lightness of his blade will have trouble penetrating; one that also plays to his advantage, however, in that it will slow them down a touch. So. He takes a few steady breaths, pairing off with one of the men - leave the one who speaks Common alive, that'd be useful - and grinning more to show teeth than to express good humour.

"Do you dance?"

Then Teron's laying into his opponent, which seems as good a time to start things as any. A quick step forwards, edged steel flicking out towards the man's face; more a test of his reflexes as anything, seeking his measure, seeing how well he blocks or avoids the blow. Whether it strikes or not he steps back into a guard stance again, watchful against any riposte; find out about one's foe before properly engaging them, lest you dive into a fight you are ill-equipped to win.

For all that he looks charred, ash-smeared and battered, with blades in hand the Constable moves with a speed and elegance that is perhaps unsettling. It brings to mind a viper's strikes, or a cat's toying with some small creature; a poised economy of motion, almost a stillness, then coiled strength is unleashed and that glinting blade darts forth. Meanwhile nimble steps carry him back and forth, ducking back after each assault, only to spring forward again with a fresh offensive; he has heeded his training well, it would seem, harrying the more heavily-armoured man, keeping him on the defensive.

[Duquesne]

There is a sinking back of body, a reaction of caving away from the swing of a vocal mace, a rusted boom coming 'round hard. Ashfiend's opponent avoids this first weapon with care and feeds himself into a defense against the sword-swing, blocking so that the impact of the blow will sing down his sword and away from him. And he is recovery quickly into an offensive effort, whirling his sword 'round and almost fearlessly attacking Ashfiend, this larger and more deadly foe.

There is no mind in these men for Self--not yet.

The Leader has his eyes on the situation, but his focus is on the woman for her approach, her posture, the name which she indicates, such a name which must be recognizable enough. And as he utters something to the Translator, Calomel engages the second dispensible soldier.

And this one has raised a steel and leather clad arm, the details of a battle-notched bracer glinting dully in sunlight dimmed by a pall of drifting smoke. His sword arm is drawn back, elbow bent and high, sword-gripped well and in preparation, so that the constable's testing action is met by calm, clever evasion. A brief one-step, eyes for Calomel, a mind for his similarly engaged comrade nearby. He surely dances; he responds by whirling his blade 'round, down, and across in a whistling swing, meaning to engage the constable's steel.

The Translator utters something in return to his commander and eyes are given over a moment to the conflict at hand, some slow-made and necessary space given to such combat. The Leader's eyes are fixed to the swordswoman, recognizing the want for information and reciprocating that want--he wanted information too. "Sylwh Duques'n 'yh. Is want for prisoner. Is for arrest in treason." A gutteral phrase from the leader. The translator translates: "You know to where he go? you tell this."

[Teron_Ashfiend]

He raises the sword after the resounding clash, fending off his opponent's swift attack. At once he begins to press for the offensive, seeking to keep the skilled adversary on his heels. It is a slow procedure against a skilled foe, to herd him into a corner, to direct him with iron and steel to prevent any hope of escape.

And then he would pulverize this would-be warrior.

Ashfiend proves relentless, almost reckless, as he wades easily into combat. Again and again he hefts the mace, attempting to crush the wind from his enemy's lungs. His sword dances about the stout, brutal mace swings as a steel serpent seeking to drive its fangs through the man's heart. For, though he attempts to back the man into a corner against the wall from which they just decended, he would just as soon take a quicker kill.

The better to end this nonsense and gather answers. A handful of words reach him over the battle-din, nearly meaningless talk of treason and someone whose name he did not know. Yet, given the serpent's ready escape, the creature and its master might yet lurk behind all of this.

His weapons are a violent, painful storm as he takes a step forward. Despite the ferocity of his assault, there is no ragged, rapid gulping of air nor any curse as the opponent's swiftness threatens injury. The eye of his battle-storm is a silent, dark terror given shape by the blasted memory of once beautiful armor and driven by the unremitting hate within a livid, unblinking gaze.

[Carnath-Emory]

This is a deeply strange moment: that they make battle in the early-morning shadows of this burning, gutted mansion; that Ashfiend and Calomel make the morning thunderous with the clatter of iron and steel and damage; that for not one moment does Ariane Emory doubt that they slaughter those men.

Much later, she will recognise this for one of the very few instances of faith that her atheist's heart has ever known.

Now, however, is for being conscious only of the liberty it affords her: that she may address the two before her, the Leader and his Mouthpiece, without a moment wasted in fearing their fellows. There will be no sudden flank attacks here, there will be no subterfuge. There will be simply this: that steel is singing murder into the air at either side of them, that an armoured woman has paused a measured distance from their reach, chin slightly lifted in the small, grim arrogance that the moment demands.

That they've answered the question she'd not yet spoken, so that hidden within the confines of her helm, Ariane smiles.

"I do not know where is his place." This is how we exchange our information: sparingly, to the tune of sweat and bloodshed. And with a jerk of chin towards that gust of smoke at their backs, and very mindful of the hilt which weights her palm, sharkskin bound and infinitely precious. Two against one are not odds that she favours. Neither are they insurmountable.

"Is he escaped already? Who commands this?" This ransacking, this arrest; this obscenity. And having demured from that question, she might have painted herself useless in this soldier's eyes; perhaps an end comes to this more quickly than she'd reckoned likely. It will be the moment in which he abandons words and resorts to steel instead, and he will betray its approach -- with eyes grown hard and accepting, with the tiny motions of an arm which means to seize its weapon, of a spine which readies for the weight of it. He will tell her everything that she requires to know.

And then ... then it becomes a matter of vengeance.

[Cinnabar]

Ha, well now, this is something taught in training: you don't aim for the other man's sword, you aim for the other man himself. Flashing blades and clashing steel are all very impressive, but it misses the point, as it were, and doesn't achieve anything. The point is not to block the other man's blade, but to divert it. To attempt to stop it cold is wasted effort and risks breaking your blade, especially against a foe with a heavier weapon.

This is held in mind as metal rasps against metal, the Constable's off-hand dagger moving with the soldier's sword, sliding along its notched length with a deft twist and push, using his the momentum of his foe's weapon to steer it past him, perhaps enough to overbalance him. He is fast, unnervingly so, and even as his dagger disengages he is dancing a step to the side, into space that only instants ago had been sliced by the path of the soldier's sword. Again he flicks out with the rapier; the intent seems not to wound the man, however, but to simply tap the end of his blade against his helm, an almost casual demonstration of speed and finesse. Meanwhile the dagger cuts air in front of one of the other soldiers, clear warning that he is follows the man's movements even as he engages his compatriot.

And all the while he grins, giving every impression of relishing this sport.

[Duquesne]

It will require a second's attention paid to the specifics of the moment, of the postures of the two men currently in conflict with Ashfiend and Calomel, not only them but the posture of the translator, whose sword is bare and glinting, whose body is sunk with care into this condition of readiness. Notice that all three seem, in their ways, to guard the leader of them, their backs to him, their swords to their opponents.

And yet, here is this guardian hedge fractured as Ashfiend isolates his opponent, who, try though he may and do very well at this pursuit, cannot manage to gain the upperhand against such a foe, and so is driven back. Back, until his own back is dangerously near that wall. It is with the fervor of a man literally cornered that this one fights... and here shall be some critical mistake, some mis-chosen move, the consequence of which is an opening in his defense. A flash of eyes behind helm will show recognition in this moment, that the very next blow from his enemy would be the killing blow.

Even as this process is taking place, Calomel's opponent is a watchful thing, cautious and yet aggressive as he both affords blows and takes or deflects them. But he comes against a critical factor in this fight, for he is weighted with steel on the body and his sword is larger and clearly less quick. Above these things, just as his mate is discovering here in the fight against Ashfiend, the constable is simply fast, possessing a dexterity and swiftness which makes for a challenging enemy. But soon, there will come a moment when a strike is simply too slow or a movement too cumbersome in comparison, so that a constable will surely kill a man so easily.

And here are two. The fact of the matter is that none of these four bore witness to the grim goings-on downstairs some time earlier, so that they could not know that their intended prisoner had shown himself and had shown himself quite adept. They did not know the true fates of their comrades, that they died by another's deeds rather than by fire--those died in the left wing, these survived in the right. "No escape," the translator intones with a strange, wry little movement of the mouth. "Duques'n 'yh never catch. But maybe die in fires, like many secrets, mn?" a cant of the head for the right wing and the smoke whisping from broken windows. The translator keeps his eyes on the swordswoman, even as his leader is demanding some recitation of things spoken, so that after the words are transformed into gutteral phrase, the leader is offering the swordswoman a challenging gaze. He even steps forward, only to meet the halting arm of his subordinate.

Watch now as a heated reprimand takes place, an equally low response coming. Note the presence of anger tightly developing amid this terse exchange of short gutteral noises. So that, quite suddenly, the translator and the leader come apart like two opposing magnets, steel swung aggressively in a sudden clash. In one or two moves, a secondary blade is drawn... it sinks in deep and hard up beneath the plate of the translator's armor, luring a startled gasp from him, as his lung is breached and heart touched. In a fierce jerk, the leader tugs his knife free, scarlet stained and the translator drops in a heavy, dark heap. Dead, killed suddenly and very oddly by his own officer, who looms over the body in a slow-recovering stance, some dark and grim quality of visage behind the foreign clutch of his helm and cheek-guards.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

The mace and sword do their work well, Ashfiend notes, as he calls upon ancient memories to guide him through wielding two large weapons. The man, try though he might, is soon singled out from the others. Ashfiend saw the white of his eyes grow larger, the desperation that began to guide his attacks, and the occasional gasp of air in recognition of death drawing ever nearer.

A single, solid and sudden thrust drives the mace head into his opponent to double him over. His sword follows, the blade's length glittering with sunlight as it darts between the damaged armor plates and slips clean into the man's chest. His strength urges the steel onward to blossom from between his shoulder blades.

His visage is hidden beneath the shadow of his hood and crimson eyes offer no hint of respite or anything save the calculated hate that drove his killing blow through the man and his armor. A hate that urges him onward. He takes a single step towards the dying man, feeling his last hot, ragged breaths brush beneath the hood. They stand close for a moment, as if sharing intimate secrets, before he raises the sword and, with it, the dying man into the air.

The unfortunate soul's own weight begins to pull him down the length of the sword. His arm never wavering, Ashfiend watches the spectacle a moment as he twists the blade within the man's flesh. He remains still a moment longer, allowing gravity and his own cruel malice, applied with that slow, calculated turn of the wrist, before he hurls the outlaw off of his weapon's length.

With the crimson still running freely down his blade, the towering, darkly armored figure turns in silence to regard the sudden situation between members of supposedly one united group. One of them is quickly dispatched, and all that remains is Ariane, a dead translator, and a language barrier between them.

Leaving Cinnabar to dispatch his own opponent, Ashfiend slips his mace back onto his belt and sheathes the sword with an elongated, metallic hiss. Doubts soon begin to emerge that Vraal is involved here and yet, he considers, one was never sure with that one.

The chill heralds his drawing closer to Ariane and the apparent leader of her enemies.

[Carnath-Emory]

It is a very strange stretch of time.

There is gruesome work done, to each side of them; where Cinnabar is a dancing mote of silver across the periphery of her vision, Ashfiend is the looming juggernaut, and the both of them are wreaking steely harm upon their challengers. Only blood will satisfy the swordswoman's more savage inclinations, only a body unleashed to act as heart and instinct direct, and that circumstances have so far restrained her from that is precisely what makes this interval so odd. In a more reasonable world, the Constable would have stood in her place. In a more sensible existence, it would be Calomel who exacted answers from these men, while Ariane carved crimson hatred into the most immediate of those soldiers --

But circumstances permitted no such thing, so that she must address these men herself, tall and ironclad and with no sister to speak the best words for her, no clever Constable to dazzle them with courteous guile. She must watch, and dwell on the small motions: something like smugness at the corner of that one's mouth, something like cruelty, and with it the words best suited to dash her fledgling hope. She must school her features to impassive quiet, throughout the halting words of yon Mouthpiece, and must be the gladder of her iron helm, as well; must, most of all, advance a step, as their Leader does. There is a wordless challenge in his eyes, and you relinquish nothing with such men as these. You betray ... nothing.

"By whose command?" she insists with a lift of her chin, and not much expecting an answer. But neither expecting conflict, so that she is frowning within the helm now as the two men confer, is tightening gauntleted fingers upon the swordhilt as their words become clipped and tight. Is startling a second step forward as the two break apart -- utterly incomprehending, absolutely certain, and with a wordless cry caught behind gritted teeth as the mouthpiece drops to the other's knife.

Behind them, Ashfiend is making blooded meat of his man, but she is aware of this only in the most distant and essential sense. Her attention is for the murdering leader of this group, and she is darting hard for him now, because there is surely no exchange left possible here, and there is no telling what he might do now, and because time is short.

"A name!" she grits her insistence, or perhaps her outrage, and with blades lifted as she approaches low and hard: lifted to meet two of his own, for she means to dash them aside, and to knock the man flat, and to carve the tale from him ...

And to do it all very quickly indeed.

[Cinnabar]

It is a curious scene that plays out there before the wing of the ruined mansion, smoke looming into the sky, the roaring of flames providing a deep background to the sound of clashing steel and foreign words.

Cinnabar plays with his opponent for a while longer - and it is play, for his evasion of the soldier's blade seems almost casual, and his own light touches to armour are clearly meant to taunt the man, to frustrate him and tire him and allow him to realise how plainly he is being toyed with.

The treachery between officer and translator has grey eyes flicking aside from his own target for the briefest of moments, and as swiftly as that his tactics change; if the officer has his way there'll be no survivors to question at all, and that cannot be permitted. So there is a feint, a lunge of the rapier that insists the soldier bring his own weapon up to turn it aside if he values the use of his eyes; however rather than following through on the blow the Constable ducks low, diving past the man, and his dagger flashes as he does so. A fleeting strike directed for that vulnerable section at the back of the knee, with full force this time; the slim blade darts out with the aim of sliding into the tendons and muscles there, with any luck crippling the limb and bringing the soldier down. Alive.

If not, well. We'll have to see. Something will probably come to mind.

[Duquesne]

And so with blood creeping down this trim steel, this officer, designated as such only by the deference and protective spirit which his men supplied him, is cool about his sudden murder of one of his own. He is cool about the calculated determination which defines the onset of this woman, who, by all rights, speaks words he cannot understand.

He is a dark-shrouded force, characterized not by zeal of ability, not by any mark or attitude or presence evinced, but by these grim eyes which are calm, eyes which assess. Assess, not only the woman, but with a flick of the eyes a dead subordinate and his swarthy killer, a disabled subordinate and his disabler nearby. This soldier who stumbles when the constable's precise cut deprives his extremity of its capacity. The soldier, not being indifferent to this kind of injury or pain, goes down hard, his steel abandoned for the sake of reaching for this bleeding wound. What must be very bad words emerge here, a throaty rasp of curses thrust at the moment, at the constable who toyed with him, at the embarassment of defeat under the eye of his superior--the soldier had expected death and was given something worse.

The officer's attention seamlessly returns to the swordswoman and his sword, a somewhat thinner thing with a longer hilt for a potential two-handed grip, is lifted in a brief fencer's salute, then swung overhand and regripped, while the dagger is held in readiness as well. "Chwili buchedd ag bucheddau?" he inquires in calm twist of language, grounding the syllables out from his throat as per the texture of his native voice. "Nage atebiadau..." as he sinks into some preparation here, chin lowering and eyes like phantoms inside his foreign helm. And note, swordswoman, the similarity of this fighter's stance to one seen not so long ago from an unlikely fencer. "Ladd," the man will say in a whisper, last of all, perhaps an instant before conflict if that should still come.

[Carnath-Emory]

A cruel thing this morning, is Cinnabar Calomel; hours from now, a woman will very much approve of his delicate games. But the immediate moment allows for no such opportunity, for it is consumed by the death of one man by his superior's hand, and she cannot permit that man to continue in such a matter. He has silenced his translator, and perhaps he means to silence the rest of them, as well: to finish the work Cinnabar's begun, by opening that man's throat and then his own --

So that the woman must answer that threat with this swift approach, and it speaks quiet volumes on such matters as balance and equilibrium, on the fine control with which muscle and tendon may be employed. It has her moving light upon booted toes, and with the slender schiavona drawn up only during the final moments; with keen eyes that search for chinks in that piecemeal armour of plate and chain and things far less simple. Its darkness is nearly inpenetrable, and surely by design, but there will be a weakness discovered somewhere, there will be a crack that her narrow blade may penetrate, and if not ... well, then there is still Ashfiend's mace. It is such thoughts as these, such cares, which a swordswoman's mind entertains in the instants during which she closes the space between them.

Until this man speaks such words as might pause her.
Until this man adopts a posture that is familiar in its every fluid line. She had made a study of that days-ago fencer, of that startlingly-competent display, and now it is replicated before her here.

"These men are of Duquesne's place, or something like it; 'r Chyr'laud. I know the sound of those words." Paused some few feet from the soldier, she calls this to Ashfiend and clever Calomel; within the slit of vision that the helm affords, her gaze has not swerved from the man who challenges them. "But I speak only a little, and badly. Greetings, friend-words." The names of two very striking swords...

And ser streltsy, with your very level gaze, with your clear intellect, do you realise that three people discuss your fate? Very likely. And do you measure the ground between them in a swordsman's fashion? Almost certainly, for she has begun to lift her own weapon again, has begun the subtle shift of posture which gives the man her left shoulder, slim dagger leading in that hand. Which leaves the right elbow drawn far back, the schiavona's blade lifted even with her gaze.

For this is how a swordsman measures such distance: not in terms of feet and inches, but of the two swift lunges that will bridge it, that will sink cool steel into the other's heart.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

That the man would kill one of his own stirs him, causing concealed lips to curl thoughtfully. This, he considered, was a either a desperate or desperately loyal servant. And though this was Myrken Wood, where many people were simply not normal, its populace was still mortal. The universal language was still spoken here.

He took a step closer to the remaining swordsman, the chill of his presence following in his wake. As his shadow descends upon this outlander it carries with it a faint, though distinct, chill. A chill that attempts, as is its wont, to slither about one's ankles and whisper against the back of one's neck to make the hairs rise. It is a grave, grim chill.

"There is a language all men understand," he mutters icily, turning his gaze momentarily upon Ariane before regarding their mutual, momentary enemy. "There is a fate that nearly all men seek to avoid, though it rarely comes to them. It has now come to you."

He turns to regard the slain warrior once again, crumpled against the wall. The gesture leaves his back carelessly towards their opponent but, if concerned, he gives no sign. Rather, he raises one arm and extends a gloved hand, fingertips spreading, but all pointed towards the corpse. As the whispered syllables pass dead, tattered lips secreted away beneath a grey scarf, a brief rumble snakes through the ground. In some distant place a gong sounds, announcing the opening of an ancient and terrible gateway meant to remain forever shut.

As that single, echoing note fades Ashfiend lowers his arm. For a few moments there is the tense silence made in an enemy's presence, or in the presence of an untrusted ally. The corpse stirs. Its head rolls to one side, jaw hanging open, and after a brief moment of its fingertips scraping the ground the monstrosity rises to its feet again. With a prominent death wound the body yet stirs and, having ascended, falls perfectly still.

Ashfiend turns, livid crimson eyes seeking to bore into the enemy's own. Trusting in his necromancy to carry along the translation of his intent, he again intones, "There is no escape for you, not even in death."

He raises his hand again, the same with which he enspelled the enemy's former inferior and, pointing at his weapons, then lowers his fingers to indicate the man would do quite well to drop his weapons and surrender.

[Cinnabar]

The soldier goes down as Cinnabar straightens again, a hurried step and flick of a booted toe sending the man's dropped sword spinning away from him with a clatter. There is clear satisfaction in the Constable's expression, pleasure at a gambit played and won as he sheathes his sword and moves his dagger to his right hand, confident that the battle is as good as won; Ashfiend's foe is smashed and slumped against the wall, the other soldier is dead by his commander's blade, and Cinnabar's own man is down. Let him clutch his wound and curse as he will, he'll not be fighting any more today. Or possibly ever, depending on the skill with which his injury is treated.

Ariane's words have him nodding, glancing from the soldier he stands over to the officer she now faces off again. "Good. We'll find a translator more readily now we know where they're from."

And then there is the Ashfiend. The creature's words have him frowning, anticipating some act of barbarism or wanton cruelty, the inflicting of pain or violence to drag words from the man's throat, for all that they are in a foreign tongue. For such seems to be the armoured horror's way, brutish atrocity dispensed almost casually, even when more subtle or cautious approaches would likely prove as effective.

What the Constable does not anticipate, however, is the sorcery that follows. As the fresh-slain corpse twitches and lurches to its feet the young man's eyes grow wide, then narrow to slits; grey gaze that has until now remained pale as overcast skies gleam silver, while features that have expressed more amusement than anger during his fight with the soldier twist into a snarl of fury. Torture he would have protested against, but this... this is abomination. His anger is a near-palpable thing, a promise of wrath so terrible that batters upon the senses, a pressure upon mind and gut that urges one to turn, to flee, to hide from what is to come.

Heartbeats pass, the young man watching in outrage as the Ashfiend makes his gestures and threats, the animated corpse standing there in the meanwhile, blood still seeping from its wound; he soon comes to a decision, and soon after that, moves to action. A vicious kick to the injured soldier's knee, to ensure he remains more concerned about his crippled limb than about resisting his captors; and then Calomel is advancing at speed, a low crouch that becomes a blurred spring as he leaps at the ghoul's back, braving the bitter chill that surrounds him in an attempt to bear him to the ground. A boot-heel aimed at the back of his knee, free hand reaching to gain a grasp upon that blackened armour, and finally that dagger, narrow-bladed and elegantly wrought, flashes forth for that gap beneath the armpit, the intent clearly being to plunge it between the fiend's ribs and into his blackened heart.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

The chill welcomes Cinnabar as he closes, pouncing upon the looming armored figure. With his weapons sheathed, and attention focused upon the common foe, the constable's sudden approach threatens to take him by surprise. Yet given their stormy introduction, and strained relationship since, he has not been foolish enough to trust this one, in particular, enough to lower his guard completely.

The man is nearly as fast as Ariane's flowing armor and his grasp finds the necessary handhold. His armor is a bitter, biting cold that threatens to knife into his very flesh, should the man feel cold as he does not flame, and ache against mortal bones. With the swift kick his knee gives, somewhat, enough to bow him momentarily. For Calomel, a moment may be all the man needs. Yet the battle-dance is an old one for Teron and, hearing the flash of metal, he lowers his arm to absorb the impact upon his breastplate. Cinnabar's strength adds a deep gouge to the blackened, ruined steel plate.

His balance nearly found as the blow lands, he remains silent save to aim a single jab with his other gloved hand for the constable's throat. Uninterested in the man's moral qualms, or so he supposes the sudden reaction to be, his intent is to merely drive Cinnabar away from him so that they might continue the matter at hand: namely discerning what has happened in the smoking crater of a once-estate.

As the two grapple, Ashfiend throws his jab and also begins to set his feet in preparation to throw the man off with a powerful pivot of his torso should his attack fail. At the same time the animated corpse, still gouting the crimson remnants of forsaken life, shambles forward with the simple intent to carry out its master's will.

"You fool," Ashfiend mutters in arctic derision. "These men are the primary concern here." It is an odd thing, his hollow reply given the constable's fiery response. Before, sheltered in the stagnant heat of the smithy, the two had met fire with fire, hatred for rage. But now, his thoughts focused elsewhere, Ashfiend's seething, inner flame is directed apart from the constable.