The Doom that came to Myrken.

[Cinnabar]

They'd set off in the pale light before dawn, following the trail of rumours that spread outwards from Foggy Bottom. Implausible travellers' tales, they'd seemed at first - news of fires, then of unrest, then of rioting, then of madness. A plague of madness, a whole town robbed of reason and butchering one another in the streets.

Ridiculous, exaggerated travellers' tales. And anywhere but Myrken Wood, totally unbelievable.

But this is Myrken Wood, and such rumours cannot be discounted. Not straight away. So they'd taken the North Passage Down to Foggy Bottom, riding as fast as the road and growing daylight permitted, the High Constable and a squad of men. A scouting party, to investigate the scene and see what truth there is to these rumours.

Even before the township came in sight they smelled burning, and hastened their pace. The sun had risen by the time they crested the edge of the valley, tinting the thin plumes of smoke that rose from the town that still lay wreathed in shadow and haze. Thin, scattered sounds reached their ears over the background roar of the falls: anguished cries; hysterical, disconsolate sobbing; wailing, pleading, isolated sounds of human suffering and misery.

With foreboding they'd descended into the town itself, cautiously, hands on swordhilts at the sight of halting, stumbling figures roaming indistinct through the mingled waterfall-mist and the smoke rising from the ashes of burnt-out houses. The hoofsteps of the Constables' horses are muffled by the mist, distorted and weirdly echoing from the houses around them. Bodies lie in the street; some hacked apart; some battered until barely recognisable as human; others broken on the cobblestones beneath open upper windows.

The living - for they are living - are ragged, confused, frightened creatures, all bearing common marks upon them; a certain hollowness of expression, lost in the memory of some horror, some nightmare from which they are only just awaking; and the wounds, upon hands and faces and breasts, the marks of their own fingernails or blades as if they'd sought to claw something out of themselves.

Even as the sun rises, Foggy Bottom is some dark, grey Purgatory, where the despairing and the damned wander aimlessly among the wreckage and death; weeping softly over the bodies of their neighbours, friends, family; staring with uncomprehending eyes at what their quiet town has become.

What must the town have been like when this madness was at its height?

As their arrival is noted by the townsfolk, the Constables draw a ragged crowd in the wake of their slow passage through the streets, a subdued mob of the lost and lamenting. Hands reach to touch the riders' trouser cuffs, their boots, their coat-tails; pleading, begging, seeking some sort of comfort, solace, some return to the reason and order which was lost these last few days.

Something must be done.

One of the Constables is given orders, and peels away from the group; his horse gains speed as it reaches clearer streets, then the North Passage Down itself, heading back towards Myrkentown. To the Yard, are his orders, and gather as many men as can be spared. Then to the Rememdium to rouse the healers and bid them travel here with all swiftness.

The remaining Constables stay in the quiet Hell that was once Foggy Bottom, dismounting from their horses and moving among the people. The High Constable stands on a cartbed, raising his voice to address the quiet crowd. He gives his name, and his title, and his promise that he will aid them as best he can. His words are confident, calm, compassionate; he asks for those who are able-bodied, those who can assist him in returning order to their town, to helping the wounded and the stunned and the bereaved; he asks what large buildings still stand which might be used to provide shelter for the injured and those made homeless by the fires; he gives instructions, assigning those few Constables with him to various roles, inviting townsfolk able to help to go with those Constables and aid them however they might.

He gives them order. He gives them direction and purpose. He gives them hope. And in return they give him a name, the name of he who had wronged them, had come to their town with madness and death, and left them with smoke and despair.

Ashfiend.

[Cinnabar]

To the Office of the Governor of Myrken Wood, from the Office of the High Constable:

Governor Bromn

You may have heard rumours of disturbances in the north of Myrken Wood; this morning, acting on these rumours I travelled with a contingent of men to the town of Foggy Bottom, and can confirm the truth of these stories. If we overstepped our authority in doing so, I can only offer my sincere apologies.

From interviewing witnesses of the events, three days ago the entire town was struck down by some sorcerous madness and turned upon themselves, and each other. There has been loss of life numbering at least into the hundreds, with a great many more - the vast majority of the town's inhabitants, indeed - being injured or suffering in the aftermath of this madness, and the atrocities inspired by it. From all accounts this affair is the work of the ghoul Ashfiend, who has so grievously abused and attacked the honest citizens of Myrken Wood these last months.

As you are aware, the Constabulary holds jurisdiction only within Myrkentown itself; I and my men have done what we can, but dare not overreach our remit. In order to better aid the citizens of Foggy Bottom in their time of greatest need, I will require your sanction and authority to do what is necessary to return the Governor's Peace to this sorely troubled place. As such, for the duration of this crisis and the rebuilding I humbly request your leave to extend the jurisdiction of the Myrkentown Constabulary to Foggy Bottom and surrounding lands.

I would also request a meeting with you in person in order to more properly arrange relief efforts for the town, and the provision of Constables to discourage looting and other opportunistic abuses of this time of disorder. I am available to meet with you as soon as can be managed, and eagerly await your reply.

Faithfully,

Cinnabar Calomel
High Constable, Myrkentown.

[Wendy]

The girl read from this letter a number of times before she tucked herself into a preferred chair and inked her pen. She was alone in the Office of the Governor, with no other to refer to for guidance.

To the most excellent and sincere Cinnabar Calomel, High Constable of Myrkentown; Pemberton Fick, Governor's Assistant and Secretary of Myrken Wood Judiciary Council -- Salutations.

Received is your letter concerning the horrific events of our fellow citizens in Foggy Bottom.

I am obliged to convey that the Governor-interim has gone absent without leave. I have been advised that it would be proper to speak with you, in person, before arranging to meet with Lord Hawkesbury or the men on the Council, in case the disappearance is an instance of foul play.

Sir, the matter of approval for jurisdiction of the Myrkentown Constabulary over Foggy Bottom is apt to be delayed for this reason.

I will hand-deliver this message to the Constabulary. It is best that you destroy it immediately.

The letter was read by her own eyes before being perfectly folded and tied with string. A Governor's seal of wax did not secure the half-page of scrawl.

Pember found her belongings and left before Bromn's lead assistant, Eli, could change her mind. It was time someone was told the truth.

[Vanidor]

Doom was a familiar bed fellow when it came to Myrken. Doom and loss and tragedy. It was a fact of life here in Myrken, province and town, that the Gods (or God if one was so inclined) had cursed the land to be a home of malady and mishap. But there was, as well, pinpoint glimmers of hope to be seen within the beleaguered lands that surrounded the shadowy forest that gave the province it's name.

It came first, as it happened, in the form of the Myrken Constables who were working outside of their jurisdiction. Yet, in a situation such as this, there was no reason for such men (if they were so willing) to spend their time and energies protecting and assisting another of the local towns. They had had the rumour first, having better access to the gossip mongers and such that passed through the centre of Myrkenwood. It was they who had come first, and had indeed started the work required to help the folk who had been battered by fell magics and dark sorcery.

And those who came second did not (seemingly) begrudge the Constables for beating them to the scene. There was no haughty dismissal in the form of Senior-Lieutenant Eustace Scorsby, nor scorn for the scene before the aid company that had been commissioned to come to, what had been, the town of Foggy Bottom. The words that had come from a certain map maker, along with word that had finally surfaced from eyes and ears scattered about the province, had made this a top priority.

Twenty Brothers and Sisters of the First, along with ten of the Scouting Corps, had come to the smoldering ruins and immediately the Lieutenant would dispatch his men to assist the Constables in their tasks of aiding wounded and seeking the injured. Of making a field hospital of Brotherhood design, for the time being simply a staked out set of land where white-canvased tents were being raised, and then Scorsby would hunt down the High Constable.

He would hunt down the High Constable and salute, then simply offer whatever aid his twenty and their wagon of supplies could offer. Hopefully it would be enough, until the more skilled healers from Myrken proper could come. The Scouts? If High Constable Calomel questioned him about those wraith-like soldiers would already have slithered through the remains of the town and started into the lands beyond...

[Cinnabar]

The Brotherhood will have little trouble finding the High Constable; find where there is the most movement, the most bustle, the strongest sense of organisation and order in this beleagured town, where the figures in the haze move with direction and purpose. There you'll find the High Constable, comforting the town's citizens, giving them tasks, instructions, advising them on how they can best aid their neighbours. He greets the Janeiro deputation with a thoughtful gaze for a moment, then nods and lets them know what needs to be done.

The town's small church has been taken over by healers from Myrkentown's Rememdium, but is nowhere near large enough to accomodate the wounded. The Brotherhood's offer of a tent-hospital is gratefully accepted, and the healers move their work from the church once the canvas is raised. There is the task of sweeping through from street to street and house to house, checking each in turn in case there are any wounded trapped within. There is the task of safeguarding the town's shops and richer properties from looting, for even at a time like this there are those with more of a taste for opportunism than compassion. There is the task of gathering up the dead to be counted, identified, names given to lifeless bodies with myriad injuries. Some with their heads caved in by cobblestones; some bearing frenzied stab wounds; some with the mark of their neighbour's fingers livid upon their throat. And so on.

The Constables are already tending to these grim duties as best they are able, maybe three or four dozen uniformed men and women moving through the town; reassuring the citizenry, directing them to where they might find aid, healing, food and drink commandeered or purchased from some shop or other. The men and women of the Constabulary might operate outside their jurisdiction in this place, but they do what is required, what is needed by the stunned and desolate residents of Foggy Bottom. Jurisdiction be damned, is the phrase often muttered, these are Myrkenfolk.

Under the direction of one of Calomel's officers the Brotherhood troops are distributed where they might do the most good, where they might best aid the relief effort. There is no place for rivalry or resentment here; Constables and Brotherhood work alongside one another. They work to bring whatever frail sense of order they can to the town and its people who have suffered for three long days and nights, and many of whom will suffer for a long while yet. It's over, they say, you're safe now.

In their hearts, they pray that saying such words will somehow make them true.

[Malaroth]

When Deucalios' squire came with news of Foggy Bottom's misery, and the atrocity that had taken place, the chapter house stirred with weary steel and coarse war cries. With their brothers-in-arms not yet cold in the ground fighting off Ashfiend's evil the monster was rumored to have struck again. Taking to horse, a paltry twelve in number, the metal-clad warriors rode hard and fast, with lance and shield, sword and mace, ready to test Lady Valaeli's magics and their own mettle against nightmares and darkness should the need arise.

And though there was a need in that poor, accursed town it was not for valor - at least not the valor of a battlefield. Rather they needed the valor of a stout and caring heart, to search amongst rubble for the lost and unaccounted for, compassion to care for those who were hurting in body and mind, temperance to keep to the gloryless and backbreaking labor that sapped heart and soul.

It was a battle all the same, against misery and sorrow. The knights, as a whole, quietly submitted to the Constables and those who had erected a makeshift hospital to work as one unit, one people, against Myrken Wood's latest doom.

[Vanidor]

The small church. It was a good location, and on its grounds is where the tent-hospice had been staked out and set up. Oil-lit lanterns at every corner of a low wooden fence, the thing having been hastily erected and in place more to denote the location of the hospital than anything, and guards at both entrances. Those Scouts who had returned, five in all, serving as helpers to the Remedium healers as long as they allowed.

As for the church itself. The Brotherhood would commandeer yard as a place to stable their horses, for it was wide enough for the twenty steeds and their tack. It was also a good place for the Senior-Lieutenant's own tent to go up, a place for the Brothers and Sisters to centre their own strengths here. Soon enough one would find that ten of those men and women would split away from the 'yard and go about patrolling the environs of the town.

If the Knights would allow, Lieutenant Scorsby would request that they join the armoured soldiers on the circuit. It would one less thing for the Constables to worry about, and seeing as there were more Constables than either Janerio or Shepard's, it would put that many more hands into helping the sick and the suffering. Could they really work as one?

This would be a good test.

[Glenn]

Upon first receiving information about the horrors that befell Foggy Bottom, Glenn had done his best to spread word. He visited Master Deost and Zalin. They would be the ones to decide whether Alastir would come out and help. Personally, the mapmaker was torn on the matter. From there it was to the Brotherhood. They would have certain jurisdiction that the Constabulary might not. Moreover, it was important on a personal level that Glenn let Karolinger know that he had faith in him for such things.

There was not much he could do for the wounded and haunted. He was no healer and wasn't quite in the spirit to follow orders. No, instead, Glenn rode straight on to Foggy Bottom. With Alastir incapacitated and Quiller untrustworthy, he was the closest thing to a scholar on the Fiend Myrken had. He was armed only with those books taken from Esraeux, copies of the ones Teron had mutilated. These were the tomes of ancient myths and local folklore which he had learned of the Wilted Rose from. He hoped to find a library there and more mutilated books.

It was only halfway into his ride that Glenn realized what a fool he had been. He had been looking for one specific thing when comparing the whole books to the mutilated ones. But there were only so many other pages that had been taken out.

His arrival to Foggy Bottom was marked with frustration. There was no library to speak of and the Hall of Records had been combed through by someone before him. Past a talk with Cinnabar of the Fiend and his potential minions, it was an almost fruitless trip. The main thing he was able to do was to confirm that it was the Fiend there by seeing the deathfrost. Anyone else could have done that just as easily (and did). He rode back not long after arriving.

What he had gained, however, was some knowledge of the land around Foggy Bottom, of the town itself. This was important. For you see, Glenn Burnie knew his next move. A brief stopover in the Mudd to pick up old maps was followed by a knock upon the door of the Constabulary Headquarters. He was a special consultant when it came to the Fiend and thus was given access to the books that had been confisgated.

From there tomes were compared, pages were copied, myths were mapped. The trick here would be to take those pages that were ripped out and to find the stories contained within that could potentially both interest Teron (and ones about fairy lullabyes likely did not) and be in the geographic area of Foggy Bottom. After an hour and a half, Glenn had found success of the most troubling kind.

He told the Constables nothing as of yet. It was just a theory, and a foolish sounding one before he had any proof. There would be no riding to Foggy Bottom that night. If nothing else, he was on the Alastir-watch for the evening. No, in the morning, after training, he would learn if that theory was based in truth.

[Glenn]

Glenn was weary from training this morning, but less so than he normally would be. It had been hard find the necessary time to work in the Knights' fields as of late. He had compensated with extra training, with the endless jogging that now defined almost all travel in his life, but those were not nearly as exhausting. His spirits were in better shape as well. Oh, it was horrible that the Fiend attacked again, but this, unlike what ailed Alastir, he could act upon. It gave him some sense of purpose, and truly, although he was still worried about the safety of the girl, it had also been very nice to agree to share some of that purpose with Rhaena.

Today he rode with haste towards Foggy Bottom, thoughts of hidden mines and ancient weapons upon his mind. That was the story that stuck out to him the most. He had seen the waterfall the day before and thought nothing of it. In fact, even after seeing it mentioned on one of those ripped pages, he had not immediately made the connection. It was not until looking over some other background material on Foggy Bottom itself, that he pieced it all together.

There was a need for some sort of a badge, Glenn thought to himself, even as he left Bernard with the other horses. This would have aided immensely in accosting a couple of Constables. But then no, a badge might just get him in trouble later. He WAS just a consultant and he liked it that way. The decision not to go alone had been made at the last minute. In part, it was because he had assured Rhaena the mine would not be dangerous. Mainly, though, it was because he thought Teron would not be there. Instead, he might have left a nasty surprise for anyone who followed him. For THAT, it would be good not to go alone. If he had thought Teron to be there, on the other hand, well, it would be foolish to waste a chance to learn more, especially given what he now knew from Alastir's mind.

The Constables, despite being busy with the relief effort, were also eager enough to have the chance to actually do something that might get to the bottom of things. It only took a little bit of badgering to convince two to come with him. Even at the best, it would mean getting wet. And get wet they did, but not without reward! Past the roaring water was the entrance to the mine. A lantern was held in one hand, the book in another. Most who had read it would have thought Deliverence to be a mere myth, but then those same people, those same scholars, would have also thought that of the story of Arak's Ruin or the Wilted Rose.

It took only a matter of steps before Glenn FELT the presence of the deathfrost. By now he knew that specific chill down his spine, that chill throughout his soul, all too well. A few moments later the Constables spotted the pair of footprints. By then, Glenn had already been speaking "One of you, get the High Constable, quickly!"

[Cinnabar]

It doesn't take long for the High Constable to arrive. Word is that he's not left Foggy Bottom yet, instead supervising the relief effort to the best of his abilities; there are even rumours that he's not slept yet, but has instead been working through the night. Matters are becoming more stable and settled now, though; the initial work is done and there remains only the heartrending business of tending wounds, gathering names, assisting the survivors and exploring the full scope of the disaster. This allows the High Constable to spare time from issues of organisation, and attend to Burnie's summons.

So, to the waterfall he goes, ducking past the cascade to stand with Glenn and the other Constables in the dim space beyond. He's a stern figure, grey uniform and steel helm, expression dour as he glances about the cave before nodding to the mapmaker.

"What have you found?"

[Glenn]

Those rumors. It was interesting how they kept spreading, how they seemed to come from no specific source but still managed to reach every ear. Each one made Cinnabar seem more a hero than the last. It was almost the exact opposite of the way the Governor seemed to manage things.

"High Constable." Glenn's familiarity with the man waxed and waned. This was business. No question here. "Teron's frost and two..." Here a brief look to the Constable who lingered with him. They hadn't really been chitchatting while Cinnabar had been sent for. He nodded and Glenn continued. "Two sets of tracks." The second set was particularly poignant considering their talk of the day before.

"I'll wait until we're back out in the light, ser, to show you the tome from which I discovered this, but it's my belief that Teron thought this mine to be the resting place of an ancient weapon of great power." Was there disappointment in his voice? If so, it was only a hint of it. All this loss just to reclaim a weapon that may or may not have been there. "Given what Seth took from him..." Well it all made sense, and if Glenn had any sense of his own, he would have combed those ripped out pages that still remained in Deost's book at the earliest chance. It had been a very costly mistake when it came to the people of Foggy Bottom, perhaps.

[Cinnabar]

He works hard. It's how he does things, and of course people talk. Little more to it than that, really.

"Two? You're certain?" Calomel scrutinises the ground within the cave for a moment, stepping aside briefly to let more light fall into the cramped space. Hm. Eventually he nods, and peers further into the cave with a small frown. Terse, today, no words to spare beyond those necessary to see the task here completed.

"What's back there?" He's already moving, edging past Glenn and the Constables to push deeper into the mine, into the darkness. His footsteps are sure enough, and he takes care to stay near the wall, the better to avoid trampling any further tracks or clues. The chill lingers on, here, however long it is since the Ashfiend departed; enough to cloud his breath before his face, even now. It would seem that the ghoul was here for a while.

[SinVraal]

Dry road dust crunched softly beneath dark boots as he closed the distance to Foggy Bottom. There were many methods of conveyance, especially for him, but the sound of the road beneath one's feet, and the opportunities mere walking might provide, outweighed any sense of propriety he desired. Several desires at work within him, a voyeuristic perversity, a misbegotten sense of twisted loyalty, and a certain pride that stirred his heart upon the devastation Ashfiend had wrought.

It was, he considered, a testament to more people than Ashfiend alone. It also spoke volumes of any who might have had a hand in shaping the creature.

Behind him march a few hundred people, simple townsfolk, bearing water and wood, flint and tents, dried rations that were palatable but certainly not tasteful. And among them woodsmen who felt comfortable enough changing the neighboring plains and forest to try for fresher meat. Simple folk all, people of the land, many bore a tattoo on their arms, a few audacious onces even upon their foreheads, of a perfect violet circle outlined in black.

After several puzzling and unfortunately heated exchanges with constables and knights, the mass of people presents itself for use at the servicing hospitable to assist in offering what help it can. They had no fear they claimed, not of the Ashfiend, and were not afraid to step forward and help those in need.

For his part Vraal turned and left the gathered mass at Janeiro's mercy while he began to follow the occasional, tell-tale trail of Deathfrost towards the distant rumble of an echoing waterfall.

[Malaroth]

Courage, Honor, Wisdom.

The knight in command, Sir Osric Storth, had been known for many things. Namely for fighting ferociously o behalf of king and kingdom, a talented tactician and skilled swordsman who was not above offering mercy and attempting diplomacy. By all accounts a loyal, steadfast and stalwart champion of order. He had one other identifying trait, almost as famous, that he had taken with him into the knighthood.

A vow of silence that for almost ten years had not been broken.

Though the horror of Foggy Bottom touched him, and it indeed showed upon a weathered and sun-marked, grim countenance he did not offer any exclamation of shock or woe. His squire spoke for he and the knights, relaying their desire to help swiftly and boldly for the sake of His Majesty's people.

An offer of working alongside one another, with mercenary brethren united in their charge of defending Myrken Wood, brought stern disapproval from the expressions and mutterings of certain knights. Yet beneath Sir Storth's glare no comments were truly forthcoming, none would be shared. Joining the circuit, as the Lieutenant offered, seemed to be the best use of their talents. And Storth agreed through his squire.

At once they stirred horses to do their part, a few offering backward glances over armored shoulders in apparent disdain for mercenaries. Some whispered that coin bought no loyalty save greed, and others muttered that His Majesty need not suffer riffraff. Others, however, said nothing and offered raised hands in greeting and farewell. Knights were a strange breed, to a certain extent. Trained to fight as individuals and yet all members of one order.

It was a start, at least.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

The mine stank of a cold stillness that intruded upon one's senses. The great weight of stone overhead reminded that this was once a deep mine, that plunged into the bosom of the living rock. Yet now it was, like the intruder, little more than a testament to the decay of a history and legend all but lost to time and forgotten by memory.

A great, elliptical chamber greeted them, heavy with breathed frost. The waterfall rumbled overhead, crashing down behind them, and frozen footprints marred the even stone floor. To either side, in the dim, brooding cavern, tunnels wound off towards old veins, tunnels nearly sealed away by fallen rubble. Rubble also greeted them by the entrance where armored fingers had scraped and tore away slumbering stones, and waited to offer farewell with the promise of twisted ankles and banged heels for the unwary.

Several yards in, near the center of the chamber, the frozen footprints stopped beside a shallow, slender make-shift barrow too small for any human being. The small, fist-sized stones had been largely removed and revealed the previous resting place that bore the tell-tale, elongated cross shape of a buried and sheathed sword. Beside it, however, lay a simple circle where something small, about the size of one's palm, had stood. As to what it had been who could tell? The height provided by the barrow made few things possible, save perhaps a teapot, small vase, or even an urn.

Beside this latter marking stood flaked bits of corroded silver.

Nearby, to one side of the barrow, lay a circle surrounded by largely undisturbed dust. Some great bundle had simply lain here, perhaps a large sack of something bound in chain, the links of which still having shaped the dust around it. A pair of footprints, light and steady, moved away from whatever had lain here - yet none had come towards it. The heap had, in some form or another, evidently suddenly grown feet of its own and walked out of its own accord. And yet the height of surrounding rock-dust and pebbles made it quite clear that whatever it was had lain here for several years at least.