Beating the Bounds.

[Cinnabar]

As the curfew grips Myrkentown the streets become emptier, quieter, darker. The sky is clear, the air bitterly cold, and the moon bathes Myrken Wood in a pallid light. The last few stragglers of the evening have been hurried home and now the town is still, the night seeming like the pause between one breath and the next; doors are barred, curtains drawn, windows shuttered, townsfolk huddled around hearths. Waiting.

Still, though the townsfolk are ensconced behind doors and walls, the night still sees activity of a sort; the Night Watch still patrol, falchions and halberds and crossbows wielded against whatever lurks in the Myrken night. They particularly gather around the town's outer boundaries, where cobbled streets give way to unpaved roads, where gardens yield to pasture; some looking out across the silver-limned countryside, the proud estates and bare fields that form Myrkentown's periphery, others turning their gaze inwards to the huddled houses and smoking chimneys of the town they are oathsworn to protect. Waiting.

At the edge of town, a small group gathers beneath the moon, standing atop the earthen rampart thrown up in haste over the last few weeks; well-escorted by a full score of Constables standing in a loose ring about them, some bearing lanterns on poles, others wielding the brutal, efficient weaponry of the Night Patrol. Governor Calomel is visible among them, coat buttoned up and scarf wrapped snug against the chill that clouds breath and numbs extremities. He glances around at those others with him, grey eyes meeting those of his fellows in turn. Finally he clears his throat quietly, and nods.

"Right then. Let's get on with this."

[Euphemia]

She'd been staring at the stars, lost in the memories they brought. This had been the work of weeks upon weeks of planning, shillings by the thousands. It had been a struggle and they'd been nearly undone at the very apex of their effort. Perhaps the Duke was foolish for keeping his army back. Perhaps he was *wise*, for what would an invasion have brought but blood and death? He'd given them time, though. That was the important thing. She offers a governor a casual nod, seemingly unconcerned by the danger of their current situation. He knew better though, didn't he? She might hope, at least, for this to be true. There's some reverence in the way she pulls cloth-bound packages from her satchel, laying them upon the dirt.

The first is thick, with hard edges. Unwrapped it proves itself to be an anvil in miniature, crafted of rune-wrought silver and golden edging. The second? Slender rod of lacquered yew, a crystal set into its base, the mote of light caught within very much like those that sat, inset in the heavens above. Little trails of copper cover its length, tip capped in sharpened metal stake. There's an aura of power to this thing, and she handles it delicately indeed. Taking her wand in hand, she whispers some word that is quite easy to make out, and yet slips from the mind almost as soon as its uttered. Then a single, tiny tap from wand to anvil, the latter cracking and crumbling to dust, while the former is suddenly crackling with power, its stone burning like a tiny sun.

She pushes back her sleeve to expose a bracer of crafted steel, the thick metal covered in little crystal indicators and buttons of various sizes. One of the largest, rimmed in amethyst, is gently depressed. In the silence one might hear the faint crackle of electrical sputterings, as energy begins to flow. In the dark, one just might barely make out the faintest of purple luminescence, forming a wall that surrounds Myrkentown. The artificer allows some satisfaction to show. "There. To begin." There's a glance spared for the other people here, before she flicks her wand like the conductor of a symphony. And here, stone springs into being, growing straight out of the air to form a wall, to take the shape of crude towers and crenellation. And she begins to walk, letting this wall take shape before her, directed by magik and the plans Duquesne had made.

[Glenn]

On the first day that Calomel took power, Glenn had rushed to Ariane, to tell her. He had asked her just whose side they were on, or at least whose side she was on. At that point, the two things were one and the same. Now, perhaps not.

Then he received the letter from Cinnabar, the one about this very thing. His reaction? Oh, he ran to Ariane again, but this time he explained to her how he could sabotage this thing, this potentially horrific thing. Her reaction changed everything for him, changed the way he would interact with Cinnabar... changed his life itself.

And now he stands there, not far away from the man, dressed in the much nicer clothes that throwing in completely with Cinnabar had earned him, proud to be there, proud of the man before him. Glenn Burnie believed in Cinnabar Calomel. He believed in his intentions. He believed that the Governor would do his damned best for Myrken and he could do more if people supported him. That was the only hope any of them had.

So Glenn had worked out the maps. Glenn had run the numbers. Glenn had spoken with those who had worked on the Ringwall. Glenn had done all he could. Was he still a bit worried about the thing, about what its existence could mean in the hands of a tyrant, but... for now, it was the right thing. They had spoken. Cinnabar had listened, and here we were now.

With Elspeth, and was SHE the right thing? She made it all far, far too easy and that scared him as much as a thousand Channelers and Drow sitting on war elephants together.

But they were here now, and this is how it would be.

May this save them and not doom them. He had faith in Calomel, else he wouldn't be here, but it was anything but blind.

[Carnath-Emory]

Whose side are they on?

This grey-clad woman, she sports no insignia that might offer answers to that question; wears pierced through her ear three rings that have meaning to herself and no-one else, and which are in any case irrelevant to this question. That she has shadowed the Artificer Elspeth during their journey here might suggest that her loyalties lie in that direction, of course. Why, even now she stands at some significant proximity to the woman, back of her and slightly to one side.

It is every inch a guard's posture, careful in its positioning and loose at the limbs. This would be in every aspect a guard's demeanour, cool-eyed and quietly diligent, except that ...

Well, that hers are such attentive eyes tonight, and for far more than what threats may haunt beyond this circle of lantern-light. They've an interest in wands and anvils, an interest in bracers that gleam, and the ghostly manifesting of ... towers, of stone and gates and wall. And here is magicking enough to provoke life and colour from her features, for her flesh is resonant with this grand thunder of energy, and has become livid with arcane design, with wild and twisting patterns. Of course, her eyes are no less livid, for this is nothing that she'd envisioned, when they'd spoken of construction. This is nothing at which she'd guessed, witchery on so vast a scale, and the realisation is a sickness at the core of her. And yet...

In all the world there are two souls who command this swordswoman's loyalties.
One of them has designed this Wall in its every exacting inch.
And so she can be nowhere else, nowhere else at all but here.

[Euphemia]

But she'd told you, hadn't she Ariane? One night. Just one. Had there been disbelief? She ought be long past that now, as grayish white stone seemingly grows from the earth. This is a maestro's work, to call it into being while shaping it, conforming it to the drawings she'd been given. Glenn might call it easy, and it certainly *looks* so. He'd not been there for every moment of painstaking work, he'd not been there to witness the cost; money, certainly -- such things did not come cheap -- but time, effort, energy as well. He'd not been there to study at her side, years of study, of information pounded into your skull until it became rote, until it became as natural as breathing. He'd not borne witness to the trials and travails that brought her here. A lifetime of work, days upon days of effort, all expended for this one night. He thought it easy, when he had seen her at the end, what building these things had done to her.

Would he still think such a thing when the sweat started to pour from her brow before they were even a quarter finished? Would he say it when fat crimson drops of life's blood begin to slip from her nose, splattering on the soil at her feet? When it crept from the corners of her eyes like tears, when it leaked from her mouth in little streamers, when it seeped from her hands until gloves were soaked with it, dribbling free with every squeeze of the wand. Slender stick wrought with magik served as a catalyst, a focus, a source of power. But she still had to give something of herself in its every exultation, vital bits of her stripped away with every burst of power that called up protection for the citizens of Myrkentown.

Someone once wished you to learn self-control, Glenn. Perhaps here you might find a model, for she never deviates, never stops, never rests. Never even glances behind to be certain that they follow. Here is resolve, here is composure.

Easy. If only that was the case.

[Euphemia]

Hours pass before this business is done, hours of walking and working the stone. She's gone waxy by the end of the thing, fingers shaking around a wand with a considerably dimmed glow. A mouthful of coppery crimson is spit into the soil, and she's commenting in a voice gone ragged and weak, "It's done, then. Go home." And there she'll stand for a time, staring at this thing she's built, not quite trusting legs to bear her on the walk back to her sanctum.

[Carnath-Emory]

Hours pass before this business is done, and they are filled with such concerns as the blood which slowly ruptures from von Drakken's features; such concerns as the eruption from living earth of this towering wall, this remarkable construction.

And all the while, there are these fine lanterns to light their way, and to illuminate the sight of an Artificer slowly murdering herself. All the while, there are twenty-two men and women to watch this, and to watch what's dragged from the soil and flung up as stone and tower and gateway. To watch the sheer scope of what damage is done to this earth, and the extent of what has grown to surround the township in its entireity.

Twenty-two men and women, and no more than that. That Ariane Emory had not put a fist to Elspeth's skull and ended this madness directly is inexplicable. But there's sense in this much, at least: that long, long before the conclusion of this bleak business, she'd taken her leave of them all. With words spoken tense and quiet by the Artificer's cheek before it, and a long glance for these lantern-lit faces as she strode past them. With lifted chin and clenched lips, and no further word at all.

[Cinnabar]

An awe-inspiring sight, a frightening sight, the conjuring of fortifications from nothingness; if he had held doubts about the miracle-maker's capabilities before, they are surely dispelled now. A more worrying sight is the artificer herself, pallid and bleeding from her exertions, and there is an unhesitating nod from the Governor, brows furrowed with concern.

"You have worked a true marvel. Thank you, Elspeth." He bows in deep gratitude, sincere and appreciative. "And you, likewise. You should rest for now." She looks a mess, and there is regret in the Governor's gaze for the damage this grand working has wrought upon her. "I'll have some men bring a carriage. Please, sit." He moves to steer her carefully in the direction of a low garden wall, where she might wait for a time.

Soon after the wall is complete, wagons creak and rattle from large workshops in the warehouse district, buildings which have seen hurried activity for this last week or more; each vehicle moves to one of the wall's gates, bearing on its bed a sturdy door of solid oak, bound and reinforced with iron. At the gates, stout hinges are set into the stone, and cranes and winches are put in place; with hurried but well-disciplined industry from workers toiling by torchlight - some grinning helplessly, others pale-faced and silent at the prodigious, impossible act of construction that the wall presents - the heavy doors are lifted into place and lowered upon their hinges.

Though its details are still rough-formed, lacking definition as yet, in its wider scope the Myrkentown Wall is in every way complete, the hand of architect Sylvius Duquesne evident in its graceful lines and meticulous design.

Twenty-five feet tall, five feet thick at its highest level, with thirty-three watchtowers spaced along its perimeter, the Myrkentown Wall forms an unbroken defensive ring a half-mile across, encircling the town in a girdle of solid stone, pale granite that almost glows as the dawn's light touches it; stout gatehouses at the north and south where the North Passage Down passes through town, and another at the west to allow access to the wharves and jetties on the shore of Silver Lake.

Constructed in a night or not, it is a marvel of artifice, architecture and engineering. Myrkentown stands defended.

[Duquesne]

He was to have been there among that number, those bundled against the frost in the air and the stillness of a cold, cold night. He was to have stood in their midst and looked on as his careful drafting became manifest.

The architect was not among them... but he was watching.

The otherworldly kind of force it required to make such a relatively immediate construction possible made him wary. It was not birthed of a distrust of von Drakken or her abilities, but it was very much an issue of years of negative experience on account of the abuses of others, on account of their great mongering, a long history of rape of any good reputation magicking possessed. It was power and from what he had witnessed over time, there were but few who could resist the natural temptation and consequent corruption which such power could yield....

It was the condition of living things, sentient things, to want and to grasp. To take and destroy. To live with virtue and honor was far harder a task than to deceive and to outwork dishonesty. It had been his profession to watch others and he learned the lesson well--man's natural tendencies lay not on the upward path, but on the low one, the dark one.

And yet man was capable of transcending. The architect was of the opinion that all were equipped to live nobly and well, requiring only that they be inspired and willing to shed that skin of disease from off their souls and walk forward with determination and strength, no matter the perils so associated with their conviction, that they might defy and defeat enemies of order and peace, beauty and culture, all of life's greatest achievements.

Thus, while the electrical presence of this craft raised a wall in an awesome demonstration of ability and discipline and kept Syl Duquesne at bay, he was watching closely all the same. Watching from the darkness of a frost-bitten pasture. Watching, because this was the product of a man with vision, a man who had had enough of threat after ominous threat and chose to confront the fundamental issue. There was no convincing at all required of the architect when offered the project of designing this wall. Cinnabar Calomel walked a path Duquesne himself would choose. Look to the defenses first, be capable of true defense, and thereafter be empowered to take the offense. It was time Myrken Wood improved its reputation.

When the swordswoman chose to take her leave, there were eyes for her departure. Eyes whose pupils were large on account of the darkness, eyes capable of sorting shadows and seeing into them in ways only nocturnal things possessed. The direction she chose was carefully observed, memorized--he would follow her--and then he restored his attention to the construction. Stood in ruminative observation until no more need be done by Elspeth and the early morning air was then characterized by the sound of assembling gates--those too had been carefully designed, crafted with the hardest and least flammable of all woods he had studied and worked with in the past. Timber cut from trees he had played beneath as a boy, the same trees he walked beneath as a man. Timber which had been specially imported for this cause. The gates were significant to him. He would wait until they stood stalwart in their stone settings, then he would take his leave and echo the path of Ariane Emory.

It was done, Elspeth had said at a distance--he had heard her whisper, even from afar. It was done and may this place be better for it.