Digging up the past...

[Ymir]

It had been an interesting return to Myrkenwood for the half-breed. Already the province was rampant with opportunity. Rumors abounded of an impending conflict against this Ashfiend character he’d heard so little about, other than that he was dangerous. It was par for the course in the man’s mind, as he made his way along Derry Row in the southeast region of Myrken. There was always something dangerous looming, whether it was in one’s own mind, or an external threat.

He seemed like he was heading in the direction of Fitchton, but that wasn’t his goal. He would leave the road and head east toward the forest south of Snowstill. He’d heard that something had happened there, but few details were given. Grim faces followed every piece of news the Mul overheard, or inquired about. These men knew not how to live. They had seen, or heard of death, and allowed it to rule their lives. They could not grasp joy in the knowledge that life was ephemeral and each moment, each breath, was a silent celebration, a defiant roar against the inevitable. The mul, however, was not a poet, nor a bard, nor a philosopher. Perhaps he himself knew not that joy, if the amount of feeling he expressed through his face, his eyes, was any sort of indication.

In truth, it hardly mattered now, as the man led a donkey that was harnessed to a cart. There was a time when he would have simply carried that which he sought on his shoulders and not think twice for the consequences of such actions, for the words that would inevitably follow in whispers by amazed townsfolk. That was a different time, a different man. The Mul’s bandaged hand started scratching at the donkey’s forelock, slowly making it’s way down the creature’s forehead. “You and I have much in common don’t we?â€

[Ymir]

He moved forward, and stepped to the side of the small body, also pushing an oaken table aside with ease to make room. The axe was laid upon the floor as he reached out, brushing a lock of hair from the child’s face to reveal her features. She had been a beautiful child, he could surmise that much. That did not change that she was nothing now, a husk without life. No spark of endless energy, her milky eyes staring into nothingness. He leaned further forward and grasped the crudely crafted bear, placing it underneath the hand that reached so desperately for it.

Blood red eyes did not waver, nor did his expression change as he rose. The axe was in his hand again, and it fell once more, removing the head from the child’s body with one clean strike. The axe was placed against the wall with the shovel, as he would have need of it later. The body of the man, and his head, would be placed inside the room with his wife. The body of the child, her head, and her toy bear would be placed in her own bed, which lay in another room.

Finally he could get to work. He began by using the axe upon the floorboards and breaking them apart. Once he had broken them in a wide enough radius, he set each piece of wood aside with meticulous care before he grabbed the shovel and began to dig. The chilled earth, and roots made it more difficult, but it would not take him long. This was hard labour, this was what the Mul was bred for. So he worked at the earth, alternating shovel and axe at times. He dug down five feet, and when results were not immediately yielded, he began to widen the hole.

It was the widening that allowed him to discover that which he was searching for. Two large chests were removed from the dirt. Hauled up, one at a time, to the edge of the hole. Hauling himself out of the cavity he created, he carried each chest to the entrance of the house. Taking the axe, the Mul threw it into the pit, and then began to fill it in with the roots and earth that had been dug up. The filling would always be quicker, that was something he knew very well. Once satisfied, the flat of the shovel was used to pound the earth back down in an even manner. Taking the shovel, as well as the lighter of the two chests, he carried them towards the cart, depositing them in the back. The second chest would come shortly after. The canvas was fixed upon cart before he re-entered the cottage.

He took the broken floorboards and dispersed them over the dirt as evenly as possible. Then he moved to the stove and turned it over with an easy heave of brawny arms. A lantern was taken and thrown against the wall across the room. Standing there for a moment, surveying all he had done, he lost himself in thought.

Mere minutes later, the half-dwarf exited the building and loosened the reins from the tree branch. It was dark now, and it wouldn’t be long before the cottage behind him lit up the night in a fiery inferno. It might act as a beacon for some dwellers in the night, for patrolling authorities, but the Mul would not look back. He had what he needed.

The family would be found, lying in their beds, charred skeletons. They would be victims of an overturned heating stove, or a lantern that had fallen. Passing before they even roused from their beds due to smoke, looking serene in death.

As it should be…

[Ymir]

It would have been well past midnight that the Mul would have returned to Darkenhold. The cart was left by the stables for future use, the donkey fed well and housed in a comfortable stall.

The Mul would then take the two chests and haul them up to his room. Their contents a mystery to any passers by, but it was likely that few would see it. He returned at the latest hour, and despite the burden he was alarmingly silent in the matter.

One chest was set aside in his room, to be used after a discussion he would now need to have with Councillor Treadwell. The other chest he immediately opened and began to sift through it's contents. He had visited the training room and pondered whether or not it would be prudent to leave some of the equipment there.

His old armor lay within the chest. Withdrawing a vambrace, a fingertip lightly touched the tip of one of many arrowheads that had been attached to the metal. The armor being crafted by the half-dwarf for offense as well as protection. There was always a method to the madness, be it the Mul, Quincy, or some villain who threatened the land. Always a cause, always a reason.

Fingers touched upon the fabric of his old uniform in the Gray Lancers. Those were interesting days when there was conflict between Thessilane and New Dauntless. Killing had always been easy, the rest was harder.

Fingers touched upon a longsword that had been crafted for him by an old friend, eyes running along the line of silver that had been set into the sword. He couldn't recall the method, much less the man's race. Had he been elven? Human? Memories were like tattered battle flags. Scored with too many wounds to recall what they might appear like in their full, resplendent glory.

What was certain was that he had his gear back, and there was training to resume, preparations to be made.

Weapons to use...