Myrken Burns

[Reinstadler]

Things have changed in Myrken Wood. The past year has been one of the most peaceful the land had known in a great while. Oh, there were minor incidents, minor troubles, but they were small, contained, subtle. Other provinces have not been so lucky. Derry has remained besieged by Thessilane, Heath by crime both organized and unorganized. With peace, Myrkentown has seen relative prosperity. The problems of other provinces became opportunities for its traders and craftsmen.

Through its relative prosperity, Myrken has thus become more important to its neighbors. With the creation of the new Meeting House, a small row of nearby buildings were set aside and then purchased to be used by each of the surrounding provinces to house ambassadorial staffs, some newly arrived to a previously (and logically) over-looked geopolitical entity. It has become something of a middle ground for the provinces to informally communicate and argue with one another, closer to home and with far less oversight and interference than at the royal court.

It was in one of these buildings that Alessandro Mercer toiled. Middle son of a minor Heathian noble, he had been all but pressed into government service by a family who wanted him out of their hair. He wasn't particularly good at his job, though not necessarily because of any intellectual deficiencies. He just didn't care. He had neither the freedom of his younger sibling or the assured destiny of his elder one. Ironically, it was his laziness that kept him pinned to his desk. The work had to get done, whether he found it important or not. The longer it took, the longer he was there, not that he had many other places to go, considering his living quarters were located on another floor of the rather modest building.

Today, it was early enough in the afternoon yet, and Alessandro thought that he might finish up in time to actually eat an evening meal while the sun was still out, figuartively out, at least, for this stormy summer day. What a unique novelty that would be. Another few hours of menial paperwork and he could have some much needed solace.

The noise came first: a distinct sound, the flapping of wings overhead, yet far louder than such a thing should be. Those outside would see the creature swoop partially down out of the heavily overcast skies. Mercer, however, saw only the flash of red light that seemed to almost seep through the woodwork itself, only moments after the sound had begun.

Only then did he feel the heat, even through the walls and sparsely placed windows of the Heathian embassy. Myrken afternoons were hot, but not like this. New sounds would emerge now: the screams, the creaks, the crackling. And then it was once more with the light, this time more blinding than the last.

Mercer rushed to the nearest window, a small, high thing in the corner of the room, and attempted to look out, having to stand up his chair to do so. It was the quickest he had moved in months, for the dread was beginning to well in the man's hart. His apathy may have covered his work, but certainly not his life, hopeless as it may have felt. Outside, the Thessilanian embassy, home to Christoph al`Nerun, Baron of Almark and Burel's ambassador in Myrken, was in flames... and they were spreading, already creeping with almost unnatural speed to encompass the next closest building, the Amasynian province's embassy.

Another flash of light and the heat began to oppress. While the flames seemed to be striking out from the Thessilanian embassy, each new burst of light increased their intensity. Mercer knew he had to get out. The Meetinghouse was nearby. There was only the embassy of Derry between him and it, and it was a far better place to be right now. It was quite close to a well, and more importantly had men stationed in close proximity who were trained to deal with this very possibility. The Myrkenites had quite enough of losing their Meetinghouse and had taken steps to prevent it from happening again.

The bureacrat shoved papers out of his way as he darted for the stairwell. It was with horror that he realized the flames had reached his own building, that they had reached the door, that they were blocking his path. And then... immediately following the final flash of red light, Mercer felt something far worse than oppressive heat; he felt agony, the pain of a slow, fiery demise.

Though most witnesses upon the streets had quickly fled the scene, some out of their own sense of preservation and others to recruit more men to assist in fighting the flames, some remained to watch the spectacle. Those who did would see the silhouetted creature escape back up into the clouds with a languid satisfaction, its day's work apparently completed exactly on schedule.

[Treadwell]

"By Tubbius's great hairy gut--no! Not in our lifetimes!" Even aged, beady, blurry eyes encumbered by frosty, heavy, mostly useless spectacles can see the initial burst of flame from above. The councilor's hot, fleshy body flushes into sweat even from his reasonably safe distance; he'd been languidly, lazily wobbling up the street on foot, thinking of making his way for his office at the meetinghouse for a bit but having been sidetracked to a candy shop near his own toy store first.

But now? Someone has to take command of this situation, or at least put up a good show of it. The short old tub, gleaming red and rosey-faced in a scarlet robe and top hat with a sunny yellow sash at his middle, has dealt with fires before during his time at Westenford--but Westenford! A town several days of journey time away, and a town on the coast! Water there is plentiful, and fires can be extinguished quickly. Here?

Cane and billowy sleeved arm start waggling furiously in the direction of the lake as the Councilor/priest/toymaker scurries toward the scene, his normally squeaky voice erupting into throat-aching bellows.

"Get those bloody gawkers and slackjaws and snake-necked folks out of here if they're not going to help! We need water, hang it all, and now!"

And with that, the already sluggish Aloisius jerks up a bucket of water meant for someone's horse. . . or supper. . . or just general refreshment. . . with his free right hand (his left taken up with his cane. His cane drops down, its strap catching snug and tight leaving the stick to dangle from his wrist, and pudgy fingers tighten around wooden vessel. With a heave and a "Mmph MMPH!" that water arcs away in a liquid splaLOOSH.

[Ymir]

The Afternoon was a time for the half-breed to find himself wandering from Darkenhold to the teahouse. An evening shift was ready to present the man with another few hours of listlessness. He would present himself within the tavern main a few times, and peace would be restored before he retired, frequently, to his chambers within the wooden edifice.

Yet on this day, he would find his attention seemed to pick up. The flapping of wings was an eerily familiar sound, one that oft found tyranny, and a long line of abuses in its wake. Clad in casual clothing, wearing nothing but a sword at his waist, eyes of red saw fire billow out in the sky and raze over a section of the town. Shock would set in first. Panic and fear would follow shortly after. Death, that was imminent.

His reaction was immediate, as the pulse of instinct throbbed through his frame. Igniting limbs as sure as buildings found themselves engulfed in a blaze. Strong thighs flared with vigor, as his heart swelled with the urgency of the situation, and hobnail booted feet pounded the roadway, surging the large half-dwarf towards the town, through its streets to the section of the city that was afflicted.

It wouldn't take long, for the half-dwarf, as large as he could be, was capable of great speed when necessary. Agile legs allowed him to dance lithely around patrons who ran and panicked in streets, weaving and dodging through the crowds with speed and grace attributed to some sort of live performer. It was difficult at times, for children, women and men shifted erratically throughout the streets and it took a great amount of dexterity and awareness. Fortunately the half-dwarf had been trained for this kind of movement, these kinds of crowds.

He found his way towards the buildings on fire and saw Councilor Treadwell taking action. The man was truly no fool, and when it was required, the man could take some action befitting his rank or title. Whichever seemed more important. His red gaze turned towards the first building that was on fire with the door closed, or largely blocked. Those inside were likely dead, and any who attempted heroics would likely die too. The Mul was no hero, not in his own view.

Legs began to work at a feverish pace, as they churned mightily against the earth and propelled the half-dwarf forward towards the door of a fiery building. He led with his bandage laced right arm, and his shoulder rammed into the fiery portal. Whether it was weakness from the flames, or the girth of the charging half-dwarf, the doorway shattered with the force of his blow. The figure of the Mul, to those who looked onward, disappeared behind flames and falling debris within the embassy house. The man had perhaps charged into certain death, with little thought for self.

Perhaps the Mul's fate was sealed...

[Berdini]

Inside the theatre in the midst of a rather breath-taking trick in which the Illusionist's assistant was just about to be cut into two when the sound of flapping and swooping could be heard outside. Some of the audience hardly noticed, the thrill of an afternoon show had been enough to quite completely captivate their attention. The sound however hadn't missed the sharp ears of the Illusionist, nor his dark skinned assistant, a timid young woman who would be gazing back up at Berdini nervously.

The crowd would notice the still of his hand first, the sword that wavered over the box where the woman would soon be seperated of her very self, and it was that pause that caused the audience to suddenly start paying attention. A chatter would begin to build amongst the people there, and then suddenly the whole theatre would hear the sound of screaming from outside. There would be only a few moments of question in the audience's eyes, wondering if this were all part of the show, a trick to make them avert their eyes from the illusion, but the smell of smoke beginning to roll into the building would cause a sudden panic.

A rush of people flooded to the doors, at times crushing and mashing those who were smaller and weaker amidst the throng of the crowd. Of course the people in the theatre were in no real danger, they were streets away from the burning embassy, but the wind had happened to blow in just the right direction so as to insight panic into those assembled inside.

And it was in that moment, that the faintest of smiles could be seen on the Illusionist's face.

[Reinstadler]

Alessandro Mercer's fate was sealed.

The man was on fire. Fire! This just did not happen. Oh it happened to some people assuredly, but did you know any of them? Well, no, of course not beacuse they were dead, but still... this did not happen!

All he knew was pain. His screams resounded through the quickly crumbling building. The smell of his burning flesh mixed with that of the flame and smoke, even as he crashed down those stairs, right towards the charging Mul, a flaming projectile sent by the building itself to engulf Ymir, shouting in utter agony for every deity he had ever known to save him all the while.

[Treadwell]

Councilor Treadwell's bravery seems to have been inspirational for some! After the slackjawed gaping turns to the round-bodied official, a couple of people turn their attentions toward going for their own water to try to help. One fellow even sends his boy running to get some barrels to fill up from the lake.

Meanwhile, Treadwell does have a little bit of common sense in his head. After helping get a few buckets of water splooshed at the fire, he sluggishly, exhaustedly waddles away, leaving the fight in the hands of others more able to do so--and coughing and wheezing all the way back to his toy shop in the middle of town. The poor old oaf needs a bit of rest, and he's only been working at this for maybe a half hour!

[channe]

The quarters kept by the ghoul -- as Glenn calls her -- are not far from the fire, and indeed, the building is in enough danger that she dresses quickly and clatters down to the street, joining a bucket line. Just one of many, she hauls water with the rest.

[Jirai]

The 'Ghoul' is not the only one. Somewhere in that bucket line is the veiled girl, another one among many.

[SuperRy]

A teahouse courtesan will also join in the efforts to squash the flames; Daveney Sauveterre steps into a bucket line, accepting and handing off pail after pail of water in the hopes that the fire would be quenched before it spread further.

[Vanidor]

The dawn was an ashy-crimson one, the sun filtering through the smoldering blot of smoke that curled upwards into the sky. It was quiet enough, now that the fires had been beaten down by determination, sweat, water and no small amount of courage, or foolishness depending on who you were talking about. Tark de Velissia ran a hand down the side of his face, the thing stained with soot and lined by the cleaning trails of sweat and tossed water. He was exhausted, having fought throughout the night side by side with the others who had come to fight the fires.

His silken shirt was tattered and burnt, his hair the same. Tousled and covered in ash. The man was currently leaning his back against a remaining post, gazing at the remains of his former home. Their former home, that is. The embassy was a ruin, just like much of the rest of the street. The rest of the other embassies, for that matter. He was starting to slide down that post, looking at the smoldering wreck and wondering who had not made it, and who had. It happened, that another was doing the same.

He was dressed in crimson and white robes, with golden threadwork glinting in the sooty sun. Immaculate. From the silver circlet that held his dark hair in place to the soft leather boots that protected his feet. Tark looked up at the shadow that was just now crossing before his feet and snapped upright. Blue eyes widened a moment with some shock, mild disbelief... and then true recognition. For a moment, the son had the look of the father. And with the way ash stained everything, Tark thought he had entered Hél itself, with Kerrak as his ferryman.

A breath released. "My Lord Baron. It... it is good to see you. I... I, uh. I apologize for the look, sir. My coat didn't make it out of the embassy. Not many of us did, y'se..." He noticed that Christoph wasn't even looking at him. The man continued to gaze at the burnt wreckage, finally raising a hand and flicking a command to the pair of Companions that had followed him here.

In time, his eyes would move towards Tark, looking the man up and down once. "You are alive. Another coat can be made, Squire de Velissa. Another of you, not the same. Give me as best a report as you can, I cannot seem to find Sergeant Feran."

"Aye, of course, sir." Tark would have reached up for a hat to wring had he one. "The Sergeant died in the fire, sir. Pushing myself and Squire Anlis out of the front door. The roof collapsed just then. The... Ah. The rest of the squad assigned to the embassy helped fight the fires. We... we just got it out about an hour ago. I sent Anlis to take the men to a tavern for some rest. I hope I wasn't... wasn't over reaching. It seemed the right thing to do. I've been here. Waiting. Uh. To see if anyone else got out. Or if anyone else needed help." Tark swallowed slightly, glancing upwards at the young Baron of Almark.

"Yourselves and part of a squad then. You have seen nor heard of anyone else?" One could guess that there was strain at the corners of the Baron's eyes. Last he had known, a certain healer had been making her home within the embassy as well. It -was- his house, as much as it was his work space.

"None, s-sir. Just the seven of us. None of the rest of the staff. I... I think I heard that the Ambassador from Heath perished as well. I... And well, you can see the rest of the destruction. I... I do not know what caused it. Haven' heard, yet that is."

Christoph leveled his eyes upon the man for another moment then nodded his head. "Go and find Anlis and rest yourself. Then on the morrow report to Darkenhold and the commander of the Companions. He will make sure you are safely delivered to Meadowford. I... Must inform the Duke of what has occurred... Heh. If he does not already know." The young al'Nerun nodded his head once more, and the Squire bowed and made to scurry off.

Christoph simply pursed his lips and returned to watching the ruined street laid out before him.

[Cinnabar]

All in all, it had been a quick thing - a matter of moments for the conflagration to begin, and not much longer for it to spread along the row of houses. So close to the Meetinghouse, there are plenty of Constables on hand to keep onlookers back or organise them into bucket-chains, to evacuate nearby houses and clear a space in the market square where the injured might receive aid.

The situation is well-advanced by the time Governor Calomel arrives on the scene, a late lunch at the Teahouse interrupted by cries in the streets and the smell of smoke in the air. The row of diplomats' houses are already fiercely ablaze and efforts are underway to keep the flames from spreading to neighbouring streets, with shopkeepers and homeowners dampening thatch as best they can.

Instead the Governor turns his attention to organisation as the flames are brought under control. Orders given to a government worker, to be conveyed to the appropriate functionaries at the Meetinghouse so that arrangements might be made. Word is passed to find accommodation for those diplomats affected by the fire, as well as alternative office facilities; to arrange transport for the injured to the Rememdium; to set in motion the investigation that is to follow, to determine how this blaze started and hopefully why.

[Ymir]

With the flames sputtering out due to the efforts of the populace of Myrkentown, the building in which the Junior Heathian Diplomat, Alessandro Mercer, had worked, was now a smouldering ruin of charred wood and ash.

His desperate charge towards the Mul could have ended in any number of ways. Some witnesses, those affected by panic and those not, did see one man enter the blazing building.

They were quick to note however, that they did not see anyone exit.

Those within that were not burned, or died of shock from such wounds, would likely have succumbed to a choking of the lungs from the smoke laden air. It was evident then, that all those that were within, could be found among the ashes that remained.

[Dulcie]

She had to see things for herself. Rumours about the fire had easily trickled down to the barmaid's ears but it wasn't until a chance meeting with Glenn Burnie that she had heard anything about just -who- was seen running into the building. It figured. It figured that the description fit Ymir completely. Figured that there was nothing but ashes found in the building. There were some things, so many similarities in life that she just couldn't seem to escape from. It figured.

She had left the Dagger early, and though she had intended to go home, to sit and to think about the things that she had been told, but somehow she found that she was drawn to the site of the fire instead. Some things shouldn't just be left to rumour after all. Her hazel eyes would survey the scene with a stoic look about her face, looking closer here and there, as if she would see something that everyone else had missed.

It was really all she could do to keep herself together, to keep a little hope in her heart that maybe somehow he had found another way out. It was an awful place to be in, to not really know, to not know if it was time to mourn, or time to wait. A frown on her face and she'd reach over to touch one of the charred bits of wood that had escaped complete destruction, her fingertips tracing along the black that consumed it.

"Idiot." A single word, muttered beneath her breath and she rose to her feet and was off back through the town, one tiny tear left wet upon that charred bit of wood.

[Ymir]

Among the scattered ashes, the charred framework of the building, and the still smouldering remains of furniture, and various accoutrements, a sword would be found.

It was not the ceremonial sword of a noble, not even a junior one. The scabbard lay scorched, and stained with soot. Ravaged by flame the leather had cracked in various places. Within the remnants of the scabbard lay a blackened sword. The hilt wrappings had been damaged by the fire and the bones of the blade, guard, and hilt were all that remained. It was not a fancy sword, not in the slightest. A simple longsword made of steel and silver. No decorations adorned the hilt, pommel or guard.

The craftsman's mark denoted an old resident of Myrkenwood by the name of Tyreal. Few that now dwelled within the realm would remember the man.

It seemed an oddity within the building, an oddity that it would have been left behind, if any had escaped.