Nowhere to Hide

[Reinstadler]

Zombies, Drow, Zayken, the Baie, Cultists, Landworms, Plagues and Spires. Myrken over the last few years has been tested by them all, and yet, Myrken endures. Myrken recovers and Myrken rebuilds, and that is exactly what the people of Myrkentown occupy themselves with today. Nothing unites them quite like the aftermath of destruction. Embassies have been destroyed. Embassies are slowly being rebuilt. Such solidarity might come as a surprise to the foreign dignitaries who had so recently been forced out of their official residences by the recent attack, were they newly arrived to the region. Myrken, surprisingly enough, accepts those who have suffered within its borders. In some way, that was the only true sign of citizenship. If you survived here, you were welcome here.

The delay had been reasonable. Here in Myrken, an attack such as the recent firebombing of the Row was usually just the first in a string. Days had passed, however, and there had been no further sign of the beast that had caused it. No threats. No declarations of war. No demands. Rebuilding could not wait forever. People got on with their lives. That was the way of the Myrkenite. Hardened people who were shaped by generations of turmoil. Survive and rebuild. To live any other way would lead to madness and despair.

That was, perhaps, why it was so disheartening, so unnerving, so frustrating and frightening to the townsfolk working to rebuild the embassies this early afternoon, when from amidst the suddenly dark clouds, white-hot flame could be seen emanating from the sky... exactly as it had during the attack a few weeks before. Yes, there was some immediate relief when the workers realized it was not falling directly upon their heads. Such relief could not last long however, for while THEY may have been spared, it was immediately apparent that others were not so lucky.

Once again the sound of the wings came first. Once again the dreadful, blinding light followed. Once again, the heat could be felt even by those across Myrkentown. This time the three blasts of fire were punctuated by a deafening, unholy screech.

Yes, the Embassy Row would be spared a reoccurance of destruction. Instead, the fire rained down upon an occupied tavern called the Plowman, the temporary residence of the Thessilanian representatives to Myrken. Its guests were long out of bed; many had left to go about the business of the day. However, the building was hardly empty for this was the height of lunch rush. Unlike the early-morning attack of weeks prior, the street, at mid-day, was hardly empty either.

This time the flame engulfed a building in a far more populated area of town. This time there were masses of people in the streets going about the business of their previously peaceful day. This time the target of the attack was closer to the bustling marketplace. This time, the meetinghouse, with its standing workers trained to deal with such deadly conflagrations, was just that much farther away.

This time blood, fire and chaos spread through the streets.

[Vanidor]

Two men were standing in the stable yard at the rear of The Plowman, their eyes settled upon a covered wagon that had dripped blood upon the cobblestones sometime during it's wait for discovery. One tilted back the wide brim of his brown hat, a hand coming up to scratch at a rather bland and unassuming face. He was dressed like any other worker or stable hand, dirt smudging his face to disguise the lines time had worn into it. His hand moved out, tugging the sheet that covered the hay and exposing the man that lay upon it.

"Baptiste. I would recognize the bells anywhere. It makes the saying true, though, does it not? No matter their power, their gifts. All it takes is simple steel. I like it not, my Duke. I never really cared for the man, but this?" His fingers motioned towards the gruesome wound there upon the neck of the fallen channeler. "Though, I would guess that someone got the drop on him, the poor bastard. Baptiste wasn't a complete fool."

The second man in that stable yard only pursed his lips, gazing down at the corpse once again. A breath released. "I will have word sent along to the othe - ..." And here, he would look upwards. There was... something, resounding in the air. His mismatched eyes scanned the sky, then Rautha raised his hand and pointed. Light illuminated the clouds above them, and gouts of flame hurtled downwards towards them.

The two of them stood dumbstruck as the first blast hit the roof of the tavern, pieces of wood catching alight and being flung upwards and outwards. As the second came hurtling after the first, Burel was pushing Rautha towards the building. "Go! Go! Empty the tavern and rouse the guard!" That second blast rocketed into the building, flame illuminating the building and surroundings once again. Pieces of the roof slammed into street and nearby buildings.

When the third blast struck the building, Burel cast one last look back towards the stables. Horses were screaming their terrifying cry and a part of him urged him to save what he could. But. But. There was the haywain, the sheet atop it catching flame with the blazing fury of the attack. The heat was oppressive. He took his wide hat off of his head and flung it into the flames of the stables, and charged into the inferno of the tavern.

The Sergeant was shouting at those who would hear, pushing at those who would not. The guards stationed within the tavern would do the same, moving now as the Duke stepped into the building and began shouting. A voice that was designed for a battlefield. This surely was that, as much as anything else. There was no hope to save the building. No hope to save the two to either side, as well. But those within? Perhaps. Perhaps.

Another shout would send guards out into the street. To try and clear them of the press of people. To save what they could from the screeching terror and the destruction it would leave in its wake.

[Dulcie]

It was on good advice that Princess Penelope had been told to leave the Broken Dagger. After all there had been a number of reports from various people about the sorts of horrors that one might encounter there. And so she had taken up residence in one of the other taverns in town, one that was located close to the marketplace so that she could shop to her hearts content before she would eventually have to resume her journey to Thessilane. Today had really started no differently.

She was practically a cloud of pink silk skirts sitting in the common room drinking her tea with her handmaidens, chattering away incessantly about whatever shops she was planning on visiting that day. Oh true, she had heard, and even gossiped about the fire at the embassy, but it hadn't involved anyone that she had known personally and therefore it was of little concern to her.

And then it all seemed to happen at once...

The sound was unlike anything she had ever heard before until suddenly the roar of fire seemed to come from above her and there was shrieking and crying surrounding every inch of the thick space around her. Smoke, fire and falling wood seemed to be everywhere, causing a rising level of panic amidst the crowd. She called for her handmaidens but it seemed that already they had fled, their gowns not nearly as restrictive as her own. Terror flooded through the princess, desperately trying to get herself free of her chair and the table which had collapsed upon her skirt, the hem of it already smoldering from an ember which had fallen upon in. Surely someone would help her!

[Vanidor]

Fire was starting to sprinkle down upon the lunch crowd like rain, flaming debris landing upon tables and crashing into the floor. Men were yelling and women screaming in the chaos of the attack. Several were already making their way out of the door that lead to the street. One pair of guards had thrown a table through a window, trying to open up a second rout of escape from the burgeoning blaze, directed to this action by the plain-faced stablehand that had stormed into the building just after the attack began.

The Duke had waded into this confusion, bellowing as he stepped into the building. His eyes swept the tavern, standing back to take stock once these immediate orders were done. Were people moving. Who needed help. There. A gaggle of women hurrying towards the door. He'd spotted them when he had walked into the place, glanced over then counted them and ignored them in order to deal with the reason he had come to The Plowman. Now...

Now he glanced over them once more, counting to make sure. No. One less than he had counted earlier. A veritable cloud of pink skirts, flaming debris. A boot would kick out, the heel catching the table and moving it aside violently.

"Up! Up, by the Gods!" A hand would slide forward, something for the woman to grab onto, where she of a proper mind. "Take my hand, lest you want to burn like the rest of the tavern."

[Dulcie]

Princess Penelope was finding it hard to breathe, the smoke beginning to creep closer into the small space of good air she had left, and already she was coughing and sputtering and tugging helplessly at her trapped skirt, as if it hadn't even occured to her to try to the table. And then amidst the chaos there was a hand and a voice. The first that had come to help her!

Her hand now smudged with the ash and debris would reach to clench on hard to the hand that was being offered towards her. She'd find that her skirt was free and there would be a gasp of relief that was only shortly there after followed by a shriek of terror as another block of burning wood would fall beside her. She'd launch herself forward in attempt to throw herself into the arms of her savior, desperate to get out of the tavern.

[Vanidor]

She'd find that person to be rather solid, odd for a man in such delicious finery really. A coat that was smooth and opulent silk on the surface, but had a strange rippling quality to the touch, like linked metal, beneath that layer of bloody crimson. A beam had fallen and partially blocked their path, just as well as there was still a small stream of people rushing for the exit.

"Hold steady. Move when I tell you." A voice that floated from the chest.

Then a motion of the arm, fingers grasping at a thing at the hip. The rasp of metal against metal and the Duke's sword was free of it's restraining scabbard. There was a flash as the weapon cut through the air, hacking at the offending beam was sliced near in two. Another half-thrust pushed the shards aside.

"Go. Now! Run for the door!" And a push. The way forward, barring more of the building falling on them, was free.

[Dulcie]

The softness of female flesh and silk collide with the solid strength of the man who had pulled her up from the debris. It made her stumble back a step or two, but her tiny weak little hand would try to catch a handful of that slippery shimmering fabric that he was wearing. Through the cloud of smoke his words found their way to her ears and she only whimpered a little sound of agreement.

Tear filled blue eyes stared out around the room around her, only safe for this second. To her own credit she at least knew enough to gain her bearings so that she knew where the exit was. If his command hadn't been enough the push threw her forward just enough that she managed to remember how to make her feet work. In a flurry of pink, kicking up a cloud of ash around her Princess Penelope made her dash for the door.

[Vanidor]

He watched the rosy departure for a half second, before eyes darted around, looking to see if anyone else was stuck within the confines of the burning building. The quickest of inspections said no, but the heat from the fire was making the room hazy, needless to say the smoke was obscuring his vision of the rest of the common.

"Last chance, by Adon's Beard!" His voice would cut out across the horrible groan of a building preparing for collapse. A hand raised now as if it could ward away the worst of the heat and fire, allowing one last look about. He could not bring himself to leave if there was one more person, a single soul he could perhaps assist in leaving the blazing inferno.

"My Lord! Get out of there, the building is ready to come down!" He heard the call, but stood another moment longer, until a great creaking groan shuddered through the Plowman. Burel grimaced, sweat trailing lines down his soot-smeared face. The sword was sheathed abruptly, and the Duke was turning and running for the exit himself. It was time to vacate before it all came tumbling down.

[Dulcie]

The building creaking around her elicited a shriek of terror from Princess Penelope. So selfish that she didn't even glance over her shoulder to make sure that her rescuer was alright. She did however hear the voices from outside which just made her run faster. She hadn't even known that she could move that fast!

Instead of fleeing brilliantly out of the blazing tavern she caught her toe on a piece of debris at the threshold. Oh she would make it out alright, but in one big rolling motion of pale skin, pink skirts and dirt stained petticoats all tumbling in one big ball until she comes to a rest, her hair completely disheveled, her dress half burnt and her ash laden cheeks streaked with tears. She looked up for her attendants and much to her dismay they had all seemed to have cleared the area, abandoning her to the flames of the tavern. How rude indeed!

[Vanidor]

The building truly was about to come stumbling down upon his head, and all Burel could do for a space of seconds was gaze upwards and consider the why of this. This was twice now that an establishment of his had come under assault, and he was certain that he knew the reason behind it. Reinstadler certainly had balls. He could almost admire that. Sometimes one had to be rather ruthless in order to achieve a wanted goal.

He had been, during the opening days of the still ensuing war with Derry. This man was as well. So be it. If he managed to survive, that is. For he blinked again as men were screaming his name from beyond the door of the tavern. His sword found its way into the scabbard at the hip, just as the Duke started walking forward towards that exit. As if there was very little care in the world regarding the heat and broken wood. Like there was something... vaguely mystical about the man, the way the building almost seemed to wait for him to make his full escape, before crashing down in a billow of heat and soot and smoke.

The wash of flames and debris almost seemed to sweep -around- Burel in a vague circle, before seething back into the remains of the tavern. "Rautha." He said it in a soft voice, though it was enough for the man to step near. He could hear the cry of the Constables, now that he was outside the building. Of the fire-wardens who were stationed within the city. "Find the Graf and let him know that if he truly wishes war, then so be it." The man simply nodded, turned, and hurried off into the smoke.

His eyes darted left and right, catching sight of pink silks once again. A pursing of his lips, and a nod of his head sent a guard to assist the noblewoman, ah, then here. More cries from beyond the whelming heat of the fire. Burel returned his gaze to the fire and stared at the blaze, waiting for the first of the water-laden buckets to come his direction...

[Dulcie]

Swept away from her savior she went, her watery blue eyes looking back over the shoulder of her crispy pink gown to take a last look at the man who had rescued her. She made note of his face and the name that she heard being passed around by the guards who were helping her. She would have to remember to send him something nice at her Father's expense for treating her so kindly. Still flustered and upset however she leaned on the guard who had been given the daunting task of tending to the lady, blathering on to him about how horrible the ordeal was for her and how lucky she was to be rescued. The poor guard certainly got an earful.