A Storm of Flame and Ash

[Reinstadler]

Despite how hard it was to climb the stairs with one lame leg, Kit spent most of his time lounging about in the Darkenhold watchtowers. Yes, part of that was because of the difficulty of the climb. Once the red-headed teenager dragged himself all the way up, he didn't really look forward to heading back down again. That didn't explain why he went up in the first place, though. He liked looking out at the landscape. It reminded him of home. Sure, it was more hilly than his parents' vineyards, but both were lush. He always had liked this time of year. Who didn't like the harvest? It had meant more work but more celebrations as well.

That was all in the past, though. Now he lived here, a lonely refugee from Derry with a bedridden father and a leg that would never fully heal. When war came to his homeland, when proper trade was disrupted, things became hard. His father was a stubborn man and refused to be bullied by the black market thugs who were moving local wine across territorial borders, paying only a pittance of what they were worth. Instead, taking his son and a wagon full of the family product, he decided to make for the Myrken border and sell it himself. It would have been a difficult journey in the best of conditions and became downright disastrous when those selfsame thugs attacked him along the way. They made it over the border, but hardly unscathed. Given that the father was too severely injured to survive the trip back home, it wasn't long before they ended up amongst other refugees here at Darkenhold.

There were other refugees here, but most of them were not from Derry. They spoke strange languages and wore strange clothes. Everyone at the fortress worked together and it was an open and accommodating place, but that didn't help Kit's feeling of alienation. This was a strange place and he often felt alone, especially now that there were various Thessilanians residing there. He couldn't forget what their occupation had caused. At least the person manning the watchtower could speak his language. The ability to communicate with as many people as possible was key for a watchman.

On this late afternoon, Kit was leaning up against the stone railing, using it to support his weight and give his leg a rest. The sun was setting and the view was nice as ever. Myrken Wood was getting colder and while Darkenhold had been brilliantly designed by Syl Duquesne to maximize warmth, the teenager and the watchmen were both outside and high up. Huddled up in the warm clothes the residents here had provided for him, Kit gazed off, lost in his own thoughts. He would have been content to spend the next hour or two like this were it not for grunt of the watchman. The man, a refugee from one of those lands with one of those strange languages, had found himself in this position mainly due to the unlikely combination of excellent eyesight and an ear for languages. He was gruff but didn't mind the teenager's company, so long as the boy kept his mouth shut, and he usually did. Now though, a second opinion would be highly appreciated. "Did it just get darker, boy?"

Kit looked up. Black clouds. They weren't there before, were they? It was as if they had appeared out of nowhere directly over Darkenhold. "Those weren't there." He spoke softly, as much to himself as the questioning man. It sounded crazy, but both of them seemed to be in agreement. Still, strange weather wasn't exactly cause for alarm. On the other hand, the terrifying shriek that followed was. And an alarm was sounded immediately in response to it. Unfortunately, there wasn't much time to do much of anything else, including navigating the relatively tight opening back into the fortress... not in time at least. Within seconds of that initial shriek, the fire began to rain down upon Darkenhold in massive, merciless bursts, just as in town in the months previous.

This was not an embassy house. This was not a tavern. This was not just wood and thatch and straw. Darkenhold was imported stone. Darkenhold was meant to hold out such horrors. One of its three creators had good reason to create something that would hold back dragonfire. Some exposed wooden areas were set aflame. Some windows that were directly hit by the bursts of flame were shattered. Anyone outside would be in grave peril, but as the smoke cleared, Darkenhold remained. Moreover, Darkenhold began to stir.

There were procedures for such an attack. People with crossbows and rudimentary training began to rush towards designated positions. Others gathered water and went to put of the flames. If possible, those injured in the initial blasts were gathered and carried to safety. These people were survivors. They would not take an attack on their home lightly.

They had good reason not to. First the Thessalinian embassy was razed. Then, it was a tavern holding members of the Thessilanian staff. Now, the residence that sheltered Duke Burel in Myrken, perhaps the last place that would take him in after all that has happened, was targeted. This time, the dragon intended to finish the job once and for all. Its massive red frame swooped down out of the black clouds, hovering over Darkenhold as it prepared to unleash another blast of fire and destruction.

[Vanidor]

He had almost been waiting for this moment, to tell the truth. It was not hard to miss the message that Reinstadler had painted with this fire-breathing fiend. It was folly, however, to bring harm to the people of Myrken simply for his own aggrandizement. For his own elevation? For what? It was likely that the court in Trae Kelsa only gave a lips worth of true concern for the rebellious Burel. Thessilane had never worn the bonds of servitude to other nations well, for that matter. They'd always been a moderately quarrelsome people, up and down the annals of history.

No. The Crown had other things to worry about than the Duke. But that man had something to worry about now, did he not? For as the first flames were licking at the walls of Darkenhold, and screams and shouts rose into the air, Burel would be striding out of the main gates as gloriously as ever. Hair braided and pulled back out of his face, grey streaks weaving through the bindings. He was buttoning up his traditional Thesil-style coat as he moved, allowing the fury of the dragon's flames to bring light to the brilliant thread of gold woven into crimson silk.

The hawk was resplendent upon his breast, bright from the flaring of light. Another glance upwards, and Burel took another moment to fasten an earring to each ear, casually looking upwards as if this drake was nothing more than a nuisance. This done, he increased his pace to carry him towards the main gates of the stronghold, hand falling down to steady the sway of his sword. If this dragon wanted to play with Burel, then by damn Burel would play with it....

He hoped the dragon was up to the task.

[Glenn]

One attack could be random. Two attacks could mean any number of things. Three attacks? This was a pattern. An undeniable one. So as fire rained down upon the one place that Glenn Burnie truly felt at home, it was rather easy to figure out just who was indirectly responsible. Youthful confidence had allowed him to be one of Burel's more outspoken critics in Myrken Wood, but the mapmaker did not doubt for a moment the Duke's bravery.

In fact, he was counting upon it, or at least upon the man's arrogance. Burel would find some way to draw fire either to the most easily defended part of Darkenhold or draw it outside altogether. That would allow at least a few precious minutes for Burnie to sneak out one of the multitude of secret exits within the fortress and ride hard towards town. Were the Dragon not otherwise occupied it would be almost impossible to get away. On one level, it loathed Glenn to leave these people that he had spent more than half of the last two years with, but they were relatively safe for now. Darkenhold was a difficult egg to crack.

The longer the attack continued, the more chance there was of people getting hurt. They could fight back, even from a pinned down position but it would take time. The longer Burel was in immediate danger, the more likely it was that Channelers would arrive to intervene. The idea of that sort of power clashing with a dragon in the heart of Myrken sent chills down Burnie's spine.

He would work his way through the secret tunnels, taking but one other man with him. Upon reaching the stables, Glenn would ride for town to mobilize what forces he could. The other man would ride with the same goal to the Governor's farm. Though it might have a high cost, there was no doubt that Cinnabar would be uniquely effective against a dragon.

So it was that he was ready to ride just as Burel had reached the main gate. There was Glenn's distraction. He had every intention of making the most of it.

[Vanidor]

"Come to me, beast! Wyrmling! Seek your oblivion wretched creature!" His voice thundered across the courtyard and up into the sky. Perhaps the challenge could even be heard in Myrken, not so far away indeed. He had reached that front gate, a hand waving away the guardsmen than served the gates of Darkenhold. An imperious gesture that ordered them to seek protection within the very walls of the place.

His hands were still at his sides, as if the man were unimpressed with the beasts baleful blasts and horrific nature. Some said that the Duke knew no fear. The truth was that he knew how to master it. To funnel it into something more productive. Truth was. The man hated lizards, and through extension, dragons. Not as much as orcs, that much could be said, but near enough. But here. He would project an aura of fearlessness, mismatched eyes sweeping the sky in search of this lamentable obstruction to his greater plans.

"Here! Daemon of the skies! I challenge you to seek your courage and face me, pathetic beast!" Out into the open, arms spread out to either direction. "Come, and bother Myrken no more! Let us dance!"

[Reinstadler]

The clouds were of the creature's own creation, and they had kept it well hidden from the eyes of Myrkenites up until now. However, here was its target, in all of his arrogance and glory. The time for hiding was long past. It was time to end this, once and for all. It was large, less of a wyrmling and more of a wyrm. Oh, there was still some growing left to do; the dragon was still relatively young for its kind. That did not make it any less formidable or foreboding. A wingspan of forty-five yards kept it airborne, where it was contorted in a defensive manner, its dull yellow-orange underbelly protected by powerful hind legs and smaller front legs with razor sharp talons upon both. The rest of its body was covered with a complex mosaic of vibrant red scales.

Beady black eyes looked down upon this human. This dragon ate little hawks when it could not find more worthwhile prey. There was no reason to sink down to the little hawk's level. There was no reason to talk to it. There was no reason to meet it head on. Human concepts such as honor and fairness held little sway over the beast. There was merely what it wanted and how it would get it. It wanted what was promised to it, and the way to get it would be through the death of this little pink fool. The dragon could swoop down and swallow the Duke, crushing him with the slightest of effort, with one opening and closing of its mighty mandible. For a dragon such as this, though, there was never a reason to eat raw food. There was not even a moment of hesitation, not even a moment of judging this man or taking in his measure before the flame rained down once more, this time in a concentrated burst all focused upon Burel.

[Dulcie]

It was a curious thing how Princess Penelope had ended up at Darkenhold, but considering the damage that had been done to her former place of residence it made a certain amount of sense. The truth was the young woman was well connected with the nobility and in turn had managed to gain the payment of a few favors and had been offered a place to stay at what was considered to be one of the most secure places in Myrken before continuing her journey onwards to see her cousin.

She hadn't exactly intended to stay this long, but after the devastating fire she had lost nearly all of her fine things and she certainly couldn't continue on without a complete wardrobe. Still, a few days prior the seamstress had delivered a lovely new silk gown, in the softest shade of pink she had ever seen! It was something to delight over that was for certain and she was just in the middle of admiring it when she began to hear the strange sounds from outside.

She furrowed her little blonde brow and went to her window, opening the shudders to lean out with a her long blonde hair billowing back in the wind as her blue eyes took in the scene of her saviour attempting to vanquish the dragon. For a moment she felt the rush of terror flood through her body before becoming idly, if not momentarily distracted by the rather romantic tales of princesses being rescued from dragons. Perhaps she should stay a moment... if for no other reason than to dote on her rescuer once he's slain the dragon!

[Vanidor]

There was only a slight narrowing of royal eyes as the dragon's cavernous maw yawed open to vomit forth a torrent of fire. The gaze that hardly shifted as the beast above him rained destruction down once again upon Myrken. Upon soil he himself said he would protect. A breath was released at the last moment, expelling all the air from his body as the blast consumed the space the Duke of Thessilane stood within. A great gout of fire and a pyrotechnic display of energies as the ground was torn asunder and flames spilled in all directions.

Within the torrent Burel stood steady, holding his breath as the flames danced around him like a Hel-wrought tornado. The heat was oppressive, causing sweat to form upon his brow and bleed down his face to collect in the high collar of his coat. The brilliant golden thread work flare beautifully as the blaze wreathed around him, then singed into tatters from the heat. The Duke raised his head then, bringing a smoldering gaze upwards to the beast that sought to take his life. Such were the things that a man of great will could accomplish.

Still. He knew the protections woven into the very cloth of his coat, imbued into the gold and silver and gems of his jewelry... It could not withstand this for overlong. And so, whilst smoldering like a charred ember, Burel stepped forward out of the conflagration. The beast would see, now. Singed, but unhurt, it's ducal quarry folded arms and continued to gaze upwards.

"Is this all, wyrmling?" - His voice a bare whisper that he was sure the drake would hear...

[Reinstadler]

For a moment, there was but silence. Then a repeated hissing noise. The dragon seemed to be laughing at the fleshbag's bravado, even though the fool refused the gift of a quick death. Then something caught its eye. A flash of gold. Nothing could draw the eye of this creature quite like that. A woman, hanging her head out when all others in the fortress were doing anything but. The dragon was in its element up in the sky. On the ground or in the water it was not nearly as fast, but here its movements were downright startling.

The woman's head stuck out and the dragon returned the favor, turning away from the Duke and sweeping in, grasping the side of building with a claw and grasping the woman within its deadly jaws. If she did in fact continue to gawk, a short burst of an exhale and one snap of its neck and Burel would find not just flame coming at him, but a woman aflame, a deadly projectile if there ever was one given how high her window had been and the sheer power through which she was flung.

[Dulcie]

Now amidst the many things that Princess Penelope was, no one had ever accused the young woman of being overly brilliant. She was fascinated by the presence of the dragon and while she likely should have been cowering under her bed the display of fire made her gasp in awe. But then all of a sudden the massive beast's attention seemed to come her way.

Like any good princess she shrieked a scream of utter terror and instinct kicked in, making the young woman try to dart back towards her room. She caught the edge of her petticoat on her foot, tripping and stumbling back a moment to dangle over her balcony. Another terrifying scream and then the poor princess would be lost to the world, snapped up in the dragon's jaws. If only she had been blessed with a little more intelligence.

[Carnath-Emory]

[INDENT]One day she might tell this like a tale to some particular child, and she will begin the telling in this way: Once upon a time...

Once upon a time, they charged us with insurrection, with treason because we built our walls well and made secure their mortar. Once, they charged us with revolt, because we wove steel through our glass and dug deep trenches into the earth. But most of all because they did not understand what had brought us to this moment, did not begin to comprehend what had set us upon this endeavour. How could they? All that they knew of war, they'd learned from books.
[/INDENT]

There are procedures for such an attack. When the atmosphere is scorched with flame and the earth below means to shudder itself into dust, there are procedures, and hardly a man long-employed here does not know them well. These are a hardy lot, after all: refugees from amongst the 'r Chyr'laud and Derry-born, accustomed alike to cataclysm; ne'er-do-wells and mercenaries selected from amongst Myrken's own, all well-acquainted with the strange dangers which plague these lands. There are procedures, and they are hardly necessary .. except for in the way that they assign men their places, their duties; their intent is not only to mount a defense, but to eliminate waste.

Efficient minds have shaped this place.

"Burnie," she's inquired of some of the bodies which she's passed in these corridors: with a summoning touch to a shoulder, or sometimes with a snap of the fingers before a distracted face: attend this, such gestures say. Burnie, or in some few cases Arolygwr, a title which her mouth mangles even under simpler circumstances, but what matter of it? In each she's asked Is his location known? and each time the reply has been some quick shake of the head, and a body quickly moving to where it will best accomplish its tasks.

But her destination, when she reaches it, is not the mapmaker's door - and when she sets her knuckles to the wood, it is not the mapmaker's name which she speaks.

[INDENT]They could not imagine that real order had been birthed by such chaotic beginnings. They could not begin to comprehend that Darkenhold was born beneath sunshine on a tavern's worn steps, two girls frowning over paper and charcoal, and laughing sometimes as well. How would they shape it? What would they name it? There was so much laughter, and who could imagine this that was not there to see? Nor that it was on quieter nights that visions were refined, imagination reined in by numbers and rulings and well-measured lines, and a hundred cunning suggestions to compliment the militancy of sisters. Accompanied by heavy snowfall and warmed wine they worked, and knowing all along that in truth, Darkenhold had been born long before they set its name upon a page. Born in the explosive shattering of stone and marble; in the blistering gouge of chains through flesh. Born in the flutter of a dragon's wings...[/INDENT]

Auburn hair, when that door's opened just a crack. Auburn hair, smoothly confined, and eyes that cannot hide their worry. There is some small dignity to the woman's bearing that the swordswoman's always liked, and a name which she's never pronounced.

"Tsoricha -"

No. Not quite. And it hardly matters.

"Yourself, the young sera - we move now, yes?"

And so they do: through carpeted corridors and amongst torch-lit stone as well, and between bodies always in motion, and if any find it strange that the swordswoman will escort this pair personally they hold their tongues for now. Sideways sometimes to fit between one militant shape or another, and downwards; always downwards, the small girl with an arm wrapped tight about a glossy-haired doll, and the eyes of Ulma Csoriza too occupied with other matters to notice the silvery sweat that glitters upon their escort's skin.

"We do not panic, mn?" In the midst of it all, when a shriek was half-heard and the shattering of glass as well; when fire bathed the walls and all the world seemed at war. This, with an edge of mild smile tilted back towards the pair, a solemn reassurance delivered with some slight lift of the chin. "We do not never move in fright - but only quickly now, and quietly too, you see?" And so they do, and so they have: down narrow staircases which they share with other hurrying shapes, and into the depths of this stronghold where the air's grown cooler and damp, damp..

There are faces gathered here already: kitchen staff, grounds staff, a dozen and more who were not equipped to fight unless the need were mortally grave. And another as well, who's shoulder she's seized in a good clasp of her hand; who's ear she's leaned towards, to deliver a quickly-murmured instruction: that these two are to be kept here, kept unless it seems that somehow the stronghold may fall, and then - A domicile is named, far distant, and this man frowns but he does not argue. My place is not with you, she explains - to him, unnecessarily; to the pair that she's entrusted into his care. My place is - and then there are no more words left in her, and so she must leave them with that. That, and - on some sudden impulse - a close, warm clasp of the child's small hand.



When she emerges into the upper corridors, it's with a body that gleams with firelit steel.

[Cinnabar]

The Calomel farm is quiet, for the most part, the bustle of the harvest having given way to the patient wait for Spring. Animals still need tending, but most of the fields and trees are bare.

This pastoral calm is broken by the tumultuous arrival of the messenger; word is sent to the master of the estate, who listens with concern to the breathless news before nodding and giving orders to those farmhands who'd crowded round to listen. One runs off to the stables to ready a horse, another while the Governor hastens to don a Constabulary helm and breastplate kept at his home for just such an emergency. A thick woolen overcoat wards off the winter chill, and then he is ready.

Others begin gathering what supplies might be needed in the aftermath - healing salves and bandages, blankets and provisions for the succour of the survivors. No doubt Darkenhold is a formidable redoubt built to withstand attacks such as these, but nothing is certain, especially not in Myrken Wood, and so it is habit to hope for the best while preparing for the very worst.

By the time Cinnabar descends the manor steps a horse is saddled and waiting for him, and from there it is but a frantic ride to besieged Darkenhold.

[Vanidor]

Mismatched eyes watched the blazing pinkish ball that hurtled through the air and towards the locale in which he had planted himself. He understood the gesture in which this was meant. On one hand, Burel could do the proper and right thing. The chivalric thing. Which was to attempt a rescue of the burning damsel in distress. Then there was the tactically right thing, which would be to step aside and allow the poor woman to thunder into the ground and leave him free to continue this inane struggle with the drake.

It was too bad he could not do both, eh? Be like Kerrak, using his mind-bending abilities to keep the woman and himself safe at the same time. Of course, all knew where that had led. Madness. Destruction. Death. A bit more madness. That sort of thing. But here, all that Burel had was but a little bit of skill and the deowmer that had been laced into the very fabric of his clothing and smelted into the glistening jewels that graced his body.

And so, the projectile made of flesh and petticoats was still hurtling in his direction. A thought flickered across his mind, the eldritch energies implanted into his ornamentation flashing back into life. He would, of course, have to snatch the blazing woman from the sky. Not to catch, mind, but to... urge her on her way in a more fitting manner than straight into the earth. It was something like skipping a rock across the surface of a lake. If the rock were made of burning cloth and skin, and the water dangerous earth.

The only real hope that the Princess had in the matter of survival, was that Burel would transfer a bit of his own physical protection to her as contact was made. A heavy ring yanked from a finger and tucked into the blazing folds of her skirts might... might... continue to work long enough for her to survive her assault with the earth. The Duke just hoped that his own wardings would continue to hold long enough for this contest to finish.

[Glenn]

It was hard not to feel like a coward. Upon arriving to Myrken Wood, Glenn Burnie possessed an incredibly healthy sense of self-preservation. There was good reason for it. He had been forced to travel from one doomed place to the next, escaping through preternatural means outside his control right before the end came each and every time. It had taught him to duck and cover and run.

In his first few weeks in Myrken, he leapt out a window to escape the Fiend's merest presence. He had befriended a bodyguard, a politician, and a healer. He had packed his meager possessions when Zayken declared war. Yet he did not leave. He remained and Myrken changed him as it changes all who stay within its boundaries for any length of time.

These days, he was far more a fool than a coward. He wasn't a hero. That word made him feel a little sick to his stomach. He would never be one of those. Everything he did was out of a sense of self-interest, if not that old faded sense of self-preservation. He wanted to keep what was his, his home... Myrken, most of all.

So it was to Town that he rode now. It made sense. What else could have he done at Darkenhold? Tried to reason with the dragon? Been drafted onto escort duty by Ariane? Taken up a crossbow and accomplished nothing? He had tried to find information about the dragon in the weeks between attacks but there wasn't much to go on, not much that wasn't instantly obvious and there had been so much else going on. All he could do now was try to get as much help as he could for Darkenhold. That didn't change the fact that he had left the place when it was under siege. He had a reason for everything but it didn't always make things easier.

So here he was, bursting through the gates. The Constables were already preparing for a potential attack on the town itself. While Darkenhold was relatively far away, the fire was coming from the sky and that, at least, could be seen from town. Burnie rode straight on to the Constabulary, though he was hardly optimistic. He had a basic understanding about what to expect. Myrken's forces were extremely ill-suited to deal with a threat like this. The defensive capabilities of town had been built up with onagers and the like to try to shoot the creature out of the sky, but these were not the sort of things that could be moved quickly.

It was therefore with great frustration that Glenn left the Constabulary offices. Official help would be sent, but it would be slight and with recovery in mind. Keeping the town fully protected was most important, given the fact the Dragon had made quick attacks up until now and how little they could do offensively on short notice. However, word was sent around town, to Niall, to Bloodmoon, to Demonsbane, to the remaining knights, to those who were the heroes the town, strange or flawed as they were. Burnie was convinced that the Dragon meant to linger this time, meant to get the job done. Darkenhold was built to withstand; it could not be damaged so thoroughly, so quickly. So when he rode back, right into the midst of the danger, he hoped it would be with others who could help not far behind him.

[channe]

A pink ball of human flame, a dragon, and the Duke of Thessilane.

Did any of them notice the small group of seriously amused riders -- a half-dozen, no more -- at the edge of the forest?

"Is this... normal, Captain?" There was very little to difference him from the others, save a slight golden braid on his shoulders and down the edge of his uniform coat -- a golden band at his neck, and ten golden rings on his fingers, thin and easy to manage in a fight. Long brown hair tied back, he spoke with someone who knew this territory very well.

The woman -- black hair tied back, scarred neck, a rapier at her waist, gloves on her hands -- betrayed a strange whitish pallor even in the sunlight, and grey-black eyes that had lost much of their color, except when she turned her head a certain way. "Yes, sir."

"Perhaps we should assist the dragon," he said, a wry tone to his voice.

"I don't think that's wise, my lord," the woman said. "This is not why we're here. We've wasted enough time already, and should be on our way. Darkenhold can take care of itself, and Burel isn't --"

But the group's commander was obviously entranced. "We've been making excellent time, Agnieszka. I think this is simply because you'd rather not stay within the bounds of Myrken Wood any longer than you have to. This is too delicious to ignore. Thessilane? A stronghold of known traitors?"

"Constantine --"

He lifted his index finger to his mouth. "Oh, come, Captain. That part of your life is over, and whatever the good people of Myrken Wood did or did not do for you, the reason you are here at all was the amusement of a Thessilanean or two, was it not? So let us have our amusement at his expense, shall we not? It might even help our cause. Forward!"

He rode forward with the men; the woman stayed behind, her mouth a sour twist. "So I'm for your amusement now, sir? Oh, very funny, sir, very funny."

"I ask one thing," he said, turning on his horse. "That is to remember who helped you when you were in that place."

"I'll never forget," she whispered.

They rode forward, a new faction in a very strange fight.

[Jirai]

It really was astonishingly simple.

All it took was one word.

Dragon.

That one word, and the scarred girl actually paid attention to the constable who had previously been annoying her merely by existing. That one word, and she was asking him to repeat the message he had been sent with. That one word, and the girl with the tattooed hands was heading to the scene, intent on finding out for herself what was going on.