Burning Man: Flames

Lightholder Tavern 


 * It is said - primarily by the proprietor, a jovial merchant-classer named Solas Creek - that all roads in Fastheld lead to the Lightholder Tavern. On any given night, it's not hard to see why he might justify such a claim.


 * The pub, which started centuries ago as a small refreshment wagon for laborers building Fastheld Keep atop Caryas Hill, sees boisterous crowds filling its rafters with laughter and pipe smoke at all hours of the day and night as travelers make their way through the realm.


 * About three dozen tables are arranged among the polished wooden columns on which hang the wrought-iron lanterns that help give the tavern its name. Solas or one of his assistants can usually be found working behind a wide C-shaped counter, serving mugs of keg-tapped ale to thirsty patrons who stand at the bar.


 * The floor is strewn with amber rushes, except in a circle of about twenty feet in diameter, where the stone fireplace and chimney rise toward the ceiling.

Varal sits at his usual table in the bar, with his usual repast in front of him. And, of course, his usual entourage has made themselves comfortable around the bar. The Mikin scoops up some more venison stew into a spoon, eating it carefully with with the haste of a hungry man.

Taran steps into the tavern, his cloak dark and heavy and damp with rain - all in all a rather bedraggled and tired sight. The green hood looks around the tavern before it's pulled back to reveal the bard's tired face, and the cloak is surrendered to a drying peg with relief as the lanky man makes his way to the bar.

One of the black clad men, looking more like a mercenary than anything else, takes a moment to stand up and walk across the tavern. On the way, we stops by Varal and leans in. None to silently, he notes: "'Oy, M'lord, it's that bard friend of yours,"

The Mikin turns his head, chewing on a piece of bread. "Oh?"

Taran takes a seat at the bar, and requests a glass of mulled wine. "Long-warmed," he says. "As for a child."

Varal swallows the bread, washing it down with water. He motions towards the barkeep. "I'll cover the cost of the wine," he notes, nodding politely to Taran.

Taran looks over at that, in some surprise, and bows. "Thank you, my lord. It has been a very long ride; a mulled wine is easy on a frozen throat." And indeed, the bard's trained tenor hasn't quite its usual smooth clarity.

Varal smirks, then smiles. "Wanted to show some appreciation for the other day. A voice like that ought to be pampered on occasion, and kept from harm." He takes another spoonful of stew.

Taran accepts the wine with a slightly roughened laugh, that smooths out after a few swallows. "Ah, but then who would sing for the guards high on the wall?" he says. "Spring weather is harsh - I was caught in a storm, which so high is not a small problem. But worth it, aye." He nods, and there is a degree of appreciative sincerity there.

Varal waves a dismissive hand. "I'm sure there's a soldier or two with delusions of talent happy to entertain the soldiers," he replies with a genuine smile after downing yet more food. "And practicing would help pass the time."

"Oh, aye, I have many volunteers for a good chorus," Taran replies dryly. "But if I did not go, how would I then see the horizon? There are many things I would not have seen, had I stayed in the dry."

A wave of sadness passes over the Mikin a moment. "Did you have the opportunity to see the towers of Light's Reach? You could see much of the horizon from there, as well. Pity . . . the destruction wrought there."

"I have been to the ruins of Light's Reach," Taran replies, more quietly. "I have ridden through the char of the Mikin wood, as well. I often ride off the main roads, when I am looking for something beyond myself."

Varal quirks an eyebrow. "Indeed? And you haven't stumbled across Light's Watch, mayhap?"

Taran considers this. "Unless it is a bluff, or peak...no," he says. "I do not go near the keeps and kept places; your kindred do not take well to trespassers, and I am only out there for the sake of solitude."

"Well, if you need a place for rest, you have my permission to stay the night. Or several," the Mikin intones. "Pity, though, the ruins and the woods. 'Twas beautiful once. I don't have the heart to chase out some of the peasant squatters, but the bandits have been a constant problem."

Taran smiles a bit wryly. "I am a bard, my lord - no great warrior. Else I would have wormed my way onto that expedition, to see the world beyond Fastheld's walls." He taps his lip, though, thinking. "Empty...there was a monastery, or at least what looked like one..."

"The Blades kick people out from time to time, I believe," Varal notes. "I wish I had gone on the expedition. Better than just sticking around here. I just, well, I don't quite want to run into any wildlings any time soon. Last time was enough..."

Taran blinks. "You have encountered Wildlings?" he asks, curious. "What happened, if I may ask?"

"Surely you've heard of the Siege of Hawk's Aerie? Many years ago now, but there were quite a few then," Varal replies. "I bear the scars of that."

Taran looks rueful. "Ah," he says. "I was thinking of the siege of Eastwatch. There are not quite so many Wildlings now, it seems...still, there are also many places of great beauty in Fastheld."

"Aye, but I was partial to my place of beauty. Light's Watch still offers me peace, though," Varal says sadly. "Granted, I do enjoy coming to Lightholder's It offers me an opportunity to escape, and see civilizaiton."

Taran grins at that. "The center of all," he says. "Though for bustle, the market district holds the trophy." He takes a long swallow from his glass, humming appreciatively. "Where *is* Light's Watch, my lord? I can't seem to place it, in memory."

"It overlooks Light's Reach, or what's left of it. Upon a smaller hill," Varal notes. "Northeast or northwest, I can never remember exactly the cardinal direction."

Taran thinks that over. "...From the hill, I might have seen it," he says. "It is yours?"

Varal nods slowly. "Aye, that is it...and 'tis mine. Not much, but something." He smiles. "Lucky to have it, and lucky it survived the destruction of Light's Reach. 'Twere is a siege and not a monster, I doubt it would be standing."

"A minor blessing that monsters have good aim, then," notes the bard. "There has been much unusual activity in the skies of late; I wonder what it is the expedition-folk have aroused."

"I don't want to know, so long as it doesn't come here," Varal notes quietly. "I prefer to avoid the Shadow when possible, 'tis best that way."

"Indeed," Taran agrees seriously. "But when it comes to find you, t'is better to confront than to run." He tips his glass back, emptying it. "Dragons over Southwatch, balls of screaming flame in the north....*something* is awake, and interested."

As the door opens, it is blatently obvious that the person that enters is burning. Huge patches of burgundy flame cover the blonde, youthful figure, his face heavily scratched, his hair and cloak entangled with bits of thorn and bramble. His eyes are wide, crazed, his motions jerky as he rushes into the tavern. "WHAT MONTH IS IT?" comes a booming voice, seemingly out of place in this young man of probably sixteen.

Varal opens his mouth to respond to Taran, then turns his head. He and the bard at the bar, but probably not for too much longer. The Mikin rises to his feet, ripping off his cloak. He makes a gesture towards the burning man, and five armed men begin moving towards him. "DROP AND ROLL!" Varal shouts in response.

Taran goes to get his own, still-wet cloak. "Mine's been in the weather," he says, grabbing it. "And larger." He moves quickly to drape the huge, damp thing across the burning man. "What on *earth* happened to you?"

Riditt backs up several steps as the men approach, shaking his head. "Ignore this," he says angrily, his pupils nearly dots as he makes an all-encompassing gesture. He narrows his red-limned eyes, his fists clenching tightly and beginning to glow a subtle white in their own right. "It has burned for two days, you will not douse it. Now tell me what month it is. NOW."

Varal's eyes widen at the site of glowing hands. With a ring of metal on metal, a longsword appears in his hands. Five shortswords also appear in the men who move to his side. "Are you Touched? You want to threaten me?" he howls angrily.

Taran's eyes narrow, studying the newcomer intently, but he seems willing enough to pull back his cloak before it gets scorched. "I see no Mark on your cheek, friend," he says evenly. "But your question, tis easy enough to answer. It is the month of Greening, which may be the date on your headstone an ye do not explain yourself quickly."

"Greening! GREENING!" the burning man shrieks. "Seven months! What has happened? WHAT HAS HAPPENED?" The flames burn with even more intensity as he begins to back towards the door, opening it. He glares at Varal, then at his guards. "I don't have time for you now, you little bastard. The grownups are playing now," he hisses in obvious pain.

Varal motions with his head, and his men begin encircling the flaming individual. "Well, you best start explaining yourself. I don't like your kind." He raises his oversized sword into a guard position, glaring. "I'd prefer not to fight, but I'm happy to skewer a threat," he hisses.

"...Bartender," says the bard, quite pleasantly, "Some of your strongest rotgut, if you please..." His eyes have not left the burning man yet.

Riditt takes a few steps out of the open door, and begins to rapidly rise into the night sky. "I told you, I don't have time. I have lost seven months. A second-rate Alieron Mikin is not worth my time." the figure sputters gutterally, the flames tossing brownish-red reflections on the buildings of Lightholder Crossroads.

Taran absently throws his damp cloak across his shoulders, peering out of the open door to watch the flaming man. "I wonder if that's what I saw last night," he muses.

Varal spits to the side, sneering, following after the mage. "You bastard!" he shouts. "How dare you mention his name!!!" The Mikins face begins turning a shade of red bordering on purple as he begins to bellow unintelligible curses at the departing figure.

Riditt continues to soar over Homark's mercantile, gaining speed until he looks almost cometesque, soaring far overhead in the night sky, then towards the north.

Taran shakes his head as the mad mage departs. "Threats do no good against mages in general, my lord," he advises. "Had you had bowmen, that would have been better..." He looks up into the sky, where the mage flew off. "North, again. And so out of control he can't stop burning? Barely seemed to notice it..."

Varal spits a second time, color beginning to fade from his face. He turns towards his men. "Your bows? Where are they?" he growls, then shakes his head and begins to move back into the tavern. "Light burn that bastard's soul," he mutters irritably.

Taran gives Varal an odd look. "Something already was," he points out. "I suppose he would have been terrifying, but I kept wanting to smother the flames." He pauses. "At least until he got insulting about it."

For the third time, Varal spits, as though the bad taste of mage won't leave his mouth. He opens and closes his mouth twice, unsure of what to say. He takes a breath, them finally speaks. "If he hadn't run, I would have killed him."

"...Perhaps not the most strategic choice, my lord," notes the bard gently. "If I were in that one's shoes, I think I'd be looking for someone who could put that fire out."

Varal snorts, sliding his blade back into his baldric. "'Tis simple, dear bard, you don't let him use the fire." There's a clang as Alana's Redemption finds its home back in the baldric. "One clean blow."

"No..." Taran sighs. "He can't apparently put the fire out on his own. He's lost seven months of time. Set aside your distaste a moment and consider - where would you go? What would you seek?"

Varal shakes his head. "Sounds like he's lost his mind. How do you lose seven months?" The Mikin struts towards the bar, his calm seeming much more forced than anything else. "You cannot trust the Touched. 'Tis called Shadow for a reason. There is an inner darkness polluting their souls."

"I knew a woman once," says Taran slowly. "She did not know she was Touched, until things happened she couldn't explain. One of them was being insensible for several months; it was for a little bit quite the mysterious illness." He shrugs. "I am not wise in the ways of Shadow, but I know what I have seen."