Burning Man: Before the Fire

Silkfield 


 * The main track of the Seamel Road intersects the wide, wagon wheel-rutted Silkfield Road at this crossroads commons that has been home to the hard-working fieldmasters and horsetamers of House Seamel for at least six centuries.


 * Buildings clustered around the crossroads include a True Light temple, a smithy's shop, a general mercantile, the Sprouting Keg tavern, and the local constabulary - where Silkfield's noble-designate serves as magistrate and dispute arbitrator.


 * It is a cold night. A steady gentle breeze stirs over the land. The sky is filled by dark, low clouds. The following of the six moons are visible in the sky: Herald (blue/waxing), Serpent's Eye (violet/waning), Torch I (gray/waxing).

A burgundy blaze can be seen in the sky to the west, curving around high above the city and heading towards the north.

"Or, my lord, one can be a bard and practice having a calling at the same time as being completely lost." He smiles. "I do that all the - oh dear..."

Varal growls, looking up. "Well, perhaps our friend is still out and about." He points a finger towards the west, before noticing that Taran has also noticed. He turns to his retains. "Bows at ready." There's a clatter. "Let's hope he doesn't come here looking for a fight."

"North," says Taran, watching the blaze but heading back for the gate. "Always north! And then he turns up anywhere - where can he be going?" Those long legs do cover ground quickly.

"Light shine upon me," Varal curses, following after Taran. He motions for the five to follow.

A stableboy leads Ablaze out from the stables and around to the front, handing the reins to Taran.

Varal throws a bag of imperials to one of his men. "God fine me a horse, and borrow some for yourselves," he orders, and within minutes a horse is brought to him. He mounts it, and wheels around to follow Taran.

A stableboy leads Fallacy - Shire out from the stables and around to the front, handing the reins to Varal. Varal mounts Fallacy - Shire and settles into the saddle.

Taran quickly gets to his own rather fat horse, climbing into the saddle with the ease of a man who practically lives there anyway. "North we go," he says, and a twitch of the heels sends Ablaze into a gallop.

Silkfield Road


 * The rutted dirt thoroughfare known as Silkfield Road angles north from the crossroads, past fields that grow blue-green grass for hay, as well as stalks of corn (whose husks give this area its designation as Silkfield), amber waves of wheat and swaying stands of barley.


 * Farmsteads can be seen atop hills east and west of the road, overlooking their crops.


 * It is a cold night. The air is stagnant, not stirring with the slightest breeze. A light rain pours from the heavens. The following of the six moons are visible in the sky: Herald (blue/waxing), Serpent's Eye (violet/waning), Torch I (gray/waxing).

Varal snaps the reigns, sending Fallacy into a gallop north. A cloud of dust flows behind him, and he barely overtakes Taran in his haste. Flanking the bard and the noble are the five Mikin retainers on borrowed steeds.

At the site of the burned house, a small burgundy fire can be seen from afar, casting a bloody glow on the low-hanging clouds.

Taran stares up at the reddened sky. "This is looking very unpleasant," Taran murmurs, and bends low over his horse's neck to keep up with Varal's men. Nervous? Just a touch, yes.

Fallacy continues to race down the road, and Varal corrects the course to point him towards the house. He looks over his shoulder, "Be ready!" he shouts at his men, and then gives Taran a reassuring smile that looks ever-so-forced.

The flame doesn't seem to flinch, though as the two come closer it becomes obvious that the figure is on bended knees, hands down, head lowered. And still quite on fire.

Taran reins in as he gets nearer - for some reason even a horse named Ablaze isn't too fond of fire up close. He doesn't speak, but it's not hard to see why - the bard is quite at a loss for words, dismounting and taking the reins in his hands.

Varal pulls his horse to a stop once he's within bowshot. He waits for his retainers to do the same. "Spread out," he orders, "Shoot him if he even so much as twitches. Don't take risks." The five nod, and bowstrings squeak as arrows are notched. They slowly begin to encircle Riditt. However, the Mikin begins to approach the burning man. And, for the time being, he doesn't reach for his sword.

The figure seems to be murmuring something softly under his breath, his back shaking. A prayer? A curse? It's hard to tell from this distance.

Taran approaches with great care, pitching his voice to carry without being commanding. "What has happened here?"

Varal holds up a hand, telling his men to remain calm. Eventually, the stop encircling and remain in position - bows still ready at the first sign of danger. The Mikin continues to walk slowly towards the burning man, allowing Taran to do the talking.

Riditt looks up suddenly as he is addressed, the whites of his eyes being overtaken by lightning bolt-marks of red veins, the edges of his eyes puffy. "None of your concern," he hisses chokingly, waving his arm like a drunk looking for a wall to hold himself up. "Leave me alone."

"You are in pain," says Taran, in a tone that says he's well aware he's pointing out the obvious, that is yet not unkind. "A healer has died. People see the fire in the sky and are afraid. And I am a bard; the tale is my concern. As are you, if you would believe it."

The Mikin opens his mouth, then closes it. Varal has no need to speak, as Taran is doing a particularly adequate job without antagonizing the fire-wielding individual before them. Nevertheless, he continues to approach at a slow pace.

"You have your tale," Riditt growls gutterally, staccato. "A very good healer has died. I am on fire. It hurts. A lot. You could have pieced that together without interrupting my solitude. You can do nothing to help me or her. We're both done for. So leave me with my thoughts." He glances over at Varal and his circling guards wordlessly.

"...How did you come to this?" asks Taran carefully. "There are other healers. Perhaps I can tell you where to go." He looks about at the flaming wreckage. "Provided this does not happen again."

Varal stops and crosses his arms, glaring at the individual. He still sees little reason to speak. He tilts his head slightly, looking over the flames with interest.

The blazing figure lowers his head and shakes it. "No one can help me," he states flatly. "You, I could help very much someday," he says, pointing with a shaking arm at Taren before turning to look at Varal. "But you, you I'll never be able to look at without seeing Alieron Mikin. And for Light's sake, call off your dogs. There has been enough death. You simply cannot defeat me. If I wanted you dead, you'd have been dead during our last encounter."

"What happened here?" Taran repeats with gentle insistence. "This burning, the healer's death. Did you wake here?" He shakes his head. "You can help no one if you die soon; I am not on fire, so I think you are perhaps the priority. And this place." He considers. "North...I think your answer would be north, yes."

Varal's men seem nervous, ready to put away their bows. However, the 'houndmaster' reacts differently. The name Alieron widens his eyes and flushes him with anger, same as it did before. The Mikin spits to the side and snarls at the suffering mage. He spits a second time, then points at the man. "How dare you?! He was a great man who made a difficult choice," Varal responds. "You are naught but scum in comparison." Growling, he spins around and begins to walk away from Riditt. He stops, looking over his shoulder. "Leave Fastheld. If I see you again, *someone* will die." The noble seems confident as to who that someone will be as he approaches the horse.

Riditt blows a long breath out of his nose as he glares at Taren. "You ask too many questions," he says with irritation, moving to rise to his feet. He turns his gaze towards Varal, eyes narrowing, but saying nothing.

Taran shrugs. "How else can I try to prevent a second such event?" he asks, relaxing a bit. "I would not wish to send you to a healer only to have that one also be scorched, you see. I have basic medicines with me, but nothing that you would need." Varal he lets retreat without comment, though he does wince a bit at the overt anger.

Varal slowly mount his horse. From Fallacy's back, he glares at the mage. His minions carefully retreat to their borrowed mounts, trying to exit without getting themselves killed. Varal, on the other hand, isn't quite so interested in self-preservation. "Leave this land, or I will hunt you from one side of the Aegis to the other. The Light will prevail," he shouts as he begins to wheel his horse south, towards Silkfield.

Riditt waves a dismissive hand at Varal, "Pretender," he hisses after the man, raising his arm for a moment before lowering it again. He turns his back on the Mikin, packing towards the north. "There will be no second burning, on that I give my word," he says over his shoulder. "I am not normally that foolish."

Varal, Fallacy, and the five Mikin retainers disappear towards the south.

Taran waits till they are quite out of earshot before saying, "Sahna Nillu will protect any mage that comes to her, or so she has said," he says. "And there is an alchemist there, and an apothecary...but I think you will have to go farther north." He makes a rueful face. "I suspect you came because you needed a mage-healer. I would send you to Chaori, could I but find her these days; she has retreated to hermitage. But you would know Ester Shardwood, I think?"

Riditt narrows his eyes, turning around. "How in the light do you know this...bard?" he asks, frowning.

"...Because I listen," said bard replies. "Bula's name I have heard before; when I came and heard she was a healer..." he shrugs. "A guess. But I have enough herb-craft to know *I* could not hope to treat you. Sahna has made her Sweetwater a haven for mages; you may find one there who can help, but you will have to take the mark or lord Varal is right about the state of your welcome. I have heard mistress Shardwood can heal - but she is not in Fastheld."

Riditt positively scowls, wrinkles that shouldn't be on a face that young forming like water-parched earth splitting open. "A haven for mages, and her kin the Regent hasn't struck her down? What kind of deal did she make?" he asks, his words dripping with venom, his fists clenched.

"The truce is quite uneasy," Taran replies. "But deals...that I know not. Only that lady Sahna is apart from the rest of her house, and so is Sweetwater. That it is a haven for mages...that is not yet so widely known, but it will be."

"Shaded fool!" the sizzling teen blurts out, swinging a fist in the air. A few deep breaths, and then the mage begins pacing towards the north once more. "The way you phrase it, you sound like you aren't a part of her coven. Why?"

Taran tilts his head. "Lady Sahna took the mark," he says. "She thinks and reacts first as a mage. Not a noble, or a Nillu, nor even a woman. It is not a path I wish to follow. I quite enjoy my life as a bard."

"What is this 'mark'?" the mage asks, continuing to walk towards the north.

"Amnesty," says Taran. "The emperor declared amnesty for all mages willing to swear they will use their powers in the service of the Light...or at least of Fastheld. Such a mage must wear a mark - a tattoo on the cheek, for all to see, so all know they are a mage. They can afterwards use their powers as openly as they like, provided they do not harm anyone." He takes the reins of his horse, and walks to keep up. "Of course...you have seen that to be tolerated is not necessarily to be loved. Sahna can, I think, hold Sweetwater by the force of her powers alone, and her noble blood. She breaks no laws."

"So the Emperor has returned from Crown's Refuge? Did he take that commoner as a bride after all?" Riditt asks, his face looking older and older after each answer he receives.

Taran pauses, as if his mind has just taken a left turn down a strange alley, and he blinks a few times. "...Who do you *think* is the emperor?" he asks carefully. "And...just to be quite clear, what year would you call this?"

Riditt frowns even more. "You said it was Greening. That would make this 626. The Regent is Oren Nillu. The emperor is Talus Kahar the fourteenth, but last I knew, he was out in the wilderness rutting it up with a courier."

"Ah," says Taran, the short flat sound that holds the door open for longer phrases. "Actually...it would be Greening of *627*, and the emperor is Zolor Zahir, and there is no Regent." There's no good way to say such things, but the bard's expressive voice gives it a pretty good try. "How did you come to lose so much time?"

Riditt widens his eyes, and the flames whoosh with a greater intensity. "That..." he says, his voice breaking, "Is none of your concern. SHADES!" he screams, and the sound of buzzing can be heard around his person, slowly gaining in intensity.

"...I think that it is," Taran replies, a little wary at the sound of buzzing...and then blinks. "The fire...is tied to your emotions?"

"It is tied to the fact that my body is weak!" Riditt screams, the buzzing building to a crescendo until *blip*, he is no longer there.

Taran looks around as the lad disappears. "Well...if he can *find* Ester..." he says, shaking his head. "Why must mages be so short-tempered?"