The Doom that came to Myrken.

[Cinnabar]

The High Constable picks his way among the rubble and debris with little apparent difficulty despite the poor light; he waits until the other Constables draw near with their lantern before quietly pointing out the details noted. Of especial interest is the imprint of that sword in the remains of the cairn, which he has his men mark well.

"I want an imprint of that. Wax, plaster, whatever can be managed." A nod to Glenn as well. "Anything you can discern of what was taken from this place, keep me informed. " There's a frown, then, and a moment spent pacing to and fro near the entrance of the chamber before he's querying one of the Constables.

"Tell me: am I mistaken, or did he enter here alone?" He looks to the dust in the passageway outside. "Yet... two sets of feet left this place. Look into that, please." There is coldness to his tone, a certain clipped quality bespeaking the tightest of control upon his words, his actions. All this destruction, this madness and death and anguish, and for what? A distraction? A decoy, to draw attention away while the ghoul retrieves something from this cramped cavern? He needs to maintain this control, this cold demeanour, lest his anger at what has been wrought here incite him to furious action. Inappropriate action.

Eventually, though, he looks to Glenn with a nod, and a glance for that book and then a gesture to the passageway; the Constables have things in hand here, and Calomel will send more back to aid them in combing the chamber for further clues.

"Let us step outside, then. Tell me what you can."

[Glenn]

If there were any lingering doubts in the mind of Cinnabar Calomel on where this young mapmaker's sympathies were when it came to Teron, perhaps their talks over the last few days ended them. Perhaps not. The High Constable had far more important things to focus on.

Regardless, Glenn had come to the same conclusion about the purpose of this slaughter during his ride this morning and whether the former Penroll was a victim of Vraal or not, all sympathy must die in the face of this. That did not mean the practical reality of the situation died with it. He was still fairly certain that Teron could not be destroyed through force.

That wasn't the focus now, however. Instead, Glenn showed Cinnabar the books. He compared the copy with pages ripped out by Teron with Deost's complete copy, presenting to Calomel the mythical story of Deliverence, the only weapon of note ever mined here by the ancient people who lived centuries before the current kingdom had been formed. The story said that the blade was created to be given to a holy knight, a weapon to aid him in battles against a demon lord.

This was the ideal time to slip in the book's meager information on the Wilted Rose, the holy knight with such a rose as his symbol who's story predated that of Arak's Ruin. A promise to Quiller had prevented this up until now, but such things were made null and void by the memory of a blade at his throat. It was simple enough to let Calomel assume that he had just come across this information recently.

He ended it with a makeshift worry. "Cinnabar." Familiarity again. Strange, that. "I'm a little worried Ashfiend might go after Seth to get his weapon back. Look at what he did to Ser Malaroth, and he wasn't even the one who took the Fiend's sword in the first place, not like Bloodmoon. Moreover, I'm sure that he knows Seth received that letter from Teddi. He might strike at him through her. Can you have him warned and see to her protection, at least?"

[Cinnabar]

Paused just beyond the waterfall's spray, where the tome will not be immediately ruined by the damp, the information that the mapmaker shares is absorbed in silence. The High Constable merely nods every now and then to show that he understood the facts as they were revealed. The relevant pages are skimmed briefly, the pertinent points noted as the tale of the Ashfiend's history becomes clearer.

Eventually he straightens, rubbing his jaw thoughfully for a time before nodding once.

"If the ghoul has retrieved this blade from the cave, it may be that he no longer has need of his old one. I'll have one of my men pass the warning on to Bloodmoon in any case, though I've little doubt he's already being as vigilant as he can be. The protection I can offer to Teddi is entirely dependent on what she is willing to accept, but I will do what I can." A pause as he thinks things over, tired but unyielding.

"With this new matter, this blade Deliverance and what you tell me of his finding servants to do his will, I fear that things may have moved on from kidnappings and menaces. It's not enough that we follow in his tracks, and go where he has already passed. We need to know his plans, what he intends and where he will strike next." There's a glance towards the town, where indistinct figures move among the haze. His voice is quiet when next he speaks.

"Maybe he will assault Vraal's interests in Myrken. I have... eyes and ears around the place, and I know that he's gathering followers to him, for whatever reason. Be wary of anyone who claims to follow the Violet Dawn. They're his." For a time, the Constable seems immensely tired, old and weary despite his youthful appearance. Then he gathers his composure, and sighs.

"What would you do, Glenn? Warn them of the Ashfiend's wrath? Let them perish, if it frustrates Vraal's plans? They're just townsfolk, desperate and uncertain and seeking some sort of hope or purpose. Sacrifice them, and it might impede Vraal. Save them, and it might foil the Ashfiend. But while Vraal has yet to cause the... to cause anything like this;" A hand waves towards the town, indistinct shapes of houses looming in the valley's mist. "I cannot trust his motives, his agenda. I worry that by opposing the Ashfiend, we protect an even greater evil." He shakes his head, and glances up as more Constables approach from the town with more lanterns, plaster, a bucket or two. He raises a hand to hail them, then, beckoning them over.

"No one is to be allowed near the cave until it's been properly examined. Anyone makes trouble, send them to talk to me. If that's not good enough for them, you've got crossbows." There's a finality in his tone that has the Constables nodding grimly, salutes offered as they pass.

Enough is enough.

[Glenn]

Cinnabar's words brought unvoiced frustration to Glenn. Wasn't this what he was saying before, that Vraal was the real evil, that Vraal was the one who created Teron in the first place? Now that the mapmaker had decided otherwise, here was Cinnabar to argue that original point.

The difference, naturally, was that Glenn was not thinking, so much as feeling. He felt that initial anger towards the Fiend for hurting him for no good reason, for hurting his friends. He then felt sympathy towards Teron and antipathy to Vraal for what the demonic man had done to the once good Penroll. Now, despite his sympathy, there was all this death and for so little reason. Glenn was capable at looking of the bigger picture; he simply was not always willing. Teron had to be stopped.

Frustration, however, quickly gave way to respect and at least a modicum of admiration. Unfortunately, there was little he could offer Cinnabar. "It is.. all we can do right now to fight off the immediate threat and prepare for the longterm one, ser. In short, you can only do your best for all of Myrken." This was Myrken Wood. Here they had to fight evil and suffering in every direction and there were never any easy decisions. For what it was worth, Glenn Burnie had a great deal of faith in the High Constable's best. "If there is nothing else, ser, I should get going. I mean to learn more about Vraal however I can." Perhaps it was time for another foolish chat with the man. He'd also have a nice long talk with Treadwell, try to argue as directly to the Council as he could in the favor of the Constabulary. That didn't bear mentioning any more than his faith in Calomel, however.

[Cinnabar]

A nod from the High Constable, and a wry grin.

"It's all we can do, and we must hope that it is enough. Otherwise, well." His gaze returns to the buildings of Foggy Bottom. "Next time - in a month, a week, tomorrow - this could be Myrkentown." It's a sobering thought, and one which has him shaking his head sharply. "Not yet, though. Not ever, if I have my way. We all do what we must, hm?" Some strange conflict in his tone at those words, somewhere between determination and resignation; all other avenues have failed, so all that can be done is to take the path that remains and follow it with everything you have.

"Keep me appraised of the situation, Glenn. But be careful." Pale gaze returns to the man, and there's a crisp salute offered. "I'll be in touch, no doubt."

[Glenn]

Elliot Brown

Courage, Honor, Wisdom.

This boy had courage in spades. Honor and wisdom he was still working on. Even courage had been hard to find today. It had been a hard week for Elliot Brown, squire of the Shepherd Knights of the Silver Staff. His master had died from wounds suffered during the assault on Snowstill. Alastir Savoy had not awoken in time for Sir Tyroc. He had seen his best friend taken home by his parents, permanently, due to injuries Marc had suffered. This left him under the tutelage of Sir Osric Storth, a good man, an admirable one... maybe even a GREAT man, perhaps too great a man for Elliot. How could anyone live up to the expectations of a man who could not even voice what they were?

There were different sorts of courage. The boy was learning this now. He would GLADLY face down the Fiend with his bare hands if the creature appeared before him. He would fight to the death without remorse or hesitation. To speak the thoughts of a man he barely understood, a GREAT man that he barely understood, in front of those who had seen so much loss... That was the hardest thing young Elliot had ever done. He HAD managed it however, and to the best of his ability. The boy was pledged to the knights and to the virtues they represented. He would know no retreat even in the face of the horrors of despondency and heartbreak.

Now, a short time after the speech, he still suffered the price of such courage. The boy sat against the side of a ruined house, knees up against his chest and arms wrapped around him. He would rise and return to his duties in a few minutes, but for now, Elliot Brown simply sat and stared forward, gazing at nothing at all.

[Wendy]

By midday, a missive will be carried into Foggy Bottom. Attached is a note from the secretary to the Governor, apologizing for the time "these things" take. Her note mentions that Constable Calomel will find complete, official documentation of approval for his request at the Governor's office once he arrives home.

As there is a war building, it is to the girl's dismay that there has been any delay in handling the High Constable's request. An official notice reads:

By Order of the Office of the Governor of Myrken Wood, the Myrkentown Constabulary is hereby granted full jurisdiction over Foggy Bottom, Myrkentown, and all other areas within the borders of Myrken Wood territory; they are thus sanctioned and licensed to carry out their duties within this area, under the wise and unblemished leadership of High Constable Cinnabar Calomel, for protection of its citizens and properties and preservation of the Peace, to the full extent of the privileges under which the Myrkentown Constabulary operates.

Our Governor's seal emblazons this full page of parchment. The Fick girl gives this letter of recognition to an awaiting constable.

[Glenn]

Now, this had not been the easiest decision. Glenn's first thought, the night before had been to go straight to Malaroth. Patience Mayfield, squire of the Grandmaster of the Shepherd Knights of the Silver Staff himself, could not fall under Vraal's sway. It simply could not be allowed. The problem, however, was that at every turn, the knight seemed to ignore Glenn's concern about Vraal. To Malaroth, the Fiend was everything. It was both personal and very, very black and white. Thankfully, there was another option that was not only suitable but quite convenient as well.

Now all he had to do was get past this boy blocking his way. First, a greeting. "Elliot, I'm sorry to hear about Tyroc. He was a good man and I was glad to have known him." A solemn nod to the squire. "I would see Ser Stroth on private business for the Order."

Elliot's eyes flashed. He had been ready to insult the mapmaker and this weirdo of a veiled woman who was walking beside him and then send them both on their way. Why did Glenn had to invoke the name of his former master? There could be no insult after that, even little rudeness. Bitterness could well up, yes, but what good would that do the boy if he couldn't vent it? Finally, a tiny, resigned voice escaped his mouth. "It's serious? I'll have to speak for him, you know."

"Very serious." Glenn nodded. That wasn't the worst gambit he ever had. It didn't hurt that Tyroc actually was a good man. "And about another squire so I'm afraid it'll just have to be the three of us. Trust me, I don't need a reply, just for him to listen."

Grudging and curious was Elliot Brown, but there was no steel in him to argue today, not anymore. He finally nodded and stood aside. At least, as rumor had it, Glenn would be out of their hair soon, for good.

Once inside with the so-called Sir Silent, Glenn would recount what he knew of Vraal, the danger of the bracelets, the probability that he created the Fiend, the evergrowing cult back in town, and everything he had seen the night before. If needed, Rhaena would be there as a witness. Vraal had apparently summoned Patience with a letter. He had certainly preyed upon the sorrow she showed during the funeral and offered her power to combat the Fiend. He would mention his own intervention and how she had finally left on the pretext that they would probably speak again later. "I fear that Ser Malaroth underestimates Vraal as a threat and his venom simply cannot be allowed to infect the knights, especially not through one like Patience." Stroth could not, would not reply, so for Glenn, that would be the end of the conversation. He would nod to the main, even bow to him, and then move on. They had business to take care of today and this was not it. He had done all he could, so far as the knights were concerned.

[SinVraal]

The scent of burned lives, the long shadows etched with sorrow and death into the living ground, and the miasmic air still bearing the pungent scent of misery teased delicate nostrils that flared on either side of a slender, blade-like nose. A slow shake of the head was a poor and half-hearted attempt to ward off the memories that whispered and danced across his vision, tugging him to forgotten lands and myriad places. He allowed himself a measured dose of nostalgia before dismissing the pleasure lest bemusement sour what would prove to be a difficult task.

Constables stood outside the waterfall, his dark eyes noting their weapons that, he considered, the men would be willing to use. Idle fingertips, clad in black leather, tugged the material taught against the hands beneath with his slow approach. One did not, he considered, startle cattle lest they stampede. An, in case they were already skittish, he raised a palm in silent greeting and to indicate his peaceful intentions.

"Greetings," he offered in a purred, resonant voice as he drew nearer. He wore simple white-and-black, his shirt the former and all else the latter, even his soft boots and silk cloak tossed over a slender shoulders. The sleeves, normally restrained from billowing by a pair of bangles wrought into the likeness of silver serpents, ballooned about his pale limbs due to their distinct absence. All the silver he bore was a single band that pulled back ebony waves away from harshly angled features.

The brand upon his brow was an intricate thing, coiled thorns and knotwork, that tended to draw and distract the eye with its subversive, ancient connotations that all men in their hearts knew but, in their minds, had long since forgotten. Beneath his brow he regarded them with eyes hammered from purest darkness.

"I understand you have your orders, but I would like to see what is in there," he languidly points towards the cavern beyond them, behind the spraying waterfall, with a gesture like that of a stretching cat. "And, if necessary, to bargain to do so. I think that your High Constable might be interested in speaking to Sin'Vraal."

[Cinnabar]

The Constables guarding the path to the waterfall eye this newcomer warily, clothing and armour beaded with moisture this close to the falls. Both carry sturdy crossbows, which are calmly readied as the man draws near; not quite aimed at this strange, elegantly-garbed figure, but to rectify that would be the work of an instant. Not skittish, for they've had their training and even some experience; instead, watchful, alert, faces set into expressions of stern vigilance. A glance between them, and one of them - the older of the pair, the shadow of a beard darkening his jaw - shakes his head.

"Can't let you past, sir, not just yet. Like you say, we've got our orders." The other Constable nods slightly in support of this. If the name of Sin'Vraal means anything to them, they make no sign of it. At the mention of bargaining, though, there is a subtle shifting of stance, some discernable disapproval.

"If you've a message for the High Constable, sir, you'd do better to talk to the officers back in town and have them run a message for you. We're not to leave our posts, nor let anyone past." There's an air of finality to that, and it's clear that the branded man is now the focus of their attention.

"I'd advise you to be on your way. Sir."