Kidnapped!

[Treadwell]

The fireburst proves enough to startle Treadwell into extinguishing his own mystical light, and there he shakes for a few moments. On regaining his composure, he takes a chomp of something to eat and squints at the boy in the darkness.

"It's rather simple, m'boy, mmph mmph," crafty Aloisius mousily squeaks with his elderly pitch. "It requires a belly, first!" He pats his own stomach again with his free hand, then resumes shoveling food away. "The magic has to store up somewhere. Put yourself on a few hundred pounds, and then you'll understand, mmph mmph! It's not a secret I can share, lad."

The old tub groans and continues his lunch. At a point, though, he makes a request. "Something to drink, mmph mmph?" Thus, with his stomach visibly bulging already from the contents of the basket about halfway devoured, he slumps where he rests, reclining there and rubbing his middle.

[Tolleson]

He'll take a look at his own flat nearly caved in stomach with disappointment. But the boy nods exuberantly, distracted by Treadwell's request. Failing for the time to understand the captive / captor roles as he is so enthralled with the chubby, magic man.

Without further instruction the boy turns and bolts for the entrance. He is gone some time, longer than it ought to have taken to simply fetch water from camp. When he does return he simply sets the pitcher near by. "Wouldn' let me have no ale," he seems to be apologizing as he steps away, turning to leave again.

[Treadwell]

Treadwell nods his head sullenly. By the time the boy has returned, he's managed to put away about another fourth of the basket, eating slowly but steadily despite the achey weakness in his limbs and the heated feverishness all through his body. He shakily takes up the water pitcher when it's presented and starts gulping away, pausing only to stop the boy with a croaked request of, "Wait."

Throat wet and appetite dimly renewed, he makes a simple suggestion. "Sit here, boy. You're supposed to be making sure I don't run off, hmm hmm? They wouldn't like it if you left and I poofed away."

Aloisius pats the ground next to his sizeable self, then squirms over what little he can manage as he works on finishing the contents of his lunch.

"Besides, mmph mmph," a swallow of some corn here, "I'm a toymaker. Mmph. . . I love toys and children, mmph mmph. Stay here and talk a bit, eh?"

Afterward, with another gurgling from his already visibly baggy gut, he moves to unbutton his vest and the front of his shirt to give his belly--with its now visible puffy, internal rings of Tubbian flesh still pooching outward but no longer glowing--room to swell and burble; then, he waves again at the spot beside him and continues munching sluggishly away.

[Tolleson]

Stopped dead in his tracks he turned back to face the fat man as floored by his phrase as if he's just revealed a secret, "Can ya poof away?" His voice was low and serious, as low and serious as a six-something year-old could be. Obviously a little worried about the prospect of the already, self admitted magic-wielder pulling disappearing tricks, the boy takes a step back towards Treadwell. Once he's a few paces away he'll crumple in a swift and fluid motion into a neatly cross-legged, little pretzel with full attentions on the toymaker.

"Toys?" The tone was curious, almost as if he had never heard the word before. But all too quickly he followed it up as he crossed his arms rather matter-of-factly, "Well we don' have no toys or chil'ren for eatin'!" Because surely what he loved to do was eat, obviously! He sat before him horking down a basket near half his size of sweets, meats, and all manner of food. It seemed reasonable then that he wanted him to stay to make a dessert of him, if the size of him was any indication of where children went. Had he been standing he may have put more distance between himself and the giant, but he would sit at his post with absolute bravery.

[Treadwell]

"Goodness gracious, boy! I don't eat children." There's a subtle grumpiness to the tired voice alternating between gruff and squeaky. "And I'm not asking for toys, either, mmph mmph. I make them."

Aloisius Treadwell flaps a flabby hand at his rather odd choice of prison warden.

"And I can't rightly poof away, lad. I might be able to roll right out of here if I were put on my side and given a push, hmm hmm, but as for just blinking away?" He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. "I'm rather well rooted in place, hmm hmm."

He wags a finger of that flappy-flabby hand at the metal ball around his foot.

"In fact, at this rate, hmm hmm, I'll be lucky to ever walk again when I'm out of here."

With that, the drowsy, weary fellow slumps back against the wall behind him, folding his hands over his still-exposed belly. He gives a warbly yawwwwn between sniffles and snuffles, then mumbles something to the effect of "Wake me for supper, mmph mmph," as he starts to doze.

[Tolleson]

He still had little grasp on the concept of this toy business, let alone the making of them. As for not eating children, what a relief and at the same time how boring. His crossed arms would loose their defensive and resolute tension. And at the mention of never walking again his you face sported a troubled frown. "Sisser will come an look," his statement was said matter-of-factly as his eyes darted between the round face of the fat man and the shackle.

As the toymaker, who did not eat children, began to doze off the young man slumped instantly, as within moments he'd lost interest in his prisoner entirely. He sat lazily on the floor of the cave and would continue to do so for many hours. Eventually he too fell asleep and it wasn't until several hours past twilight that he'd disappear from the cave entirely. Food was brought for dinner, but the portions this time were only a regular man's and not the Treadwell portions he had been generously served prior.

The boy may have come in and out, someone to manage any mess, but a constant guard would not keep watch for several days. Then finally, a brown-haired man with illusion spells wearing thin pulled back the cloth that covered the entrance way of the cave. His hand slid deftly over the fabric and let it free as he slipped inside, he wore the Hat's clothing, though not his signature hat. Following shortly after was an elven girl perhaps a year younger than the rogue himself, the right side of her face irreparably deformed, a burn scar from her eyebrow to her neck.

If Tready had somehow become well and found a way free of the cave it would have been a miracle, but one earned considering his state. "Hello? My fat friend?"

[Treadwell]

To Treadwell, the last few days would have largely disappeared rapidly. Eating reduced rations, being in a cave, wearing a manacle, and dealing with the flu all at once have meant a worsening of the Tubbian leader's condition. He's spent most of his time asleep, grouchy, exhausted, or all three.

When these newcomers arrive, all the seated, sprawled out elderly tub can manage is a squinting of fluffy eyebrows, a weary phtoo of leftover phlegm to one side, and a wearied, singular, "Mmph?" as he tries to recognize his potential saviors.

[Tolleson]

To the average person any sense that there was magic in use was probably lost. Like high pitch noises, the deafening sounds of thoughts in a crowded room, or waves beyond the visual spectrum; so many sensations went unnoticed. Magic by those that knew it could be felt like a hair on one's arm or sometimes, in very particular cases, like a slap to the face.

In this instance, the girl who used it did so elegantly all she needed was to near her friend and it stuck fast. The illusion spell was carefully crafted, a sweet perfume of a thing; thick as some invisible fog rolling over her male companion. And as it did his clothes grew more common, his nose bigger, his height decreased and he began to look older as he knelt down with a scrap tools, hardly a lock picker's kit to be sure.

Treadwell would have found this masked voice unfamiliar, the hands that worked on the manacle course and labor worn. Every detail accounted for, which was usually the problem with illusions, they almost always lacked in some small thing.

"Shh... " The brown-haired man didn't wait for Treadwell to comply, beginning his task as the girl looked anxiously back. It would be several minutes before the heavy thing was loosened and slowly, with utmost care, eased open. "I have heard you're the largest man in Myrken Wood," there was a pause for a smile as if he were seeing the man for the first time. And it was no insult, as it happened that was the taxman's own admission. "Can you stand?" He whispered even more quietly now than before, a worried frown overtaking his face.

[Treadwell]

Can you stand?

It's a good question. He's been barely mobile the last few days, between the flu and the ball and chain at his leg. Couple that with his cane not being anywhere nearby at all. . . .

Getting to his feet is something of a surprise. It requires Treadwell's supporting himself with the cave wall, and it entails the old tub's faint whimpering as his multi-hundred pounds settle on a body still aching and hot and ankles and joints stiff with lack of motion these last few days. He stumbles forward a couple of steps, almost certainly needing immediate assistance.

"Are we getting me out of here?" he squeakily whispers between the wheezy whimpers.

[Tolleson]

The now free and miraculously standing Treadwell needed assistance and the young man hurried to his aid, lending the large man what strength he could. A bit of an 'oof' escaped, but no other complaint issued. Meanwhile the elven girl looks worried, perhaps not expecting the largest man in Myrken to be quite so large, surely in one way or another his size would hinder their escape plans.

"Thats the notion," a small if not preoccupied grin came over him as he would try to help set the behemoth it motion. With luck the caravan of three would near the exit of the cave.

A knowing and somewhat worried glance is given to the woman in reply to her doubt, "Ahveri, is it too much?" She smiles, but it is half hearted and riddled with doubt. Before they leave she will begin to try and spread her spell over Treadwell, but it isn't easy to make a fat man thin, let alone near invisible.

[Drache]

<@Treadwell> It may be monstrously difficult making the fattest fellow in Myrken Wood functionally invisible, but said tubby fellow has no say on whether that illusion works or not. He's merely trying to stay on his feet as he is helped shuffling out of the cave--and, hopefully, past anyone without a hitch.

<Anie> The brown-haired boy did his best and Ahveri the elf-girl with a bit of magic was doing her best, but the illusion was flickering and failing to cover them all as it was. Exhaustion setting in on her so that visible she seemed quite ill. Nearer she'd stand to the young man without a word able for the moment only to maintain their cover. "We must be quick then," the young man grinned to be reassuring but it was a gesture even he did not have full confidence in.

<Zilliah> So there they are, all gathered around looking at the map made by Genny and comparing it to the one Glenn had given him. The fae is paying very little attention as his mind is roaming elsewhere, seeking out Father's own though he fully expects it to fail just like all the other nights he's tried.

<@Treadwell> Zilliah would receive a simple mental, "Mmph mmph?" of a grunt at the search, a grunt that matches the portly, exhausted Treadwell's own vocalization of such as he stumbles along in the cave.

* Drache stood craned over the map, slightly back from the smaller people, her wings gently unfurled in an instinctive mantling posture. While the fae sought out the other's thoughts, she sniffed for more mundane signs of passing, or the tell-tale thread of spellcasting. Her spade-tipped tail twitched with enthusiasm.

<Anie> Finally rested the now short haired, former pie-maker gone tax preparer and now somehow, investigator had suffered from some rather strange dreams and was unfortunately still quite distraught. Not only from the mess of dreams but where things had been left the night prior. She would have been late if it hadn't been for Drache who had only just called her down. Today was surely the day they would find Treadwell.

<Zilliah> A journey like this calls for a decided lack of jewelry. Even without all his many baubles he is strikingly handsome and that determines, thoughtful expression on his face just adds to it. It breaks and he nearly falls over at the sound of Treadwell in his mind. He grabs hold of Drache to steady himself. "I have him!" He proclaims gleefully and kisses Drache full on the mouth out of excitement. The gem on his forehead is flaring to life as he tries to engage him long enough to get a fix on where he is.

<@Treadwell> "I have friends here!" Treadwell whispers. About this time, he flumps into the nearest wall and settles there a moment, huffing for breath for a moment before he continues on.

* Drache had been forced to replace her original studded leather armour now that her belly was getting too big for it. Her current top was a similar style, but black and shiny with newness and set with metal inlays instead of round studs. Unlike the fae, she didn't discard her jewelry for fighting, she simply chose those which offered a boost to her power. The large ember-hued pendant from the night before was evident under her throat. Snorting softly, she pushed the fae off her snout and bared her teeth, her voice a hiss. "Where? And can you tell if he is alone?" Her claws flexed wickedly.

<Anie> Nearing the cave's exit, the elven peeked carefully and the held the stone colored cloth open to reveal the dim light from outside. Now was the perfect time to leave the camp, the ellusive band seemed to have their nightly work upon them, barely a soul was left. The fireball boy with his crooked teeth and patched britches slept nearby under a ramshackle wagon, guarded by little more than crows. A small fire had been set, but not one suitable for the army that must have been needed to haul Treadwell from the vault. However slight footprints had been left, all different sizes and shapes, marks in the dirt of wheels and sacks, heavy objects dragged through grass and dirt displaced the soil for proof that there had indeed been others here. At least, at some point.

<Anie> Genny had no armour to speak of, she donned the dagger gifted to her by Glenn a sturdy pair of boots. When Zilliah spoke her green eyes grew wide as if she finally began to comprehend just how awesome Zilliah's mind whispers were. They'd surely frightened her enough. With little else to add to Drache's question she returned her gaze to the map, "Is... he hurt?"

<Zilliah> He bears his own teeth back at her as she pushes him away. He laughs a little, both from nervous energy and happiness that he'd finally been able to contact him. He clasp his hands together and looks down at the ground, his head cocking from one side to the other as he listens. He puts a finger up to silence the both of them and his pale eyes lift as he realizes that Father is no longer far under ground. His own voice barely comes out as a whisper, his feet carrying him off to the west, towards the south end of the lake. "He's not alone...And not well.." He couldn't give much more explination than that since Treadwell did not provide it. His eyes go faroff, his body moving as if on it's own accord while his mind was someplace else.

<@Treadwell> Dirt! Grass! The lake, that-a-way! These things bring the faintest of smiles to the tuckered out, great-stomached Tubbian. Moonlight trickles from above through clouds, faintly lighting the way--and now Tready loses his footing, stumbling forward, free of the grip of others and staggering along until making a dazzling spin and FWUMP to the ground.

* Drache nodded her horned head and stretched her wings, glad they had a direction now. It wasn't a far flight to the other side of the lake. "I would offer to 'Port usss but without knowing exactly where I'm going we could end up inside a tree, or right on top of those we don't wish to sssee usss. Ssso let'sss fly," she suggested, nodding to Zill to lead the way since he had the best idea where the fat Councilman was. "Genny, crosss your arms like thisss and then I can carry you." She mimicked the gesture with the confidence of someone who had been through the business of toting fleshlings around before. She crossed her scaled arms over her chest with each fist on the opposite shoulder.

<Anie> Ahveri, the elven girl who so elegantly cast her illusion spell continued to do so even as Treadwell fell, but the brown-haired boy yipped a little before going after the rolly-pollie gent. "Shh" But it was already too late, the rustling feet, the loud 'fhuwump' of the fat man had the sleepy eyed boy sitting straight up, alert, and with his head into the bottom of the wagon he slept under. It wouldn't be long for him to shake it off and sound an alarm.

<Anie> Zilliah silenced them both but would answer ambiguously. She would never forgive her brother if Treadwell had been hurt, not that she was going to forgive him as it was. Watching Drache she mimicked the gesture exactly and nodded curtly. Let them be off and not waste a moment more.

<Zilliah> His hurried pace doesn't last for very long before he stops with a frown. The voice of Father no longer answered him. He returns to the two women and nods at Drache's suggestion. He hadn't been planning on flying, what with thinking they'd be crawling around in caves and all, so he was actually wearing a shirt. He undoes the buttons, bare fingers working nimbly to rid his torso of the cloth. The bright flair of light pours from the emeralds on his shoulder blades and his wings appear. He barely waits long enough for Drache to take hold of Genny before he takes to the air. From over the tree tops he hears to alarm call go out and he curses out loud.

* Drache circled around behind the tall human and wrapped her warm arms around Genny's own, mindful of her claws. Despite a rather intimidating presence, the half-dragon wasn't even as tall as the redhead. But beneath her scales her muscles bunched like hardened steel. Just like when she rescued James to the Rememdium, it was the human's shape that made her burden awkward, not the weight. She averted her eyes from the fae, not wishing to be blinded by the light of his embedded gems. With a brief test of her grip, she bent and jumped suddenly, up and back, her wings beating in thudding downward strokes that kicked up dirt and debris (and Zill's shirt) in all directions. Gaining altitude would be a brief struggle in the still air closer to the ground, but once above the treetrops the freedom allowed her a speed that made things much easier. She circled once and then made to follow Zill.

[Drache]

* @Treadwell groans and starts to push himself back to his knees, then feet. He is dazed, drowsy, and still sick. Wobbling upright eats up precious time and leaves him stooped and wincing.

<Anie> The brown haired boy has run after Treadwell, his lady companion close behind. As too is the half pint magic wielder, standing up and firing a badly aimed watermelon-sized ball of flame in their general direction. Again he knocks himself back and but yells this time, thinking better of attacking on his own. The young friend of Tready offers his hand and support so that they might hastily limo away. "Hurry!"

<Anie> Heights, despite that she was so tall and ought to be used to it flying, provided no pleasant experience for the poor girl. Her scruffy red hair flew wildly and once off the ground she had to refrain from moving her hands over her eyes by squinting tightly. She wouldn't reopen them until she was safely placed back upon the solid ground.

<Zilliah> The blast of a poorly cast fireball lights up the night, giving away the camp site and illuminating the rotund form of the toy maker. He bites down hard onto the tip of his tongue, drawing his own blood. He traces a rune onto the roof of his mouth and his voice cries out the word of power as he attempts to paralyze those crowding around his Father, not caring that some of them might be trying to help him. He is diving down, spiraling as he plummets dazzlingly down towards the earth.

<Treadwell> Fireballs blasting through the air, noisy magic being shouted down from above. . . Aloisius H. Treadwell is trying to be forced along faster than his old, round body can reasonably go at the moment. He stumbles and bumbles along, inwardly lamenting his sad situation.

* Drache didn't follow the many-winged fae to the ground immediately, choosing to circle around and come in from another direction. Selecting a grassy spot, she locked her wings in a descending glide until she could deposit Genny safely, if somewhat unceremoniously. Her talons touched down a moment later and she growled fiercly. If she had hackles to speak of, they would be raised. Instead, her teeth were bared and her tail lashed. Her own spell was a ripple of power that rolled away from her with a hot shimmer to disrupt the power of other spellcasters nearby and automatically protect her from the next spell cast in her direction. Unfortunately there was no way to exclude Zill from the intended effect.

<Anie> The elf is startled but hardly frozen, her companion, the brown haired man attempting to aid the fat man, on the other hand, stops mid aid. He grunts and the strain of every muscle resisting as the grip that comes over him, he can't even speak. A pleading, grotesque almost animalistic noise escapes as he is left behind. His companion gives a worried glance to the tumbling Treadwell and back to her companion, a moment of hesitation as she tries to decide with whom she'll have better luck. Perhaps loyalty causes her to flee back to her friend, wordlessly she lowers her own illusion spell, her blonde hair returning black and her perfect skin melting away, revealing the burn scar covering most of her face. Her attentions diverted to undoing what magic has been done to paralyze the young man. Meanwhile several other men and women fromt he thief encampment seem to have heard their little friend and decend from the caves towards the broken dock. Most are still far off, non-magic folk that have daggers, swords, and a small artillary they seem keen on using. The front line is paralyzed but two or three late comers follow not far behind, but they are successfully hit by the hot spell of Drache's.

Genny is dropped and falls, as is like her in every way. But so too she stands at the ready without a thought for being pitied, not that she would receive that sentimate here. Genny unfortunately has no resistance to spells and though missed Zilliah's paralyzing cast, there is nothing but Drache to stand between her and the fight. All the same she awkwardly wields her dagger, though there is some sense that she does in fact, know how to use it.

<Treadwell> Fireballs blasting through the air, noisy magic being shouted down from above. . . Aloisius H. Treadwell is trying to be forced along faster than his old, round body can reasonably go at the moment. He stumbles and bumbles along, inwardly lamenting his sad situation.

<Zilliah> He lands on the ground next to Treadwell, his wings spreading and twitching wide. He bares his teeth and hisses at the two trying to help the fat man. He takes hold of Treadwell's clothing and tries to take to the air with him just as suddenly as he landed. Only he is unable to mentally lift his bulk, something or someone preventing the spell from firing properly. His wings disappear in a blinding flash, no longer needing them if he wasn't going to be able to go skyward with him. He tries one last spell, hoping that this one doesn't fail him like the last. He pushes mentally, telekineticly throwing any person or large item out of the path between he and Drache. He holds his hand out and yells to her, blood dribbling down the corners of his mouth. "Drache! Teleport us out of here!"

* Drache hissed and snapped at the approaching unsavouries, striding purposefully towards Zill. She cocked her head to the side, wondering what could have caused the fae to be suddenly bleeding from the mouth. With a certain amount of smugness, she grasped both the fae and the fat man and summoned the tremendous amount of energy she would need to send two people to the front of the Rememdium. A towering inferno billowed up around all three of them. Untempered by her will, it would be enough to scorch anyone who was yet too close. When it finally died down, hopefully Zill and Tready would be gone and Drache could turn on her talons and dash back towards Genny. There would be no more teleporting until she'd had some rest.

<Anie> The brown-haired friend and his companion are thrown clear and towards the encampment to clear the path between Drache and Zilliah.

<Anie> Genny even manages to stab a guy! Albiet its not a mortal wound and was entirely in self defense. She practically flees, on Drache's heels like white on rice.

[Treadwell]

Present day. Morning. The twenty-fifth of the eighth month, 211.

Since his rescue, Aloisius Horatio Treadwell has spent his time recovering from his illness in a place well-suited for such: Myrken's own Rememdium Edificium. His time there has been a wave of ups and downs, but this morning, with his cane and glasses back in hand and his sunny yellow Tubbian robes and miter back on him for the wearing, he stands beside his bed surrounded by his followers. He's wobbly, as ever, and he's still tired, but he's over the flu at long last and, in his own words, "Quite ready to go home, mmph mmph!"

Of course, his faithful have other plans for their leader. Instead of his house, they shuffle him off to the Church of Tubbius with the utmost care, there to praise his return and recovery with a suitably great feast! He'll nod off as he normally would, overstuffed and sleepy again at the head of their dining hall table.

For Treadwell, all is right with the world--but what about the missing tax money and the hoodlums who took it?

[Tolleson]

((OOC Sorry if this is out of turn, I wanted to elaborate on the really lame posts I added last we played. Let me know if this interferes and I will modify. Thanks))

--Genny--

The fae and the fat man had vanished in a flash of flames, now Genny could see the trick that taken her and James from the ball. Her blade had the slightest smear of blood, despite how little it was she seemed to be queasy for it. The man she nicked staggered back but would come again soon.

"Drache," her voice filled with curious worry as enemies began to close in and she returned to the pie-maker's side. What else was she supposed to say, it wouldn't be long before they would need make a similarly quick exit.

Seeing that she would need rest, Genny gripped her blade tight and swallowed hard to steal herself and hold the ground.


--Treadwell's Rescuers--

The brown-haired boy was soon freed from the paralyzing spell thanks to his companion's efforts but the push that forced them away had pressed them nearer to the oncoming force. Less than half a dozen weapon wielding men wove through the ranks of paralyzed men and descended upon the lot of them without distinction.

Ahveri was back on her feet quick as a cat lending her hand to the young man who staggered up quick as he could. Once he was on his feet the illusion spell faltered briefly as she refocused her energy into a burst shot from her into the attacking force. While the attackers were knocked back, those that had were not harmed enough to keep from standing and regaining the lost ground. The boy's young appearance, lean and tall form, unshaven face with a mop-top of red hair flickered if only for a moment to buy them vital time as they retreated nearer now to Genny and Drache.

[Drache]

Drache's snout filled with the coppery scent of blood and her eyes flashed with a mounting feral rage. Her ivory fangs were bared in a sneering grimace as she swept around beside the pie-maker and faced the charging thieves. Her gaze darted back and forth with shrewd cunning at the dozen or so attackers, several of them still staggered by Zilliah's paralyzing spell, and she noted with interest as Ahveri and her companion were pushed by the tide of a common enemy towards herself and Genny. The elfling's shot into the heart of them was enough to keep the half-dragon from attempting to take her out first, but the momentary flicker of red on the boy's head as the spell over him faltered raised her suspicions.

"Jussst keep back, Genny," the dragoness growled savagely, judging the pie-maker's skill in battle to be effectively zero and not wanting to be held responsible if something should happen to her. Alive with a thrill for mayhem, the dragoness let out a beastly roar and lunged for the closest sword-bearer. The man swung hard once, twice, and the dragonkin ducked and twisted as nimble as a cat while the keen-edged metal hummed by her horned head. Only a few paces from crashing into him, she leaned back sharply to avoid a thrust directly into her face and swung her wings around, impaling the man on either temple by the stout spikes on her wings.

The sword slipped from his nerveless grasp, followed a moment later by the heavy thud of his corpse. Flaring her wings aggressively, she turned to face the rest of the fleshlings who were attempting to circle and cut her off from Genny. A sharp crack and the flash of blue light from one of the group's mages flung a hail of ice shards across Drache's form. She shrieked, mostly in fury, much of her left arm and the left side of her face blackened by the magical cold. The unwise magic-user became Drache's next focus, and her strike was unhampered only because the rest of them were hesitant to attack a creature with a few too many limbs.

The warm-hued bauble at Drache's throat swirled with a fiery gleam as her breath hissed down into her lungs. The heat and flame that exploded forth was whitish-yellow in its intensity, the ropes and coils of fire dripping and flaring almost softly like a plasma. Even her own heat-resistant clothing started to smoulder where the dribbling embers touched it. The hapless hedge-mage was dead instantly, his corpse incinerated into a fine ash within moments, and several more men too close to the fifteen-foot cone of destruction were blistered and charred into uselessness. The night looked a little darker for everyone when the furnace ceased.

And the half-breed wasn't finished. She moved among the rest like a predator overcome with bloodlust. She clotheslined them with her tail so she could rip them apart with her teeth and claws, or she burned, blasted, or boiled them with an array of mostly heat-related magic. She kicked up smouldering debris with her wings and leaped high into the air to come crashing down like a huge raptor. She growled and hissed and snapped and snarled until all that remained were the lumpy forms of bleeding or smoking corpses all over the campsite. She had taken a blow or five, her own hot blood dripping from cuts, her flesh and senses reeling from the few enemy spells that had managed to strike true.

Only two had escaped the carnage. The young fire-wielder Bowen had disappeared fairly early on, but Drache was strangely tempted to chase him down simply to advise him to get some schooling to make better use of his talent than hanging out with a pack of miscreants. The other was the young man Genny had sliced with her knife and later been stunned by a sharp blow from the boney spade on the end of the dragon's tail. Panting slightly with combined exertion and excitement, she cast a wary eye on Genny and the un-named duo who had been trying to hustle the unhustleable Treadwell, and prowled over to the fallen human. With surprising strength, she dug her claws deeply into his shirt, scraping the skin over his collarbone, and hoisted him up on his toes and growled sinisterly into his face. Her lightly smoking nostrils still glowed with her inner fire. Her bloodied wing spikes hovered threateningly over her shoulders and her tail swished angrily.

"Give me a reason to not ssslay you and eat out your heart," she threatened with a sinister hiss, her voice more sibillant than usual, "Who are you? Where is thisss tricky hat character? And where is the ssstolen tax money?"

Why she wanted to know about Myrken's tax money was anyone's guess. Perhaps she intended to hoard it away for herself if she found it.