Cinnabar Calomel, former High Constable turned Governor, since gladly retired; perhaps retreated would be a better word for his withdrawal from Myrken Wood's affairs, instead filling his days with more rewarding roles - husband, father, landowner, blacksmith. He has found a rare contentment, an uncommon peace, his estate a sanctuary.
There's little that could draw him away from the comforts of home, from the company of his wife and children. He has fought enough battles, shed enough of his own blood on Myrken's behalf, he has earned this. He would fight to keep it, yes, but otherwise? There are others who'll stand in his place, others who'll take up the task. He's done his duty.
What brings him here, to the edge of the Pit as the sky begins to lighten, is a different kind of obligation to that which rested upon his shoulders as Governor. A debt. No, not debt. Atonement.
Calomel has made his preparations. He has camped on the crater's edge, gaze sweeping the tangle of lawns and hedgerows below for signs of movement, for pattern amid the chaos. He has drawn maps, hiking around the rim for different perspectives, noting the relative orientations and angles of the observable landmarks - a spire of twisted stone here, a distinctive tree there, a small lawn with a piece bizarre statuary over there; he's recorded the line of the cliffs against the sky from various angles, so that he needn't rely solely on sun or stars to find his bearings. He has been rigorous.
He shifts the weight of the pack across his shoulders, checking straps and buckles as he has a dozen times in the last hour. He has made lists, has whittled them down to what might more easily be carried, has added further items as new possibilities rose to mind. He wears his sturdiest clothes, his most hard-wearing boots, and has equipped himself for an extended expedition.
An iron-headed hand-axe equally suited to the splitting of wood and skulls; a matched rapier and dagger at his belt, among his oldest and most dependable possessions; in his pack, rations enough for a span of weeks, though he prays that it won't come to that; waterskins; clean linen bandages, salves and a flask of fierce brandy; oiled canvas enough to make a simple tent, with rope and blankets besides; a shrill tin whistle and a brass hunting horn; oil and whetstone for the sharpening of blades; fresh clothes, steel needles and strong silk thread; firesteel, flint and tinder; a certain quantity of lamp oil, and a handful of good wax candles; chalk, charcoal, and a fat reel of red-dyed yarn; a pan of bright copper, for cooking and boiling water, a tin dish and cup from which to dine; a neat wooden box of dried leaves and fragrant petals; assorted lesser sundries, small items he has gauged to be worth the weight of carrying for the comfort they will bring.
The dawn breaks over the Sikasoon Mountains, and he gives one last kick to the iron stake driven into the ground at his feet. He stoops, tugs at the rope running from the stake to the edge of the vast crater, and begins his descent as sunlight begins to creep down the cliff face around him.