The Cleansing Flame

Postby Teron_Ashfiend » Mon May 28, 2007 3:13 pm

Tannerback Lane? The question briefly puzzles him as he considers the question honestly, at least at first. Still, lying never came easily to his lips however ruined they had become. The question almost lacks meaning entirely until he recalls, as if through a haze of heat, the determined, if foolish, Malaroth and how the man's hate had called to his own. It had been a sweet, aromatic wine of which Teron had drank his fill. Malaroth was no longer necessary.

That the constable would allow the lives of twenty cutthroats and thieves come to any prominence in their conversation led his concealed expression into a scowl. Such a question was a simple waste of time.

Therefore he ignored it.

Besides, the uncouth query into the nature of his relationship with Vraal had stoked his anger as a man feeds fire with timber. "My reasons for hunting Vraal do not concern you, constable," he offers as a cold, pointed retort. His hands, though they brush against the handles of both weapons, remain curled into fists.

Silence settles between them, heavy and bitter as the memories taunt Ashfiend with their familiar, haunting melody. Daring him to look into their depths, to plunder the beshadowed past, and remember what drives him on and yet what, at times, he would dearly love to forget.

"Hammer, fire and tongs," he rumbles at length, "Failed you because it was not always metal. It was once flesh. Stolen and reworked through treachery and magic." His gaze flickers towards Ariane at her remark.

"I neither will, nor need, do anything." he warns. "We have common purpose and for that this conversation may continue."

"For all its mystical quantites, its destruction requires neither magic nor labor." The burned knight, bedecked in the ruin of his armor, felt his seething rage cool as he followed the contours of her countenance. Her visage served as a glass that made only one thing disturbingly clear while rendering everything else hazy and unimportant. Within the swordswoman's gaze he beheld a monstrous memory; it was a grim melody he had composed with hands steeped in blood.

"It..." he began, his voice wavering as he fought against the tide of memory. "It... can only be broken by being claimed and resisted by a pious person for thirty days and thirty nights. At dawn," his voice slips back into an arctic, hollow tone," it becomes dust. It has something to do with equal parts foolishness and pedantic ideology."

A coarse, ice-laden chuckle escapes him and breaks the harsh grate of his voice. "An ironic weakness to be bestowed by its creator, given his nature."
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Postby Cinnabar » Mon May 28, 2007 9:16 pm

The High Constable nods at Ariane's query, her demand for information on how to destroy the serpent; a moment's unease as he notes the faint trembling in the earth, palm set flat to the anvil as if to confirm it, but it is passed. Brows then raise as the Ashfiend explains how the thing might be undone, unmade, though he does not express disbelief at such. Instead there is curiosity, and perhaps the vague beginnings of an idea forming.

"How might one define pious, in this context? They must be the follower of a faith, a Belief? Or is it enough that they are simply someone with the strength of character not to use the thing for ill?" It is a dangerous line of thinking, a fact which he recognises fully. But if white-hot fire and tools of iron will not end the thing, what other options remain? Who might be trusted to carry such a burden for a full month? Hm. In the meantime he regards Teron sternly, not greatly impressed with his lack of answers.

"I would suggest that when one person within Myrkentown bears a murderous grudge against another it most certainly concerns me, sir. If Vraal poses a true threat to the citizenry then we might perhaps work to similar ends, and benefit from such. However, I will not countenance murder for the sake of what might be a petty falling-out or suchlike disagreement. If you are to have my cooperation rather than my opposition, I must know more." Absently adjusting the lie of the billhook on the anvil beside him, straightening it a touch. Maybe the direct approach will work better.

"That is an interesting blade you bear, sir. In fact, I would swear it was the very twin of a weapon used to slay a score of men in this town not a month or two past. How did it come to be in your possession?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Tue May 29, 2007 5:17 am

Ah, this very arrogant creature, so that in this respect alone, Ashfiend has found himself in fitting company: all monsters here, ser, do be at your ease. He draws certain lines between them, livid-eyed horror that he is. He draws certain boundaries, he seeks almost immediately to establish his place in their world, to define it, with his clutch of answers and his dearth of needs. "Here I stand," says Teron Ashfiend. "And here are you, some small distance below, so that you may more conveniently kneel."

He must forgive that a woman refuses to; that a Constable, particularly, finds no reason to oblige.

Better this sturdy doorframe, and one ankle crossed lightly over the booted other; better this fencer's easy recline, and a pale gaze let to wander for a time between the two. They are well-matched, this pair: equals in their stubborness, perhaps, if nothing particularly else. It is by far better to listen for a time, to the answers and to the silences between the answers, for Teron Ashfiend speaks volumes when he holds his tongue so obstinately. That her features sometimes engage the creature is not so troublesome as it might have been a month ago, a year ago; it is no hardship at all to allow him the leisure of that observation, to offer the placid mask of her face and make a study of how his voice now and then stumbles.

Perhaps that is to the Constable's benefit. Ariane must hope so, and in the meantime be grateful that he asks the very finest questions, the most pertinent. It is more his skill than hers, clumsy-lipped thing that she is, and the task is given up to him; she is content to be a presence --

Except that Calomel inquires as to the origins of Ashfiend's remarkable weapon, and the floor beneath their feet trembles as if it meant to protest this audacity. It is a prolonged complaint, a basso rumble that bypasses the ears to sink deep into the bones instead, and even the very forge is not immune to this: windowpanes rattle in their frames, small pieces of scrap shuddering whole inches across their shelves.
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Postby Teron_Ashfiend » Tue May 29, 2007 6:43 am

"Vraal puts little stock in human capability in general, so piety would not mean mere strength of character," he begins in response to the constable's precise query. It was something he had not bothered to research much more closely than that - it was enough for him to lock the thing away in some airless chamber deep beneath the earth.

"He also holds humanity in contempt as being unable to reach beyond themselves, so he would not think any mortal exists with true piety. Knowing Vraal, he meant for it to be genuine belief in a righteous faith."

The summary again causes him to hesitate, and his fiery gaze minutely narrows as he studies his latest conversational companions. Interacting with them, especially concerning Vraal and the serpent, forced their queries to dance around his identity, as well as Vraal's, and things he did not care to reveal to anyone - let alone these two.

At the mention of the sword, one of his cloth-sheathed fists opens allowing his palm to fall against the weapon's skull-pommel. "It is an old blade. I forged it to slay a long since defeated enemy..." Cinnabar's questions threaten him far more than the skilled soldier's attack and he scowls once again, the gesture concealed beneath the faded scarf, though his voice echoes upon itself in an angry chorus.

"I would suggest not testing me further on this, constable. It is enough for you that Vraal has had entire nations destroyed and their people slaughtered for his pleasure." His words are a command and a warning whose consequences are interrupted by the sudden trembling of the very ground upon which they stand.

As the entire building groans in complaint, his free hand drifts towards the handle of the mace at his side. "What new devilry is this...?" His question holds mild surprise buried beneath the cold syllables.
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Postby Cinnabar » Tue May 29, 2007 9:11 am

The Constable would indeed have inquired further into the history, provenance and whereabouts of the sword on a particular night not long passed; he would have pointed out that he'd need more than the word of a man who'd been trying to kill him but moments ago. But that is interrupted as the building rattles, tools on the walls clattering and swinging in the aftermath of the tremor, the water in the barrel used for quenching iron suddenly dancing with concentric ripples.

He is halfway to the door before the shaking comes to a stop, staring out past Ariane into the dawn sky; a moment's thought and he's turning back, quick strides across the forge to hurriedly bank up the fire, quick and dextrous motions that keep the heart of the furnace hot while preventing the risk of stray coals rolling free. Then to one side of the room, stooping to retrieve a shirt which he first uses to slap the worst of the as and embers from his shoulders before tugging on over his head - the garment will be undoubtedly ruined, but he seems not to care; next a swordbelt holding a particularly fine matched set of rapier and dagger, buckled with the grace of long practise; and finally his coat, left unbuttoned over the top of it all. It is only as he is straightening the coat and tugging the cuffs down that he speaks to Teron at last.

"It would appear that something has come up, so we'll have to cut short this delightful little social event. Another time, perhaps. In the meanwhile, I shall watch for Vraal. If I find him, he will be questioned." Plain statements of the inevitable, as if confidently describing how the sun will rise on the morrow, and how it will eventually be followed by night. "And if I hear you've been waving that cleaver around at anyone - anyone at all - I'm going to kick your arse so hard you'll taste boot polish every time you belch."

To the door once more, staring out over the treetops. Dawn has spread across the sky while they strove to destroy the serpent, and then to fend off Teron's bludgeon and blade, and then to make some sense of his words. Low sunlight now strikes the sides of the town's buildings, for all that the citizenry still slumbers for the most part. The makings of a beautiful clear day, save for one dark blot, something horribly amiss.

Cinnabar gives a nod towards the horizon, where an ugly plume of dark smoke roils into the sky like the clenched fist of some angry god. Voice pitched low for the swordswoman's ears, eyes narrowing at the unsettling sight.

"What lies over in that direction?"
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Tue May 29, 2007 9:53 am

If not for Calomel's preparations, there might have been an ugly tangle at the doorway: she is nearer, but they are quicker, and the dull tremor of that explosion was nothing that she could initially recognise. But that it was somehow significant had not escaped her at all, and that it had managed to lend a note of quiet surprise to Ashfiend's basso growl would itself have been sufficient to provoke her into real motion. But there is the timing of it, as well. There is the memory of that crimson-lit sky, so that it's with a very slow dread that she is pushing through the doorway at last.

Into the cool, morning air, for sunlight is bright and pale across the rooftops, is venturing thin lances of colour onto the cobblestone alleys between them. Is illuminating even such things as these: a grey-clad swordswoman who is making such haste for her dark warhorse, he with the heavy hooves and the bulge at his saddlebags; a Constable as ash-strewn as she, and considerably more scorched; even Ashfiend himself, if he means to follow them and emerge from that smithy. Ariane herself is blind to this matter, but only because she has slid such a remarkable thing from those saddlebags: a construction of heavy brass, and emerald-tinged glass; broad at one end, and tapering to a far narrower eyepiece, and the whole thing lifted that she may gaze with its aid towards that distant gout of dark smoke.

Miles, had explained the man who'd given her this thing: to describe the scope of its vision. And ser, clever m'ser, can you see even so far as your own distant home? Oh yes. More than likely, I could see its heights.

And now so does she.

Sees them so very well that the colour has drained from her cheeks, that some very fine tremour has seized the hand which grips that 'scope. Two attempts are required to tuck it back into its place, so pronounced has that tremble become, and then so deep a gulp for breath that one might imagine her recently drowned. There is some glance flung towards the Constable at his question, some cold, wild fix of her gaze -- and she is climbing into the saddle with no further hesitation. A sharp tug upon the reins loosens them from their railing.

"Ruin," she breathes, and these reins clenched in such a fist; the beast's dark head is wheeled aside, is given direction, and oh, there's no mistaking her intention now. "That is where I ride," and with some brutal jerk of the chin towards that distant blot upon the dawn. "I know that place. Je po'iti posrat' -- do you come with?

"For we go now."
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Postby Teron_Ashfiend » Tue May 29, 2007 3:02 pm

Another cold snort of derisive laughter escapes him as the constable offers his brief plan of action and something like a threat. For a moment the faces of all who had sworn similiar things unfurls like a great, bloodied banner before him, overlaying itself upon Cinnabar's countenance. Whatever the constable might think of him, Teron considered, it was no different than what everyone else had thought, had vowed, and had summarily failed at doing.

The weapon at his side testified to that.

"You are a fool if you believe that Vraal will cooperate with your questions," the words followed Cinnabar outside. After a moment he, too, emerges from the smithy. His shadow is long and, as it descends upon the horse, he wonders if this beast too will begin to grow uneasy with his close presence. The remnants of a tattered cloak flutter behind him as the doorframe itself darkens, shaded and disturbed by his passing.

His first inclination of the smoke is that it heralds even more fiery conflict this day; an inclination that Ariane confirms.

The sunlight strikes him painfully, reluctantly, as the light about him is quickly polluted with the hint of an ambient shadow that hovers between him and whatever force that might fully reveal him to the world. Its rays set a fire that burns past the countless scars upon his armor and reveals the symbol etched thereupon with a careful, creative hand: a sword crossed by two bent roses whose falling petals descend amidst scattered tears.

The beast, even if it would abide his presence, cannot carry them all. Nor does he entertain any vain dreams of holding men and women close against him. He makes a quick mental map and turns towards the nearest shadow tall enough to hide him. In the early hours of dawn it is not difficult to find a pool of darkness that is willing to hide him, or ferry him along.

"I will join you there. Vraal may yet be behind this," is the only explanation he offers without bothering to regard the pair over his armored shoulder. The shadows twitch at his approach and seem to strain, reaching out to lovingly enfold him in their embrace. For a moment his gaze flickers in the darkness before it too has vanished.
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Postby Cinnabar » Tue May 29, 2007 8:17 pm

"Then I am a fool. But at least one who seeks to learn more." A reckless grin flashed in Teron's direction, then he's looking towards that smoke once more; a brief hesitation at Ariane's words, glancing between her horse and the distant plume, then he comes to a decision and nods.

"Yes. Make room." And then, if she permits it, he's moving to haul himself up behind her. He's no doubt he could run as far as that pillar of red-limned blackness, its upper reaches even now being smeared across the sky by the morning breeze; but he could not reach the place as fast as on horseback, and haste may well be the deciding factor. So, necessity dictates. "Beg pardon."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 30, 2007 1:36 am

As simply as that, it is done: while Ariane could never have anticipated that Ashfiend would join them in this pursuit, neither will she turn him away; what more harm can he do to the twisted wreckage the 'scope had shown her? And that Calomel would accompany, she had not doubted at all: he'll have little difficulty in climbing to the beast's tall back, for already there's a place made there for him. A shake of the head dashes his apology aside, and that is all the time she will spare for courtesies.

"Hold close," she murmurs, with some half-turn of the head; the reins are caught into white-knuckled fists. "Ch'rnyj voron is made for such moments." And this is all the warning Calomel will have, for her heels are into the beast's heavy sides, they are lurching into violent, thunderous motion, and their pace will slow not at all, as they race for burning Aithne.
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