Find the man.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

"Killing your master, or reanimating him to serve, would not fulfill any purpose," he rumbled clearly through the heavy, choking smoke. His eyes seared through that spreading, gray haze with an unabated crimson flame. Still, he considers as the woman struggles as far as she does in search of the one she serves, given her perceptions she might need further convincing.

"If it is of such concern then I offer you my word that, should I find him, I will not bring him under my service. I will seek you out if the serpent's destruction is yet common to us."

It was something of a peace-offering perhaps. Teron brushed past her, listening to the rocks and blackened gravel crunching beneath his relentless tread into the fire-consumed depths of the estate's inner chambers. A gloved hand curled firmly about the sword at his side as, progressing deeper, the burning ash that dusted upon armored shoulders hissed sharply before the chill hovering about him smothered the seedlings of flame.

The chill, preternatural as it was, did nothing to abate the inferno that had swallowed the estate's remnants. A ruined man, he stalked amongst the ruined home. Beset by scorched masonry and gouts of flame, he stalked deeper into the smoke-choked darkness. Twisted bronze, blackened iron and chipped stones all reached out to trip or crush him as they occasionally spilled out against his boots or rained against armored shoulders.

Searching, however, came for naught. Except tremendous destruction, on a scale of which Ashfiend had not witnessed for some time, but had indeed witnessed before, there was simply no sign of anyone else readable amongst the smoke, fire and ruin. He wandered for over an hour, followed by a train of memories all luring him back to the destruction he had wrought upon distant and now non-existant lands.

Finding nothing, he strode from the burning ruin as it belched black smoke up into the morning sky.

[Carnath-Emory]

How you reckon the worth of a mage's word?
With the very smallest of measuring-sticks, of course, the most meagre of weights. Unless that mage is Teron Ashfiend, of the swift mace and the thousand atrocities, in which case you don't bother to reckon it at all, and nothing could have kept her from this hunt --

Except for the weakness of these very mortal lungs.
Except for the promise of what awaits outside; of who awaits.

So that the manse is coughing out one of its very last victims: bowed at the shoulders, with a fist to her mouth and quicksilver melting slick across her spine. She's as quick across the ruined lawn as the burning lungs will permit, is clearly impatient, so that fragments of shattered things are crushed beneath her heels, and by the midway point she has ceased to climb over the larger wreckage; has begun to fling it from her path.

Two men ought to be grateful that she exercises her anger in this manner. Or particularly alarmed, because she is clearly nearing, with face gone chalky-pale and livid, and because she is shouting ... something. The throat fails her, so that what emerges is nothing but a rasping wheeze of sound.

But perhaps the set of the features communicates that it is something terrible. Even the broad warhorse has caught the swordswoman's fury, for it has given Cinnabar a roll of the dark eyes, has permitted his approach for some time now only to of a sudden grow haughty, agitated.

Some haste might not go astray.

[Cinnabar]

"Hold still, you worthless thrice-bedamned beast." It is at moments like this that the High Constable can only lament certain gaps in his education. Muttered imprecations cross his lips as he stalks the horse; his steps are almost casual, and he regards the steed from the corner of his eye as if it holds little real interest to him at all.

It seems to work, at least long enough for Calomel to snatch the reins and hold them firm, hurriedly trying to recall what happens next; his time at the blacksmith's avails him somewhat at this point, though he cannot help but wish he had paid more attention to the animal-handling side of things as well as the ironworking, but too late for that. He runs his free hand along the animal's neck in what he hopes is a soothing gesture, and glances around to be sure that the captives haven't made a run for it yet. Ah, apparently not. Huzzah for small mercies.

A cautious but steady pressure on the reins has him leading the reluctant mount over towards the prisoners as Ariane is drawing near; by no means as much as he'd hoped to have accomplished, but at least now he's got the horse more-or-less under control and can work on loading up the two soldiers with the swordswoman's help.

[Carnath-Emory]

As such oversights go, this one will prove less crippling than it might have: perhaps the warhorse is accustomed to precisely such treatment as the Constable offers. Muttered invectives draw a flicker of the ears, the casual arrogance of Calomel's disregard stills the restlessness of its heavy hooves. A toss of the head, reins and all, might be taken for smugness -- but the beast does not shy away from those hands, is placid enough when the reins are finally caught, and moves as led.

It's just as well, for the beast's rider has found her momentum, and moves towards them at a tremendous pace. Her fury is a palpable cloak about her, as real and tangible as a heatwave's shimmer: one could almost imagine that it sends the air wavering in just that fashion. It lends a stiff-legged vigour to her stride, riots through her with such force that marble crumbles beneath her boots, that great boulders of wall and doorframe collapse beneath her silvered hands.

This is what nears, and spitting something vile; her throat, embittered with acrid smoke, cannot give a sound to it. And the schiavona is sheathed, and Renne's dagger as well, but it hardly matters, for when she closes upon them at last, it's to stalk for the maimed man and deliver a kick to his thigh that snaps bone.

The glance flung sidelong towards Calomel awaits a reproach, dares the man to object.

And here's another for the fallen man's ankle, and here's a body bent to his, fists winding into armour, muscle tensing to lift him to her. These livid eyes demand what the voice cannot supply. Quicksilver creeps towards his throat. And she twists to fling him bodily towards Constable and horse, and she is wheezing ... something.

"... before I crack open ... his ribs," comes the end of it, a grating rasp forced from a throat which cannot support it, but the meaning is clear enough. The eyes are red-rimmed and glossy, which have fixed upon the Constable; the whole of her trembles upon the edge of lost control.

[Cinnabar]

This furious violence is a surprise to Calomel; this rage that lends her strength beyond what one might expect from her slight frame is something new and unexpected and altogether fascinating. One might expect shock, or outrage, or startlement from the young man, but one would then be disappointed. It is a watchful and impassive gaze that follows Ariane's movements, almost catlike in its detachment from the injury wrought to the already-maimed man. A certain sang-froid in his scrutiny that one might find faintly unsettling; not a flinch as the man's bone is snapped beneath the swordswoman's boot, barely a blink as he is hauled upright then thrown as if he were a rag doll.

The soldier is caught with a swift lunge that has him gripped firmly by the front of his armour, straps and windings of cloth serving as a quite serviceable handle. It is perhaps mercy that has Cinnabar holding the man as clear of the ground as can be managed, trying to keep the weight off that doubly-injured limb. The maimed man hands almost limp, shock and pain rendering his skin pale and clammy, resistance quite distant from his mind now. Which is as well, as it takes a few awkward moments for the silver-haired youth to sling him over the back of the somewhat reluctant horse, reins grabbed for once that particular burden is loaded.

It is only then that he turns back to Ariane, wrathful creature of writhing quicksilver and rasping whispers that she is. A curious cast to his features as he regards her for a moment; not admiration, no, for while her actions are perhaps understandable, they are certainly not laudable; nor is it awe or fear. Perhaps the closest might be a vague sense that the man is impressed somehow, his demeanour implying that he may have had his concept of the swordswoman's capabilities surpassed or exceeded.

The moment passes, however, and he holds out the reins for her to take. A slight shake of his head, a strange twist of his lips, a hand moving to lightly grasp an armoured shoulder to reassure or to calm. Quiet words, voice roughened only slightly by the corrosive smoke.

"I'll see to the other one."

[Carnath-Emory]

[INDENT]"Mm. It is like a challenge. The way she holds this -- I would not do that, you see? Not if it was a thing that I cared for. But with this she challenges. Come to take this ... if you're able. Here is a thing which you want, here is a thing which you must have."

"I think so. She challenges, she tempts. She is confident she can hold what is hers."
[/INDENT]

A soldier is consigned to the capable hands of Cinnabar Calomel, because to do otherwise would be to end the man utterly. 'Your arms off', the Constable had said to that one, and here is the terrible truth of it: that Ariane might actually have made good on that -- today. Just today. That she might have been glad of it, that she'd very much have liked to fill the man's throat with living iron, and in this way let him drown, rupturing...

So that it's a merciful thing that Calomel's taken that one into his ... care, and that he claims the commander for now, as well. It's very well indeed that he's pressed Horse's reins into her hands, for those hands require some manner of occupation, and would have gladly found it in the murder of that man's flesh. But instead there's worn leather and the nearness of Horse, which disciplines the swordswoman to quietness; instead, these reins which she winds slowly through her fingers, drawing the beast's head gently closer. He is a patient beast now, as bodies in varying states of hurt are laid across his broad back. He is patient, when the woman presses her forehead to the warm gloss of his heavy neck, and requires of her lungs that they gently breathe, of her heart that it ceases to furiously pound.

There is a touch meantime for her shoulder, where the Constable finds cotton still slick with mercury, but no cruel edges at all. And lean muscle that does not flinch from the contact, that does not respond at all, because she is schooling calm through the narrow length of her, is inhaling it with every painful breath. It is not until Horse is thoroughly weighted by these living burdens that she stirs herself at his side, and even then she must linger a moment by the wide saddle. There is a man hung there who wakes still, a man whose ears are surely listening, if pain and fear have not yet murdered his senses. And to this one, she must bend for a moment, must breathe in some quiet rasp:

"Now we go. At 'n ddrwg ddiwrnodau. At y ddihenydd."

It is terrible phrasing. And still, there will be no mistaking its meaning, not for that ruined man.

In its aftermath, only a single thing remains, only a single task: to return to the fore of Horse, reins and all. To await what will come from the Constable. To begin quietly, at last, for the road.

[Cinnabar]

It is a straightforward affair for Calomel to retrieve the unconscious officer from where he lies sprawled amid the rubble, to haul the limp form across his shoulders and carry him back to where Ariane holds the horse still. The soldier is slung across the mount's broad back beside his subordinate, and Cinnabar takes a moment to briefly check both men for hidden weapons, and to remove the officer's helm and check he's still breathing, still alive despite the purpling bruise that mars his features. Alive enough, it seems, and that's sufficient to satisfy the Constable for now.

That done, he straightens and turns to the swordswoman, head tilted slightly as he listens to those rasped words. Hm. Then, it seems, they are ready to depart. A last glance back towards the burning ruins of the mansion, black smoke churning into the morning sky, and he shakes his head.

"No chance at all." A flat statement of fact, emphasised by a grinding crash as more overstressed masonry collapses into the centre of the inferno. Nothing left but to turn away from the destruction, to nod back in the direction of town.

"They'll explain what happened here. That much is certain. I'll send some men to check over the ruins once the blaze has died down, and to keep away any scavengers or looters." Let us speak now of details, of plans, of distracting minutiae which might serve to draw our focus away from the magnitude of what has happened here, from thoughts of violence and retribution and bloody vengeance. To stand here invites only a descent into grief and rage, so it is better to move. Simply place one foot in front of the other, and walk away, to return only when the ashes are cool and the dust has settled.

"There will be justice."

[Carnath-Emory]

One foot in front of the other. One step, first of all, because the next gets us where we're going, and so does the one after it, and then the one after that ...

Ah, those words. Best that the Constable not inquire, and not least because they're all but an incoherency. 'Naive', the Governor had once pronounced his own guard, and here's evidence of it right now: that amongst all the questions she had put to Syl Duquesne, of all the small phrases she might have learned, threats did not number. That not once -- even knowing that there was some encroaching danger, even knowing that trouble would come upon the man sooner, rather than later, she had not thought to say this very simple thing: 'Teach me what words will terrify the 'r Chyr'laud.'

Not that it would've done much good. That man is clearly senseless with hurt.

One foot in front of the other, and perhaps she's flinched at the gravel of crumbling stone; perhaps she is beyond that, and has only shrugged. Even now, the last of the quicksilver is melting through clothes and flesh, little but a sickly sheen left to mark her. No chance at all, and she'd have lingered here to be sure of that, would have stayed to witness the end of it all, the completion of such waste --

But there are these details yet; these plans. There is this matter of vengeance, and all of it spoken in the Constable's calm, low tones, so that her thoughts have an anchor as the body mindlessly moves.

"We must have -- someone. For their language." There is a water-bag hooked against the saddle. She cannot dare to lift a man's body in order to reach it, for her hands will murder what they touch; will not restrain themselves from that a second time. So her throat must be forced to produce half-intelligible sound, and the Constable must decipher what of it he can.

"His brother -- " Must be told, if he has not perished there with the rest; she cannot by any means imagine Ethan murdered, but then neither could she Sylvius, as little as an hour ago. His brother must be told. His brother cannot be reached. His brother could have translated, unless he ended these captives without bothering to, for which she would not in any measure fault him...

"You've a place. To hold them." With a checking backwards glance; the Constable is afforded a glimpse of ashen features, of blackened eyes. This is every inch a weapon: he will mark that in the gradual straightening of her spine, as Details move to claim the place that Loss had held.

"So. I give you those cultists." It is necessary that she spits, to clear some of the bitterness from her throat; it is not at all coincidental that she does so now. "Now you give me these. I am there for these. But do not call it justice." Again, the cold slash of a backwards glance: it devours Constable, Horse, Ruin.

"There's no justice for what they've done."

[Cinnabar]

"Mm." Practicalities, always the practicalities.

"First, we must secure the prisoners properly - I have just the place for that, so that is not an issue. Then find some way to understand them and be understood in turn. You know where they are from, or at least the name of the place in order that we might find those who share their tongue?" Consider the details, consider the potential pitfalls and thus how to evade them. Consider each step before you make it, as many steps ahead of you as you can bear to look.

"Then, we ask them questions. A great many questions, with great insistence." A mirthless grin at that, hand reaching to pat one of the slumped forms on the shoulder. Meanwhile, questions of his own.

"What is the brother's name? I shall have word put out to seek him, or at least make it known that he is sought." And at her proposal, this demand, he can only nod, grin widening.

"Oh, most certainly that can be arranged, since you have proven so cooperative in the past." A pause, a glance to the horse's human burden before he looks back to the swordswoman with a gaze that glitters silver.

"There is more to justice than simply hurting those who have hurt you. But if you disagree with the word, let us call it a reckoning, and leave it at that."

[Carnath-Emory]

Practicalities. To the tune of iron-shod hooves and worn boot-soles; with the stink of sweating horseflesh and bleeding men upon the air. A backwards glance affords one a very fine view of dying Aithne, but such reminders as these require only that one breathe...

"'r Chyr'laud. This is the word I know. It is for their home, or their selves, or their language; I do not know." Because this is not the sort of thing that one asks of a casual aquaintance, or really of any aquaintance at all, except that at some point ... matters had begun to change. And to change with such breathtaking speed that it wasn't until the end of it all that she'd realised the extent of it all, not until those very last days that she'd grasped the necessity of certain very pointed questions.

In other words, she'd begun too late.

"It is a desert-place, which is theirs. It is very far from here, and there is trouble -- there, or -- " The swordswoman is not by any means capable of humour, this very bad morning, but of a certain spitting wryness, yes. Here's a glance that's drenched with it, acidic at its edges, furious in its every angle. "Or somewhere. I do not know. Do you see this? To your every question, I will ask that I do not know. That I expected trouble, and that this is not it. That I had prepared for dangers that were not this. Do you see? I do not know very much at all -- "

It is far more of a speech than she'd intended, and certainly far more than the seared throat can support. It is a fine fit of coughing, smothered poorly against the curled back of one hand, a shoulder rested against Horse's for a time. They must continue in this way for some moments, until her breath has gained some semblance of normalcy -- and then she is wiping her mouth, and wiping her eyes, and doing some harm to gravel with her toe.

"Ethan. Ethan Duquesne, but I think we do not trouble that one. He willl -- " That had been the trouble for which she'd been employed, the trouble she'd anticipated, and reasonably so. There is murder between those two. There are other things, as well. Da bachgen, he'd said of his younger brother, and there'd been such a look in Sylvius' eyes...

"He will know of this soon enough." And perhaps he already does. One learns not to underestimate the capacity of his sort. And meantime, it's silver for silver, when a backwards glance matches her gaze to his; quicksilver is glittering like cowardice about the edges of her eyes. "And we shall disagree. Justice ... rebuilds that place, and restores those men's lives; you do not know what has been lost. Justice undoes what is wrought here, and visits it upon another instead.

"That cannot be had. But the name of that man can. And then, Constable ... then shall be a very fine reckoning indeed."