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Rhydin Burning

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Black Knives

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PostPosted: Fri Nov 13, 2015 12:55 am    Post subject: Rhydin Burning Reply with quote

Somewhere in the city of Rhydin

"This city. They do like to burn, do they not?" The speaker stood beside the window of a plain, sparsely-furnished room, decorated solely by a ragged tapestry on one wall, gazing out through a parted curtain. In the distance, the flickering of a distant blaze shone in the night.

Around the table not far away, a handful of others gathered, their faces lit by a single candle. One of them scoffed and spit onto the rough wooden floor. "Mongrels. Too stupid to see that they're being played."

The one at the window turned to her comrades and sneered. "Indeed. Still, it gives us an opening, does it not? So much chaos and terror to harness, to crack like a whip at our friend who care so much for this city. I must admit, I do find it inspiring."

"Very poetic, at least." Another voice spoke up from around the table, dry of tone and edged with just a touch of sarcasm. "Fan the flames, then?"

"Oh, yes." With a cruel chuckle, the woman by the window turned towards the door, where a lone man stood, watching silently. "Gather your brethren. Let the Rising Flame set Rhydin to the torch."

The man bowed his head. "By your word, Mistress. We live to serve, and we serve through fire."
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The Rising Flame

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PostPosted: Fri Nov 13, 2015 2:10 am    Post subject: Reply with quote


As Trebor hung low in the skies above the ocean, its light cast shadows through which several figures moved, stealthy like panthers on the hunt. Indeed, they were hunting a particular type of prey in the night. Not for food, nor for their own gratification. These hunters were on a mission, and they would not, did not dare fail.

The price would be pain unimaginable.

Finally the leader of the band raised a fist, signalling a halt. "There," he uttered softly, "that house. Now, we wait."


Fariah and Karl Alleyn lay curled up beside each other as they slept. They had moved to their present home from Old Market only a few years past, in an attempt to escape the rampant bombings that seemed to plague the Marketplace, an infestation of violence. "Up Seaside way," Karl had said with certainty, "that's the place for some peace and quiet. All those bigwigs up there, they won't let things get out of hand." Even after Scathach's temple went up in flames, he asserted that it was far from the norm, noting that the Sisters and their allies had built it back better than before.

Recently, however, he had begun to gripe--though not in front of the kids--that maybe they would've been better off staying put. Just that morning, fortunately in the wee hours, little Dyrk's playground had been set ablaze, to say nothing of the bomb that had shaken the district's streets not much earlier. "Dragon's Gate. Worst thing to worry about there is runaway stew," Karl had mentioned as they were getting into bed.

She had laughed at that, Fariah had, but her dreams were far from laughable. They were a cacophony of chaos, of screams and crying, filled with fire and-

-and smoke? Her eyes sprang open and immediately began to tear up as she shoved her husband awake before practically jumping from their bed, grabbing her robe and pulling it on as she dashed to the door. The children's doors were open and Fariah could hear them coughing. "Sian! Dyrk! We're coming!" Her husband shoved past her into their son's room, while she went to their daughter. "Sian! It's all right, we're getting out now." Together they ran out through the hall to the front room, full of smoke, and then out into the night.

When they emerged, a half-dozen men and women stood beneath the big tree in the yard, shadowed by the overhanging branches. They were hooded, their faces shrouded from the moonlight. One man gestured as the family emerged. "Take them."

Before either parent could resist, the group rushed upon them, quickly knocking them senseless. The whole family was hefted and carried down a nearby alley, while the leader turned to two of his companions. "Be ready when I give the signal."

"We live to serve," one of them began.

"We serve through fire," the other one finished.


Trebor had set, while Arabrab was rising but still low, obscured by the treeline. In the darkness, the foursome worked quickly, and soon their prey hung from a rope between two tall, leafless trees. Fariah returned to consciousness slowly, drawn out by the whimpering of her children suspended beside her. "Wha-?" She looked down at the hooded figures below them. "Who?" Then she looked out and saw, across the street, a building she'd passed many times while walking with her children. "The Manor?"

A breeze rolled off the sea, and as it died away she smelled something odd. It smelled like a roast on the spit. "Is someone cooking?" Then, as she felt a warmth rising through her body and heard Sian and Dyrk cry out in pain and fear, the answer to her question came to her.

Fariah stared down at her murderers, meeting their leader's eyes as they began to glint orange from reflected firelight, and her scream split the air until it was cut off by the flames.

The hooded ones melted into the shadows once more. A few blocks away, having heard the signal, their comrades gazed at the now-empty Alleyn home until it caught ablaze, before they also vanished as sirens began sounding in the distance.

Below the burning corpses, a handmade sign was propped up, letters scorched black into the wood.

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