[If you'd like to join the investigation into what took place in the Middens, or just come by for some RP, please visit the Crossing Temple Saturday, Jan 5 at 10pm EST for Asara's funeral.]

“The information's good,” said the Elothean with a smirk.

The tall Gor'Tog woman nodded.

“Yeah,” added the human with a scruffy beard, “that ugly Rakash was so scared a' the Blackfire, his teeths was chatterin',” and broke into something between a cackle and a giggle.

“Here he comes,” the Gor'Tog woman said, and licked her lips.

A well-dressed young Rakash man made his way along the dirt path of Siksraja toward the paper shop called Slafs Riza Rakstit. He pulled out a ring of keys, which jangled lightly in his hand.

“Halt,” said the Elothean confidently in the light of the breaking dawn. “I am Hezarel, master sorcerer of the House of the Steel Dove.”

“Mrod save me,” gasped the young man, and his face betrayed fear and his muscles tensed to run.

“I said halt!” shouted Hezarel forcefully, and threw back his high collared cape. He traced a curving sigil in the air, and began to focus his flinty eyes on the young Rakash. “Open the door, and then get on you knees, or you will be incinerated by my Blackfire, along with every single cur in this miserable excuse for a village.”

“O-ok,” said the young man. His hands shook with fear as he fumbled for the key. Suddenly, a storm-grey cat came padding in front of the man, and locked his eyes on Hezarel.

The bearded human cackled. “Stoopid cat! Yer goona burn, ya stoopid cat!”

The cat then purred, “I sincerely doubt that.”

The human gaped like an idiot. Hezarel frowned.

Two wanderers then came around the bend of the path leading to the paper shop. One was dressed in a black mantle; the other, a pale gray cloak of Elven wool.

“You were right, Mister Huns. We're right on time,” said Tirost.

“Are you surprised?” asked Briaen.

“Blackfire 'em!” shouted the bearded human, and the Gor'Tog woman pulled a heavy steel maul from her leather harness.

“Silence, Grint,” hissed Hezarel with impatience. “Open the door, or die, Rakash.”

But the wanderers continued to approach them, and Tirost placed himself between the young man, whose name was Ersten, and the three bandits, while Briaen slowly circled toward the store front.

“You claim to know the secrets of the Blackfire spell?” asked Tirost, his eyes fixed on Hezarel.

“You will soon see it for a moment before your death, fool!” Hezarel focused instead on the intruder, but Tirost did not move.

“Roast 'em!” shouted Grint.

Hezarel gestured, and an obsidian black ball of fire flew toward Tirost. The ball of black flame exploded, sending a cascade of smoke and dust in all directions.

“Ha haaaaaaaa!!” screeched Grint, as he lept up and down in excitement. “Ya got 'em good!”

Hezarel smiled. “I tried to -” Tirost burst through the smoke and ash in a full sprint toward Hezarel, and his black mantle flew behind him like the wings of a raven. There was a flash of haralun and Hezarel's right hand detached from his forearm. His eyes widened in shock, but before he could react, he was slipping, falling, as a sheen of ice appeared below his feet, and the next thing he knew, he was on his back, dazed, looking up, feebly, at point of a haralan sword.

Grint stood dumbfounded, but the Gor'Tog woman leapt forward, and with the grace of a lion, swung her maul at Tirost, sending a cascade of glowing fragments through the air, as it shattered against his magical barrier. The force of the blow sent him sailing off his feet, and he hit the ground hard, rolling twice over, and skidding, face down, along the dirt road of Siksraja.

Suddenly, a bolt of blue lighting shot down from the sky, blasting through the woman's shoulder. She howled with pain, and her maul fell to the ground. She sank in agony, and a foul smoke rose from her right side, reeking of burnt flesh.

Grint gasped in horror, as he noticed the gleaming motes of sanguine light fading from Briaen's outstretched hand. Grint bolted down the path, pushing with each fall of his foot and every breath of his lungs to reach the horses they had left at the edge of the wood. But Briaen sunk low, and, like a panther, sprang after his prey. He flashed forth a tapered blade of white glaes, and severed the fleeing bandit's tendons. Briaen's feet slid across the gravel from the force of swing, and, with a fluid motion, he returned the blade gracefully to its harness. Grint crumpled, landing hard. One of his teeth cracked loose on a rock, and a pool of blood began to intermingle with his beard and the dirt with which he now found himself face to face.

The commotion alerted every guard in Siksraja, and the town's defenders rushed toward the combatants. Ersten came over to the fallen human, and helped him to his feet. “What are you doing here, Tirost?” he asked, looking at the frequent patron of Slafs Riza Rakstit. “How did you survive the Blackfire?”

Tirost got to his feet, and brushed off the dirt. The guards hemmed in the three bandits, and an empath began, with much reluctance, to apply his healing touch to the wounded, once each had been fully secured.

“It wasn't Blackfire,” said Tirost. “Just an ordinary fire ball spell with a pattern hues cantrip – and a weak one at that.”

“I told you,” said Briaen, coming to stand beside Tirost.

“You did – and you certainly took your time taking care of that Tog, Huns.”

Briaen smirked, and held out his hand. Tirost sighed. He reached into his leather bag, and pulled out a bottle of aged Dwarven Whiskey. He tossed it to Briaen.

As the guards began to haul the bandits away, Hezarel, wincing from the pain, rasped, “how did you know?”

“I didn't,” replied Tirost. “In fact, I bet my friend here my last bottle of Dwarven Whiskey that you were, in fact, a sorcerer capable of using Blackfire.”

Briaen slipped the bottle into a leather harness. “Hardly a bet though. If you had been capable of using Blackfire, I would have lost nothing but my friend,” he said with a wry grin.

“Are you a warrior mage too then, sir?” asked Ersten.

“Something like that,” said Briaen.

The captain of the guard approached Tirost with a dark look in her eyes. “Move along. Wherever you go, trouble tends to follow.”

Tirost gave her a brief, respectful bow, and turned to follow the path leading back into the woods.

“Tirost,” said Ersten. “Thank you. I'll have ten pieces of our finest paper for you next time you stop by – on me.”

“Thanks, Ersten,” replied Tirost, grinning. “It'll be nice to write on something other than the brown deckled stuff for once.”

“You know what you lack most, Lord Armagna?” asked Briaen. “Style,” he replied, without waiting for a response.

Tirost chuckled. “You're probably -” Tirost suddenly became aware of his gwethdesuan – the familiar mental voice of Kehlbins came to his mind.

“There's something you have to see. Step through the rift.”