REGICIDE [event]

[attr="class","basich"]REGICIDE

[attr="class","basicp"]


His queries are met with blank faces at best, unwelcome snarls at worst. Some turn away from him and ignore him. Others scream and shriek. How should we know? What does it matter? Can't you see we have other concerns?

And in the background, always, the stench of burning flesh and wood. But one man, harried and annoyed, points him the right direction. If Orfiel follows this lead, he will run into michel delafere and mysterious woman entertaining herself with him.



Something twitched a few feet away, and shook itself out with a pained groan. A human child, covered in soot and nearly unrecognizable, glared at the jackalope.

"That's my dinner," he said, and wriggled over like a worm on his belly to reach for a leg.



The soldiers burn, but they understand. The civilians Eleanor dashed forth to rescue number four: a woman and her three children. She presses her infant son into Eleanor's hands, coughing from the smoke, and turns back into the fire for the other two.



The noise rises and rises and consolidates into a single, high-pitched scream that seems to go on and on without end, the woman never stopping for breath. It finally cuts off when a man clubs her across the back of the head and her body falls limply to the ground.

More men clear a path through the crowd, shoving several aside, including Channing, and a noble follows in their wake. She's short but beautiful and bedecked in shimmering gems and silk. She looks absurd in contrast to the wreckage and despair that surrounds her.

"Everyone outta the way," the first man growls. "The Lady has to get through to a safe place. Anyone who can stand, come with us. We're excavating her treasures. That's a royal order." He glances at the crowd and his gaze falls on Channing. "You," he says, pointing. "You look like you could haul a load."



If you don't move, you will be moved. A water-wagon bears down upon him, the horses running wild with smoke and terror in their eyes. A soldier bounces from the seat and lands dazed besides Dallas.



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[attr="class","basich"]REGICIDE

[attr="class","basicp"]


The woman leads him through the maze of smoke and terror with that same unsettling icy calm. Her head is held high. Her blonde hair swings like a waterfall in pace with her steps. She is silent until they arrive before the main wreckage of the east wing of the palace. Flame has consumed it utterly. No one could enter and survive, not without the intervention of the Goddess herself.

She turns back to him.

"Will you hold to your word? Will you find her?"



The man laughed, and then seemed surprised by himself. He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

"I was looking for my accomplice," he said. "She enjoys playing with her food, and always has to be dragged away from the table. I thought I might find her in the ruined areas, toying with some lost damsel. It seems instead I found my own."

He drew his sword.

"Let's make this quick."



The woman can only wheeze in response, a sharp hack of a cough that will kill her before the month is up. If she survives this fire, first. But she shoves her sons stumbling forward, and they break into a terrified sprint, bursting out of the wreckage. The woman follows at a slower pace, limping, but when she collapses onto the ground beside them, safe, she is in tears.

"Thank you," she says over and over again. "Thank you."



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[attr="class","basich"]REGICIDE

[attr="class","basicp"]


"In vain?" the woman repeated softly. "No, your death would not be in vain. I would ask no man, in truth, to throw his life away against such odds. I merely wanted to see if you had the spine."

She sneered and her face twisted like rumpled silk.

"Although you lack any redeeming qualities," she said, "You have followed me thus far and I will not send you back empty-handed. You have earned that much."

The woman threw back her cloak and there was a sword of surpassing beauty sheathed at her side: a masterwork weapon in every way possible, obviously forged by a god-touched blacksmith. She unbuckled the belt and handed the weapon to Cameron.

"May it grant you the courage you so sorely lack. I will not need it where I am going. For I would ask no man, however base he may be, to do what I would not dare myself," she said and turned away from him. She shook her head once more and stepped forward, a queen ascending her throne. And further still.

The flames took her as she was swallowed up by the wreckage, but she seemed to pass through them without being burned, and her mocking laughter hung in the air for a long time after she had disappeared from view, obscured by black smoke.

This sword appears to be merely a masterwork sword. However, whenever it is used in battle, its wielder goes berserk. He attacks the nearest enemy and continues to fight until unconscious or dead or until no living thing remains within 30 feet. Although many see this sword as a cursed object, others see it as a boon.




The man attacks with grim purpose and speed, but it soon quickly becomes apparent that he is unused to his weapon. Though he is not unskilled, he handles the sword with the stolid movement of an average swordsman. He seems to have expected Florent to flee upon realizing the man was armed. A pity his plan did not unfold as planned.

His footwork is sloppy as well. He steps backwards and his knee bends the wrong way. An opening.



People could be silly when they didn't know what to do. But more importantly, people could be scared. Intangible fear drove them madder than any prowling monster ever could; the mob saw darker shadows than ever walked the earth in their mind. A crowd grew, chanting and howling for revenge, for justice, for order.

Who did this? Who would pay? Who did this? Who would pay?

Their eyes fall upon Rida. She is a stranger in a strange land at a time when it is not wise to be caught alone. Their blood sings. She doesn't look like she belongs! She did this! She will pay!

They surge toward her as one seething organism, baying for blood.



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[attr="class","basich"]REGICIDE

[attr="class","basicp"]


The air in the High City has smelled of smoke for hours now. The scent has impressed itself upon the clothes of everyone in the area: the terrified girl hiding behind Florent positively reeks of it, smeared with soot as she is. So for a moment it is hard to tell what is happening. Then the flames begin to lick up the man's back.

He falls to his knees, grunting with pain. The back of his shirt falls away, charred from fire, and the skin there is not so ruined yet that Florent will be incapable of making out the intricate tattoo that covers his back, drawn in the pattern of some arcane rune. It is from this mark that the flames spring, devouring and ever-hungry.

The man smiles up at Florent. His eyes shine with the zeal of a fanatic.

"I am Hers, and She does not cast aside a tool lightly or without purpose," he says. The capital letters are evident in the reverence of his tone. "Tell your people that these are only the first of the purifying flames that will take their empire and remake it in Her image. Tell them to kneel, that the coming storm might pass over them."

[attr="class","basich2"]NOTE

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