The City of Heroes Burns

[Sagequeen]

Closed to Zerith and Enigmatic Immortal. Bunnying approved.

The young high elf had expected much more; she was anticipating it with a new-found hunger for all things arcane as the portal began to manifest. The prismatic center thrummed with energy and radiated outward to the flickering, circular edge; without hesitation she entered into it. The impression of stepping through an impossibly thin plane of tepid water - directly to her destination - had been disorienting; but only because she expected to witness the very weaving of the fabric of time and space itself. But in fact, it was only a simple folding of that cloth that instantaneously placed her miles away. The elf's first experience of teleportation had been sadly underwhelming.

On the bright side, she was instantly gratified with a breathtaking view of the city; there was no higher vantage point than the cliff upon which Erissa found herself perched. Leave it to Troyas, she thought. The mirth of a wizard does not diminish over time like his body as many believe; instead, that mirth becomes more concentrated and gains subtlety with every passing year, until finally, he is the only who understands the joke. But it figures my ancient master will never let me live that incident down. She could almost hear the old elf's opulent laughter as he propped his feet near his hearth in Underwood, her mutt Osher at his side.

The incident, Erissa remembered, had been late last summer, not long after her taste of demon-flavored death, when Troyas led her to the spiraling staircase in his extensive library. Up, he had commanded, to the very top. The pupil had obeyed with her normal, good-natured wariness; it was rare for her teacher to disclose his lesson before the crux of it was as plain as a light in the dark, no longer needing an explanation. Sometimes she was astute enough to discern the purpose of his exercises beforehand; sometimes she was not. This lesson would prove to be the latter.

“Your telekinesis,” he began, “is only as useful as your imagination can make it. Anything you can see, you can manipulate.” He had paused expectantly.

“When,” his student asked, “will I be able to manipulate my own body?” Erissa had attempted levitation before, but found that only her long, silver hair was affected, standing on end as if she were upside down.

“Can a stone hold itself aloft? Your skill does not work that way, not yet, but with practice your ability will grow beyond its current limitations,” Troyas replied. “Moving on, your task today is defensive in nature: how do you prevent yourself from being injured in a fall?” Erissa had pondered the notion for a few moments, careful to take in her surroundings. Lesson four, he had instructed her, know how to use your surroundings to your advantage, and, in conjunction, to your enemy's disadvantage. The apprentice supposed the surest things she could count on were the things she would always have with her. Confident, Erissa sprang lightly to the stair's rail, testing her theory as she steadied her balance by manipulating her clothing. Once centered, she bounded from the rail; a giddy two story free-fall with an abrupt marble end awaited her should she fail.

Troyas had been a gentleman, quick to avert his eyes; he knew what was coming. Erissa learned, among other things, that unless distraction were the goal, it was not advantageous for her to use her own clothing to slow a vertical, feet-first fall, especially since she was wearing robes. To her great chagrin, she had to wrench her elbows downward to keep from sliding out of the robes completely as they crumpled all the way up to her armpits.

“At least it was not trousers,” Troyas had called out to her. She could hear the grin in his voice as he continued looking away. After his student lightly hit the ground, she forced the bottom hems of her robes to her ankles where they belonged.

Even now, more than a year later and alone atop a lofty cliff, Erissa's cheeks were painted with the blush of dewy roses at the memory. She could not help but smile, not just for the lesson, but also the current view with which Troyas gifted her in his jest. The entirety of Radasanth was visible from that high northern cliff, and her way down was obvious. Dressed in a silken gown for her evening of enjoyment, she took in the lovely view.

Erissa recollected the beautiful hodgepodge that was the newer neighborhoods in Underwood, but witnessed a much more sophisticated and refined reflection of them in the flow and style of Radasanth. She could ascertain the deeply dwarven sturdiness supporting human convenience and practicality, all adorned with graceful elven aesthetic; the improbable cooperation allowed a strong order within the sprawling city below her. Erissa smiled; only the conciliatory and pragmatic humans could find a way to enable elves to design city-scapes with dwarves so harmoniously. She took a moment to appreciate the exquisite marble statue of the high elf Radasanth in the square below her, though it struck Erissa as odd that the only real fortifications for the city were in the northern district.

The setting sun splashed the western horizon with lustrous, mingling bands of yellow, orange, red, purple, and blue. The beauty of it was reflected in the glittering ribbon that sliced westerly through the heart of the city, the Niema River. Her gaze was drawn further south, toward the city's middle-class district, and she saw from her perch a column of smoke that was slightly different than what the other simple fireplaces generated. As she watched, the airborne soot grew rapidly in breadth as it roiled in the cool evening air. Her posture stiffened with alertness as the high elf saw firelight emanating from a distant structure; the radiance of it illuminated the immediate haze in the wavering and baleful shades of an impending disaster.

Erissa focused on her sandals to slow her fall as she stepped into empty air, and in turn she used her clothing to keep herself upright. The arcanist descended slowly, fighting to keep herself aloft as long as possible; she was able to float forward over the entire northernmost part of Radasanth. As her feet hit the ground, she sprinted through the streets and around the scattered crowds toward the growing fire, hoping she would not break the high heels or straps on her sandals. Taking a spill and running barefoot to a fire were two possibilities she did not want to consider. The gorgeous sage colored gown flapped in the wind; she had not dressed for such an occasion.

Erissa continued her sprint over the bridge spanning the river and into the residential district; already voices were raised in alarm as more citizens of Radasanth noticed the smoke. She dashed through an alley, hoping her shortcut would bring her to the scene of the fire more quickly. In the gloom, a cackling man wielding an enormous spear almost knocked her down as he barreled in the opposite direction. She quickly regained her balance and cast an angry glare at the green-clad man. Erissa began her race again, shaking her head at his wild eyes and hideous laugh.

Panting from her exertion, she broke from between the two buildings onto a thoroughfare. The scent of smoke enveloped her in an oppressive and caustic womb as the arcanist gasped for breath. To her horror, the southern wall of a home was already engulfed and crumbling, the blaze threatening to spread to the next residence, and she saw terrified faces in a dark, second-story window on the opposite side.

“Somebody help them!” Erissa screamed at the gathering crowd. They looked at her with terrified, helpless expressions, and the young arcanist knew she had to do something. Some 'city of heroes,' she thought as she rushed forward.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

“I’m just saying Z, the next time we go to the Citadel we need to fight a legendary stripper or something, because this last fight wasn’t what I’d call a good time at all.” Jensen rubbing his backside as he ached his way forwards into the streets of Radansath. His companion, Zerith Dracosius, merely meandered forwards as well, using his halberd as a crutch, though he did his damndest to hide that fact.

It was as they always were, another night in Corone. A Saturday to be specific. And every Saturday the two friends from the Ixian Knights would head over to the Citadel and ask to challenge a legendary fighter of old. The monks, with all their infinite powers, could create a carbon copy of the old spirit so they could fight again. While never as good as the real thing, it was truly a test of their skill.

Not that they ever defeated a legend. In fact this last one was a vampire guy with a fetish for angels and blood. He had a piercing gaze that would fix you in place and there was nothing one could do while under the effects. Nothing, save get raped up the ass by the vampires sword, figuratively, of course.

But it was these impossible fights that spawned their friendship. Zerith was the first man to stand shoulder to shoulder against Ramah Quenzecotl, the terrible thunder lizard who had defeated demon armies on his own! Somewhere in that blood soaked battle they formed a rivalry, that turned into a partnership, that became a lasting friendship. So every Saturday they made it a point to go out and do battle as comrades and see who did not choke the worst. Of course, in good fun, neither admitted they were the weaker to the other until they were held in the loving arms of their lovers as they cried about all the naughty places they were touched by the bad man.

“I suppose you do need to lower the challenge level,” Zerith teased. “I can tell you’re getting beaten to easily. What’s the matter, Jensen, age catching up to you?”

To this, the joke was more two fold than any other, for it was a well known fact that Jensen Ambrose was an immortal. As such, age jokes never seemed to be out of supply to his friend. Lifting his hands behind his head he marched forwards, laughing with his friend as he took in the night air.

He opened his eyes and narrowed his brow, attempting a second time to take in the night air.

Something was not right, and the immortal could smell it. Zerith turned to him to see the serious look in his eyes and looked around for the source of the confusion. Jensen sniffed the air again, and with a wretch he jumped away from Zerith.

“You smell like shit dude! Seriously! That vampire sex you up or something cause you reek of sweat and shame!” Zerith laughed as he shook his head, marching forwards towards his home. “No really dude, it smells like rotten eggs, like you bathed in your own cologne for hours!” Jensen pressed on, poking his comrade in the ribs. Zerith merely pushed a hand to Jensen’s jaw as they tussled in the street like children, both laughing as they tried to one up the other. Both being trained by the same warrior, their styles of battle soon showed as Jensen became a slippery whisper in the wind, and the general of the Ixian Knights became a stalwart mountain of defiance as his arms moved to grapple. So it was they moved in a quick paced dance, trying to out due the other.

Off to the sidelines a mother walked with her daughter, where the girl tugged her dear mother’s skirt and pointed to them. “Mommy, what are they doing?” The woman turned to see them groping each other, moving around the other in a tight embrace as hands rubbed sides, trying to lock together as they laughed and grunted.

“GET A ROOM!” The mother shouted as she lifted her daughter and ran away. Jensen and Zerith stopped long enough to realize that to the untrained eye, they were practically feeling the other up. Still, with a shrug both men went back at it until finally, after a slight miscalculation, Jensen’s head was in a headlock as Zerith’s other hand ruffled his hair.

“Hmm, now I see why our women love watching us wrestle.” Zerith said triumphantly.

“Yeah, never knew we were so gay about it,” Jensen replied unphased. “Though seriously, I just use it as an excuse to touch you, because deep down inside, I think I love you man.” Jensen waited for the retort, but it never came. He looked up to see his friend’s eyes narrow as he suddenly ran forwards, releasing Jensen from his hold. The man moved swiftly towards a small alcove of the town, where the smell of sulphur still lingered. In a moment, answers were given as Jensen looked to see the sky was filling with black smoke.

It wasn’t Zerith he smelled, it was fire.

When they turned the corner Jensen paused to assess the situation, but his brash colleague charged into the flames with no fear. Jensen sighed rushing after him.

Figures I make a gay comment and he goes running into a flaming house… Jensen mused with a giggle.

[Zerith]

Jensen Ambrose was unlike any friend the halberdier ever had. He was rude, annoying, vulgar, often insensitive, and even though he was immortal he rarely thought before he acted. He hated elves, and the fact that someone like him was a parent made many think that althanas as a whole was going to hell. To top everything off, the man was just a simple pain in the ass.

Yet despite all of those flaws, Jensen was still the best friend Zerith had in his life. So it wasn’t too hard for him to dismiss the occasional slap on the ass Jensen gave to some of the Ixian soldiers in greeting. The man simply thrived off making others feel uncomfortable.

Together the two friends made the slow, painful trip from the Citadel back to Ixian Castle. The walk home marked the final part of their weekly tradition and once it was over they would have to go back to their families and their duties in Sei’s army. Zerith would contine to serve as one of the mute’s generals and chosen member of the Nine while Jensen would continue to be Jensen, personal bodyguard and professional ass.

One thing the prince never admitted to his friend was how much he appreciated these Saturday nights. For him, it wasn’t necessarily about beating a legendary fighter, though being able to one day would definitely give the two something to brag about to William Arcus. Instead these nights allowed him to get out of the castle and forget about all the stress in his life. When he was standing toe to toe against that mythic warrior there was no Corone Civil War or even Sei’s Mystic War and he didn’t have to juggle the duties of being master of Sei’s army, a caring husband and loving father simultaneously. For those few hours of his Saturday afternoon, Zerith was free to be himself and experience a good adrenaline rush that came with being in a good fight.

“Of course you would love me. Everyone knows that all the ladies on Althanas think I’m one of the sexiest men alive. Why don’t you ask Stephanie?” Zerith was about say in response to Jensen’s last jab at him. It was common knowledge that a lot of people consider the prince to be the most attractive and desirable of all the males in Ixian Knights. However, he was specifically referring to a time when Tobias Greenleaf had said that the one thing Sei needed to get more women to join his army was a poster of a shirtless Zerith posing on a horse with his signature weapon in hand. Right after she suggested it was when Stephanie joined the conversation by saying she thought a poster like that was “hot and that she’d definitely hang one up in her bedroom. Everyone that was around at the time couldn’t help but start laughing after that. Well, everyone except Jensen.

Just before Zerith could make the words come out of his mouth, his nose picked up the familiar smell of something burning. His blue eyes narrowed, thinking that it wasn’t natural for something to smell like that at that time of night. His eyes shifted upwards to see if he could trail of smoke from a chimney or something so he would have a logical reason for the sudden smell that filled his nostrils. Instead he was shocked to see the massive cloud of black smoke fill begin to fill the sky above him and a faint orange glow from just beyond the rooftops.

The two men began to run immediately, with Jensen easily taking the lead and the halberdier following behind him in all of his armor. “How the hell could you have not picked up on that smell, Jensen? Were you too distracted by your growing hard-on when you were trying to manhandle me?”

“Fuck you, Z! I’m not some flaming fag like Sei!” Jensen snapped, making Zerith grin as he followed.

“Seriously, Jensen?” Zerith replied as they rushed passed some strangers that were slowing heading toward the group of spectators. “You just had to add in “flaming” just now?”

The immortal laughed loudly, “I thought it made perfect sense, looking at the shit that’s going on right now.”

After they turned the final corner and made the final dash for the burning house that lay right ahead of them, Zerith finally passed his friend and quickly tossed him his halberd. As he reached the crowd, the prince barely recognized a silver haired woman cry out for help, implying that there were apparently some still inside the building. Still, the Ixian Knight charged forward, passing the woman and several others just before he heard Jensen scream behind him, “Out of the way, pussies!”

Shocked, terrified and helpless, the crowd watched as the halberdier remained fearless and smashed his shoulder into the locked door of the house. The hinges broke from the force inflicted and both man and door disappeared inside the inferno, leaving only another column of smoke to begin flooding out of the new exit.

Inside, Zerith groaned as he climbed to his feet, regretting going to the Citadel earlier to get beaten up before trying play the role of a hero again. Coughing, he slowly made his way further into the house to begin searching for anyone that could still be inside. He only hoped Jensen would be right behind him, or at least acting on some sort of idea he had that could possibly help.

“He better not expect me to do this by myself. He’s the immortal one, not me.”

[Sagequeen]

“Oh, no! Those idiots!” Erissa seethed out loud as she watched the building burn. The arcanist took a quick look around her, wondering if any real heroes would show, aside from the two who appeared to have just come from the losing end of a drunken bar fight. The handsome one was hiding a limp, and the other... well! He seemed like the cocky type, easily given to such rash things, and the fresh blood on his face only lent credence to that notion. The high elf had no idea how calling someone a cat was an insult, but there was no mistaking the tone in which he shouted it.

Erissa shook her head as she watched the men rush with abandon into the burning building, and with only a second thought on the matter, she cautiously peered in through the broken door after them. It was an inferno; the fire twisted in wicked columns, greedily consuming the ample air provided by the newly opened door. Erissa caught sight of one of the men, which one it was she could not tell, as he disappeared through a northern threshold into another room. With a worried sigh, she hurriedly removed her shoes and ripped the heels from them; the high elf gracefully picked her way across the flame-ridden floor, avoiding the burning bits and pieces of life that made this home for one unlucky family, the very same that screamed from an upstairs bedroom for help.

The heat was incredible, making Erissa's skin feel as though it were a suit shrinking to uncomfortable tightness. She raised an arm to shield her face, to no avail; her eyes watered and she coughed from the thick smoke. When she reached the north side of the home, which had yet to be completely engulfed in flames, the high elf ripped a generous portion of cloth from the bottom of her dress and tied it around her head, covering her nose and mouth. She deftly sidestepped from the kitchen rug that had caught fire from a stray ember, and tossed it back into the living area, hoping to slow the spread of the fire. A quick glance around revealed that the integrity of the structure was still mostly solid. However, she noted no exit on the north side of the home as she peered through the kitchen into the utility room, and across to a restroom.

“Water!” Erissa whispered, and dashed to the dark restroom. She opened the faucets completely, hoping the plumbing was still intact; to her relief, water gushed forth. The arcanist focused herself; streams of water began to fly through the air, merging into one, floating through the doorway and into the kitchen. Erissa stepped forward, telekenetically guiding the streams through the threshold into the living area, but the intensity of the heat only caused the water to evaporate into steam. Changing her strategy, she diverted the little river and began to soak the entire kitchen area, hoping even such a small advantage would buy them some time. Muffled shouts came from above; the stream of water quenched the flickering stairs before Erissa sprinted up them.

She quickly realized her time spent below had been in vain.

The pure intensity of the fire and its rising heat had already engulfed much of the top of the home. This is not a natural fire, she thought as she dodged falling embers. While she had attempted to quench the flames below, the roof had been ignited, and the fire was eating its way down, threatening to cause a collapse upon both the family and the rescuers.

[Enigmatic Immortal]

Jensen had to admit that of all the ways to die in the world there were a few select ones that were on his list of things to avoid. Being hung, drowning, falling from an immeasurable height, and being buried alive, those ones were by far his least favorite. However he did have a special place in his heart for loathing being burnt to death. And that’s what he knew would be the most likely scenario to happen as he rushed into the flaming building.

“Second floor!” Zerith said, grabbing his shirt and using it as a filter for air. Jensen sighed removing his jacket and tossing it out to the street as he rushed upwards. His lungs started to tingle as he took short breaths, pushing as much air out for each inhalation in an attempt to keep the black smoke from sticking in his lungs. The Halberdier tapped Jensen and motioned he was going to the left, and Jensen nodded as he ran to the right down the hallway, kicking one door open and finding a frail woman, huddled in fear in a corner. Her age was easily measured by the wrinkles on her flesh and she coughed hard. He could see a blood on her shirt where she coughed too hard and Jensen ran to her sliding by her feet.

“Can you walk?” She shook her head, hacking as her eyes watered. Jensen let out a deep cough of his own, and turned to see what he could find. He found a walker he could use to aid her and he moved to go and grab it. The woman hit him in the arm, gently, and he turned to see her point to the wall behind her. “No need to be a hero, lady!” Jensen sassed. She shook her head, coughing up more blood, then, as if to prove a point she pointed to it, hacking some more. Jensen fought ot lift her, and she beat him away, still hacking half her lung up and pointing to the room behind him. At last she spoke, her words hoarse.

“I’ve already lived long enough, boy, but those in the other room haven’t had a chance at life…”

He looked to her eyes, seeing her resignation to her fate as she beat at him. “Okay grandma, I’ll be back, stay tight.” She closed her eyes, but nodded as Jensen ran out of the room.

He turned to the next room, seeing the white paint strip from the heat as the handle seemed to radiate heat waves. Kicking the door open after several kicks the immortal was greeted with a violent draft of fire that lashed out at him as it spread to the ceiling, eating the wood hungrily as it snapped and popped casting an orange red glow. He covered himself and ran in, hearing two children crying. He looked around a few seconds, and spotted them under the bed, coughing with tears in their eyes. He stomped over to them, falling to a knee as he wheezed and coughed, shaking his head lifting his arm out to them. They looked to him, terrified, but he gave them a reassuring smile.

“Your sister may need help; can you get her down the stairs?” The oldest boy crawled out, and stood, no older than nine as he nodded. The girl came out next, a five year old who clung to a teddy bear for dear life. He led them out of the room, back to the grandma when the building shook, a beam falling taking out the doorway to the room they just left.

The two kids cried, holding Jensen’s hand tightly as they pulled away, but Jensen led them to the grandmother’s room. He peered inside, shook his head, and turned away heading back to the stairs. The boy looked up to him and coughed before talking. “Gram, what about Gram?” Jensen gave him a pained look, and the boy understood before he could speak. He took his sister’s hand in his, and moved her forwards.

“Gram?” The five year old coughed. The boy smiled to her.

“She’ll be waiting for us, come on!” He rushed her down the stairs as Jensen watched them make it down without much trouble. He turned to see Zerith pull out of a room, but another snap and pop and the building shook, several beams now falling as patches of sunlight filled the holes that were burning through. Jensen turned and ran back down the hall, his lungs burning on the inside as he coughed, lifting his arm to try and block the fumes as his eyes watered. The lack of clean oxygen made his vision begin to swim as he turned to the last door, kicking it open. There he found a boy, around sixteen, with a large part of the ceiling collapsed onto his legs. Jensen ran to him, eyes losing focus as he wheezed and became lightheaded.

He stumbled to a foot, taking in a deep breath and hacking as he lifted up on the ceiling piece. The boy turned and twisted to free himself, but Jensen felt his muscles giving out as his exertion caused him to cough more. He collapsed backwards, coughing more as he felt fluids come up his throat, and he shook his head beating the floor as the flames erupted in a conflagration in the room.

His vision started to turn black when he felt a tingling in his chest, and he woozily looked down to see green eldritch power flow through his body around his ribs. He smoke in his lungs was pushed out as he exhaled heavily, and at once he knew the power of the necromantic orb fueled his body. The Breath of the undying had always kept him alive from minor deaths, and it seemed smoke inhalation was another one on its lists of unacceptable ways to kick the bucket.

With literal fresh life breathed into his lungs he fought to stand, pushing up on the ceiling piece again freeing the boy as he tapped Jensen’s hip to let him know he was freed. The two turned, covering their heads as half the house now collapsed on itself, the flames burning high as they consumed the foundations of the home. Jensen did not have the time to think as he grabbed the boy and tossed him towards the window.

“Spread your wings and learn to fly!” Jensen shouted rushing forwards. The boy looked to him as if he was crazy, bracing himself in an attempt to prevent Jensen from doing this deed. Yet the immortal was far faster than the untrained sixteen year old and he succeeded in shoulder tackling him into the window. The glass shattered easily as he free fell, and Jensen brought his hands up and used all his skills in the art of the wind, bringing forth a gale strong enough to cushion the boys fall. He kept repeating a phrase like a mantra as the tornado gust lifted upwards, and the boys decent rapidly slowed, until he hit the ground with a thud and a possible broken bone, as opposed to a splat and a new ornament for the pavement.

Jensen looked to the ground and prepared to exit himself from the building when the fire curled upwards around his feet, burning the floor. As his feet bounded the weakening wood he stepped too hard and with a cringe he felt his foot go through the blackened board.

“Mother!” Jensen shouted as he collapsed through the building’s second floor story, right to the first in a heap of blood and wood and fire.

[Zerith]

Upstairs, the black smoke that filled the corridor made it almost impossible to navigate. It was a constant struggle, racing against whatever time any survivors could possibly have and the increasing rate the fire was devouring the structure of the building. With half of his face covered by his shirt, Zerith could make out bright orange glow from the flames in the further down the hallway as they crept up the wall and across the ceiling above him. He was no architect, so he had no idea as to how much time remaining before everything around him would come crashing down. So he tried to forget about his fears by focusing on what was around him. The first door on the left being a perfect example.

The door flew open with relative ease, a strong kick proving to be more than enough to knock the minor hindrance aside. The room inside was full of the same black smoke and it made Zerith’s eyes burn as it flooded though the new route that opened for it. The halberdier crouched as low as he could to try and get a better look around. On the floor he found a girl, a teenager no older than twelve or thirteen that laid unconscious. When he reached her a few seconds later he could tell she wasn’t breathing, but when he checked for a pulse he was lucky enough to find a faint one at best. He picked her up off the floor as quickly as he could and left the room just as quickly as he had entered.

As he backtracked through the hallway the building shook and groaned in agony. The sudden shift made the prince stumble, but he managed to remain standing as he leaned against the wall for support. A loud crash caught him by surprise as the ceiling collapsed and the entire corridor behind him was lost. He looked back only once and knew that if he had been just a few seconds slower both he and the girl would have been lost forever. He would have to cut his search short since there wouldn’t be any further places for him to look in. Now his priority shifted to the girl in his arms. He had to get her out of her home as quickly as possible before she slipped away from him.

Zerith had just reached the top of the stairs when he heard another crash and a shout from his immortal friend. “Jensen!?” He called, spinning around in the direction he last saw the fighter head in. It was pointless to even check, he knew that much. The crash came from downstairs, which must have meant that the Ixian Knight fell through the floor or something. The only problem Zerith faced now was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do now. He couldn’t just abandon his friend in a pile of broken lumber, but he couldn’t just put the girl down either.

“By the Thaynes, Jensen. If I didn’t know you would whine like a little bitch when you came back to life, I would totally just leave you here,” Zerith thought as he turned back around and rushed downstairs. The new plan was to get the girl outside as fast as he could and then come back for Jensen. Yet that once again changed in an brief moment when he ran into someone he didn’t expect to see.

The silver haired woman from before was bounding up the stairs just as quickly as he was racing down them, and the sight of another stranger willing to risk their lives in an act of stupidity never felt like a greater blessing that how it felt at that moment. “Don’t bother,” Zerith told the woman, “There’s nothing left up there. Just please help me out here and take this girl outside, drag her if you need to. She wasn’t breathing last I checked, but I she have a heartbeat. I need to go see if my friend is alright, there’s no way you could carry his dead weight.” The general didn’t even wait for a response from the lady since he knew there wasn’t enough time for it. He merely set the girl down on the stairs and brushed past the elf and ran to where he heard Jensen fall.

The immortal was a wreck. Half buried in wood and covered in his own blood, it was uncertain if he was alive or dead. It’s wasn’t like it mattered though, it never did, not with Jensen Ambrose. In a few hours he would be laughing about this fall of his, that or complaining how he was the one who fell and Zerith didn’t. Either way, the prince lifted every piece of debris one board at a time as quickly as he could. During the process, one especially large piece that still burned fell when some weight underneath it shifted and hit Zerith’s upper arm, eliciting a sudden cry of pain as he felt the hot fire hit his skin. He bit his lip in frustration afterwards and decided that he had done enough clean up for Jensen’s sake. Slipping his arms underneath his best friend’s armpits, the warder wrapped his arms around the immortal’s chest and began to drag the man to safety.

Everything after that seemed to go smoothly, as within a few short minutes Zerith was dragging Jensen through the final threshold and back outside to safety and a cheering crowd.

“You better not try to give me attitude when you come to,” Zerith said to his companion. “Not after I dragged your ass through the fire and flames.”

[Sagequeen]

“No,” the high elf cried. “No, no, no. Please, by the Thaynes, no!" Tears rolled down her cheeks as Erissa held the young girl against her. The heartbeat she sensed had faded, despite her every effort, despite the giving of every last ounce of her strength to prevent. It stuttered beneath charred skin and finally ceased in the wake of such bodily damage. The cheering of the crowd around her became a macabre, antithetical caricature to the reality Erissa experienced. Her tear-stained gaze went to the ruined, burning building and she saw another figure emerge.

Numb, Erissa cradled the dead girl, hoping that by some miracle she would be revived, but no miracle came. She watched the man who had left the child in the high elf's charge drag yet another from the wreckage; he struggled under the weight of the man out of danger and frantically searched the surroundings. Eyes filling with tears, she raised a hand to the man, beckoning him. The recognition sparked in his gaze and he limped to Erissa.

“I am Zerith Dracosius, General to the Ixian Knights. What of the child?” he asked breathlessly.

“I – I tried to heal her,” the high elf cried, exhausted from expending her energy in the attempt. “Her wounds... were too great.” Erissa slumped. Zerith's face twisted in grief and rage.

“Who?” he cried. “Who did this?” He stood with his hands balled into fists, chest heaving from his effort and outrage. Erissa's eyes went to the man Zerith left laying in the street, recognizing the distinctive jacket he wore from earlier.

“That poor man, the one who was with you. Is he also...” She couldn't bring herself to say the words, and Zerith merely grunted at her, distracted. “That brave, kind soul. He gave his life to save them. Were there any who made it out alive?” Zerith gave her an odd look.

“Don't worry about him,” the general said; he sighed heavily, his mind whirring in a replay of all he had seen, attempting to discern a clue. “Thank you for your help. It was very brave, and very stupid, to come in after us.”

“Such good it did,” Erissa said sadly. His beguiled gazed cleared and focused on her.

“Did you see anything that would help us find who did this?” he mumbled. She shook her head sadly, understanding his assumption that it was arson and not accident.

“I do not think so,” Erissa muttered, stroking the lifeless face of the girl. A piercing scream caused the two to start with surprise.

“Anna! Anna!” the boy cried. He dragged himself in a pathetic limp across the thoroughfare, his leg likely broken, to his sister's side. His tear-filled eyes searched from Erissa to Zerith and back, denying the finality he saw there. The people near them, realizing the situation, drew away.

“Son,” Zerith said calmly as he could manage, “I”m sorry. She didn't make it. Where are your parents?” The boy collapsed to his knees on the flagstone, the very darkness seeming to cling to his form; he sobbed. Zerith kneeled beside him. “I will find who is responsible for this,” he said. “I swear it. Your parents?” The boy crumbled against him.

“Grandma,” the boy said, attempting to quell the body-wracking sadness, “went for Grandpa's medicine.” Zerith sighed, grateful there was someone left to care for the boy. His resolve was tempered in the fire of grief, and he nodded to the high elf.

“What is your name?” Zerith asked her.

“Erissa,” she said.

“Erissa, you must stay and see that the boy finds his grandmother. This wasn't an accident. I have to find who did this. Can you do that?” Zerith asked. Erissa nodded, fresh tears burning her face. “Okay,” he said as he rose. He jogged back to the dead Knight he had left in the street. Yet another wail emerged from the now still, now cognizant crowd; Erissa could only assume it was the boy's grandmother, returned from her trip.

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The dawn's coming was painful; her vacation had turned out to be nothing of the sort. Her dreams were filled with images of fire, ruin, and crackling flesh... and a man.

He had shoved her aside in the alley, eyes wild and mouth sliced wide in a penetrating cackle, altogether out of place given the setting. There was not a tavern nearby, and he seemed drunk on something...

No matter how she tried, Erissa could not rid herself of the image of the man in green. At the sun's peak, she bolted upright in her bed, her grief cut through like a curtain before a blade, and the light of the situation shone through with brilliant clarity.

“It was him,” she breathed to no one. Erissa ripped the blankets from atop her and struggled to redress; her few goods were thrown hastily into her overnight bag. The high elf raced through the hall of the Radasanth Inn and came face to face with its owner. She hardly recognized him.

“The Ixian Castle,” she blurted, “where is it?” He tipped his head to the side, as if it were a silly question. “Please! I have information that may help them,” she implored.

“It's that giant building, the ziggaurat. Ummm, kinda hard to miss...” he said, trailing off in his reply.

“Thank you!” Erissa said quickly and darted past him. He shook his head and chuckled after her.

“Elves,” he said. “Ain't a one of 'em the same.”

Erissa raced through town, heading towards what could only be the Ixian Castle; she finally arrived at its gates, only to be thwarted there.

“Zerith Draconius... Dracon... Dracosius! He is the one I spoke with, so please, let me speak to him again!” she implored. “I have information about last night's fire! Ask him, tell him what I look like! I assure you he will want to speak with me. I think I may know who is responsible!”