The Scorching of Cirras
There are few who remember the scorching of Cirras. Among those who do, most refuse to speak of it. Only the orphan child Aaron will tell his tale gladly. A boy small enough to hide from sight in a patch of foxgloves and young enough to survive the horror of that night with his mind intact.
Cirras, the jewel of the western steppes - a city of forty-thousand souls - snuffed out in one night of fire and fury.
Aaron’s story is a child’s tale of monsters and demons and a hundred bedtime nightmares skillfully evaded by a scampering boy who thought himself to be dreaming. But the dream was real and, as he watched from his hiding place among the purple bells of his mother’s flower bed, Bulog the Dragon laid waste to his world and left him alone in its charred ruins.
Aaron was lucky. His parents, their families, neighbors, friends… all perished as Bulog rained fire on Cirras’ crowded streets. He is too young to realise the tragedy of his tale. But when the shadow of a bird crosses the ground before him, you will find Aaron hiding among the foxgloves.
A Law Unto Themselves
From the files of the Wenlock District courts.
Dear Judge Carter,
My clients wish to express their profound regret at the damage caused to the Black Sheep Tavern and surrounding buildings, following their disagreement with the landlord of those premises yesterday evening.
Park wishes it to be known that he did not court trouble but that, seeing the honor of his sister impugned, he had no choice but “to take the ornamental brass hammer from the wall by the fireplace and smash the leering pig’s teeth out!” (Please note, your honor, that I am quoting my client directly here. I mean no disrespect by his colorful language.)
For her part, Park’s sister Roline wishes it to be known that she can “fight her own battles” and wonders earnestly when she can “pay the fine, get out of this sh*thole and have some fun.”
My clients recognise the cost of rebuilding the neighborhood and offer the generous settlement of ten-thousand gold pieces.
Having spent some time in their company, it is my sincere advice that the town’s authorities accept their offer and encourage their immediate departure.
Gerard Wyhdam - Atorney at Law
Tal’s Last Stand
Captain Tal slumped down against the oak chest, breathing hard. The wound in his side was bleeding heavily and his left broken left arm hung uselessly at his side. He looked down at the broken blade of his broadsword and tossed it aside angrily. So many men had died today. Good men under his command. He had let them down but, by the Gods, he would join them soon in the next world and make amends in person.
Painfully, he reached around to the leather sheath on his left hip and drew his dagger. It was a sharp blade, but pathetically short. Good against a man in close combat, but utterly useless against bone soldiers who had no blood to spill.
Glancing about, Tal spotted a spear, still clutched in the bony hand of the dismembered bone soldier who had wielded it in the ambush that overcame his troops. Cradling his broken arm, he rose to a crouch and crept the few feet to the spear.
The scraping, clattering sound of approaching bone soldiers echoed off the walls. Tal raised the steel spear, gritted his teeth and readied himself for death…