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would read the news from the long abandoned Esbec, nodding, "Well this is the most that's happened over there in decades. I guess it would be easy to burn down a ghost town after it was abandoned by it's Proprietor." would state Philip Aurelian, the Duke of Adria to no one in particular.

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Helinathe stood watching over the flames with her newly proclaimed herald. "Look into the flames," the Azdrazi remarked, "this is a bonfire for your birth, a bonfire for the Lord, a bonfire for my brother, and a bonfire for the Father. Never forget this sight, Sister."

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"How much more will the people of the Empire tolerate, it seems forever at this point."  barked the elder Sarkozy as he saw the smoke rising from the horizon, nothing but a devious grin would be upon the man's face tonight.

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HIM consorts briefly with a wizard who determines the Esbecian fire to be caused by a knocked over lamp. Knocked over by a cow, in fact, whose starvation from lack of attentive care had driven it to madness, before it collapsed.

 

How the lamp was lit after such long abandonment, the Emperor could not figure.

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Rhys Briarwood threw his hands into the air as he finally made it home from his ten-years long milk run to Providence, only to find his brother's family estate burning down. "Well, shucks! All that hard work for nothing! If only the Imperial government actually cared for its far-flung subjects in the provinces, then maybe this wouldn't have happened... oh well, it could always be worse; I could've been born as Philip Aurelian, the clown of Adria!" Rambling into ventures hardly relevant to the fact that his home was burning down, he took a long, well-deserved sip of that milk. "Ah, refreshing."

 

 

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Were tidings of such a thing to reach that Lady of Silver within her mountain halls, she would halt in place, pausing to read the document thence in triplicate, and then once more for good measure. She dared not spit out the mouthful of tea she had sipped from her cup - but alas, she leaned back in her chair as a crow of white squawked angrily in her ear. So she then asked of herself, and of the numerous funeral urns that surrounded her;

 

"So the Wyrmlings of the Titan go out and burn an abandoned town to ashes and embers... for what reason, prithee? As far as I can see, it was a waste of good wood; waste not, want not, after all... What do you think, Amthalion darling?" She asked of the simplistic kiln 'pon her nightstand, as if it could answer her. 

 

"Ti, I suppose that's right- if it was abandoned, noone was hurt, and that's what matters- no, that doesn't mean we go scrounge up anything left, unlike you, I am not a career criminal!" 

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A stone being of titanic proportions remembered visiting the town once. He would not forget the scaled ones hand in burning it down next time he came upon them.

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Drasus made landfall at the base of the smoldering ghost town that was New Esbec. He remembered in his youth that a man named Iskander Basrid was entrusted with the prosperity of the region. To think what an abysmal failure he was in said venture. It was no wonder to him that he had turned tail and slunk off into obscurity, leaving the township of New Esbec in a worse position than when he had started. As he made his way through the town he observed the wanton destruction about him. The Archchancellor chuckled to himself as he saw the childish scribblings of some clearly mentally deficient idiots that read 'Azdromoth'. It seems they really wanted it known that the 'Arch-Drakarr' was the culprit, having repeated the graceless message on any surface they could find. Drasus remarked aloud . . .

"The Arch-Worm strikes again."

 

With a scowl, Drasus returned to his boat and made way for the Capital.

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And so it was that news of this tragedy reached the ears of an especially puzzled Carrington scion. He'd only last visited New Esbec recently during an investigation, on which the findings had been inconclusive, yet promising. 

 

How interesting it may be, for him to resume such a study. A new branch of information for his thesis altogether. Surely worth looking into, if anything.

 

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"DUNAMIS! DUNAMIS IN ESBEC!"

 

Ithe throes of an unabated mania, one begrimed peasant cantered out the solace and bounds of his farmhand home: hands flailing and splaying to and fro. For, in reel and rout, the fires of fry and brimstone razed the town to its very toes.

 

"DUNAMIS IN ESBEC, I TELL YOU!"

 

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"Are the imperials going to pretend this didn't happen too, in a bid to avoid actually for filling their duty as fidei defensor?" asked Basil Moroul.

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Otrok Qan caught the whiff of embers in the air. A moue formed upon his face, an expression of part pity, part disturbance.

 

Border towns had always been but the beginning of terrible things to come, however desolate they may be. He had witnessed the happy days of past empires fleet away. He had seen the barbarity of Man's empires in their waning days. And with a rearing of his steed, he turned and rode south. He would not be around to see the horrors of their strife again. 

 

Soon, he thought, the wigs, pomp, and faux civility would be replaced. Gallows, superstition, and fearsome paranoia were to be the qualities of the new era; qualities which never boded well for the turkins... 

 

'O Illah, protect them from the north, protect them from the south, from the east, and from the west; for surely no road shall be without war. Let them take refuge in your magnificence when there is nothing left. Ameen.'

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"It is in poor taste for a Dragon to prove his superiority by slaying and burning mortals. It is in poorer taste for one to proclaim it for all to hear, reveling all in long-winded boasts."

 

The voice called out, tone crackling with the peal of thunder. He'd turn to his blade where a red eye resided, slit-like pupil burning with primal intelligence. Streams of smoke covered its sharp form, glistening with adamant luster as that intelligence soon became a mocking bemusement. It soon spoke out, deep and guttural, heavy and foreboding -- sounding of molten flames and stone, laden with vehemence;

 

"THEY DID BOTH IN A SINGLE NIGHT."

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An armor-clad woman rode northward through frozen wastelands as the frigid nighttime wind bit into her cheeks. She urged her steed faster, fatigue setting in as the scent of smoke wafted from her cloak. In the ashes that she left behind her, she denounced a portion of her blood, and filled its place with an undying loyalty to her siblings and her Father.

 

Eleanore sighed deeply as she led her mount through the gates of her new family's keep. It had been a long and arduous evening.

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