The evening continues on—the moon slowly treks its way across the sky, the stars wax in their light as the last, lingering illumination from the setting sun fades…and a fire rages within a rambling, wooden inn tucked away in the frontier town of Borderton.

Vilhallas is faced with Mustaches and Soot-face.  Totmacher drifts back over, as Soot-face takes another drag on his cheroot.  ”Kitchen looks t’ be a total loss,” the man muses.  ”So,” turning back to Villhalas, ”y’ gonna do some’at ’bout that,’Fire-marshal?”   ”Fire-marshal,” the man ruminates.  ”How DO y’ get that kinda position, I wonder?”  Halfling-tart is off in the distance talking to Granny Hazel, but she darts back a narrow-eyed look to the group, assessing the situation there.

Soot-face regards Totmacher—the big half-orc sweaty and begrimed with soot.  ”Didja see any o’ my ironware in th’ kitchen, giant-kin?  How fares my cookin’ stuff?”  Absently, Soot-face offers the little, aromatic cheroot to the half-ocrc.

Totmacher responds--"Did not notice..."

As Totmacher indicates that he hadn’t any indication as to the state of Soot-face’s iron-ware, an explosion sounds dimly from the north, rising above the ambient noises of the burning inn and the crowd surrounding it.  As faces turn to the north in a vain attempt to locate the source of the explosion, the fire-wagon careens up to the small group consisting of Villhalas, Totmacher, Mustaches, and Soot-face.  Aine reins in the horses with a flourish, earning a cheer from the younger boy on the wagon.  Asher stands behind the mounted, magical water flask, calmly continuing to direct water onto the inn.  Dominique is standing on one of the wagon’s running boards.  It appears that the fire-fighting unit has arrived to pick up recruits…

OOC:  Need to have Jas/Villhalas weigh in soon, or he’ll be left behind for the next portion.

Kev,

Jason has been out of town for a couple of weeks but asked me to post for him.

Vil will jump aboard the wagon shouting to Aine, "Head North. I believe the sound was coming from that direction" He points in the general direction.

He adds "Let's go Tot."

I'll keep it brief as Jason will be back and get a post in tomorrow.

I would expect there to be a relatively large crowd by this time--what is the crowd situation?

Unsure of how flighty the carriage will be, Tot will turn yell up to Vil--"will meet you there," and "run" on foot.

The crowd had parted—perhaps scattered would be a more apt description—as Aine drove the fire-wagon up to the group consisting of Totmacher, Villhalas, Mustaches, and Soot-face.  The fringes of the crowd surrounding the wagon continue to hang back a bit, unsure of the intentions of the grim-faced ranger holding the reins of the two horses.  Elsewhere, individual members of the crowd are continuing to engage in the process of putting out the fire via bucket-brigade, while others are still continuing to watch the spectacle, content in their roles as observers.  A few knots of people, however, are beginning to drift away to the north, speculating aloud as to what could have made such a noise.  Most of the speculation is rather dire.

Totmacher takes advantage of the cleared space immediately surrounding the wagon, and leaps away in a run, calling back over his shoulder for the others to meet him.  Members of the crowd leap aside from the sprinting, hulking half-orc with the same frantic energy they used to dodge the fire-wagon.  A few are not so lucky, and the collisions do not slow Totmacher down, although they leave several people lying on the hard, earth-packed streets of Borderton in his wake.

Villhalas jumps aboard the fire-wagon as his half-brother goes pounding off to the north.  Aine shouts a syllable of encouragement to the horse team, and they practically leap in their traces.  With a tremendous forward lunge, the wagon is off to the north—bearing Aine, Asher, Villhalas, the two maniacally enthusiastic boys, and a white-faced Dominique clinging to the handholds and running board of the wagon.

Mustaches calls out as the wagon lurches away, "Fire-marshal!  You will put in a word to my friend Savin Perysinos, will you not?  Considering reparations for the fire damage, yes?  Fire marshal?"  Any further words are lost as the clattering wagon picks up speed, and the hooves of the horses provide a thundering counterpoint to the jangling and creaking of the wooden wagon.

OOC:  Thread closed.  Please go to Top o’ the World, Ma
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:10, Fri 21 May 2004.