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Supernova
#1
The sun-baked sands of the Shad'ahan are pushed north by a fierce wind encroaching upon the neighboring north-land swamps.  The sand, blistering from the unrelenting sun, swirled and danced in the air battering against the swamp willows.  The putrid stench of the bogs held fast against the sands, seemingly blocking its insurrection.  But, high above, the mix of burning sand and spinning air persisted.  Passing beyond the swamps of Golmeuse, up high into the stratosphere, across the Dragon's Bay... this concoction of heat and grit settles into the vast wheat fields dotting the Carigsay countryside.  The natural course of the world lends itself to the ensuing fires as they creep up and spread across the lands leading up to the very edges of Brighwell keep.  Abandoned as an out-keep for the woodland rangers of the surrounding area, the keep of Brighwell had befallen local trolls, not merely content to live under bridges it seems.  The fort had been ransacked; trash and filth littered the grounds... the perfect kindling.  This is where we find Ignatius, the born-anew fire elemental knew his moment had come.  A moment in time to claim a Sanctuary of his own design.


The small company of men that the Regent of Emlyn had loaned to Ignatius stood with him on a vista overlooking the keep of Brighwell.  They had traversed overland to reach their destination with haste, and now, presumptively, would have to wait until a storm broke the flames surrounding the keep or the scrambling trolls and impoverished farm hands extinguished the blaze.  The men flanked Ignatius, their faces glowed as they watched the burn, or perhaps it was simply the presence of Ignatius himself?  None among them would voice their opinion of the situation to the would-be Flame Lord, not of fear, no, but for a curiosity that had been prickling up their spines and making their ears turn red since they first set out not but two days past.


A murmuring started, low and cautious at first, among the soldiers gathered.  “The burning one, what will he do?”  The horses stamped back in forth sensing their riders' unease, the beasts becoming nervous themselves.  “We should set camp, and wait for dawn…”  The ruminations of those assembled grew, as did the fire elementals' impatience.  He punctuates the darkness with a raised fist, the sudden expulsion of raw energy giving off a red glow and calling attention to those who had been astray.


“The weaknesses of man and beast are on display tonight…”  Ignatius’ words are calm and methodical.  Speaking low he continues, “This keep will be mine tonight, with or without the help of you men.”  He turns to leave, his form manifesting in near inexplicable ways.  The plated armor and layers of chain link that had been draped over the flames body, seemingly encasing the blaze, now burned with an orange hue, appearing to melt away.  But the eye can play tricks on mortals, for the flaming armor remained. Swirling in the blazing maelstrom forms and substance lose meaning, however the underlying universal properties remain.  Armor will protect, weapons will harm, cowardice will shirk responsibilities, and courage will burn brightly.


“Sir Ignatius…!”  One of the men on horseback calls out as the fire elemental makes for a full break, moving in a way that would be unnatural for a man, but perfectly acceptable for a fire.  A burning trail of smoke and fire ignites behind him as he sets off at a breakneck pace, merging up with the foreign blaze that had been leading up to Brighwell only accelerates his advance.  The fire elemental becomes one with the blaze, his will merging with that of the wild blaze, his sense of purpose becoming mired and lost in the chaos.  He now skips ahead, as it were, dancing along with each flicker of the flame.


A portcullis works well for staving off an army of men, but left unattended, that is another story…  Littered with hay bales, carts and wagons, refuse and rotting food, the fire easily consumes the kindling, penetrating the keeps defenses at the same time.  Ignatius leaps from the fire, his form manifesting within the courtyard.  Drawing his sword, edges simmering with heat, he points it towards a group of trolls, bounding about without direction or cohesion, hastily looting what they can before it all goes up in flame.


The largest of the creatures sees Ignatius’ challenge and, not without hesitation, gives a motivational push for his smaller kin to engage the fire elemental.  Hefting a large battle axe over his shoulder the troll leader watches the ensuing battle from a safe distance.  Both fear and jealousy consume the trolls’ meager thought processes as, one by one, he’s brethren fall to the fire, his once hesitant gusto turning into a disparaging fight for his life.  


Having lost anything to rightly burn the fires of Brighwell blaze hotter still, the courtyard walls scorched black, seemingly the stones themselves becoming the source of the increasingly unbearable heat.  Fleeing had been lost as an option.  Standing atop the mound of troll bodies, fire charring their flesh, Ignatius once again points his blade towards the lone troll.  “This Keep is mine!”  Like an explosion Ignatius’ voice booms and reverberates within the courtyard.  His declaration to the former troll master is deafening.


A coy smile crosses Ignatius’ face revealing a row of white-hot teeth as he watches the wailing troll make a break for the archway. The unbearable heat makes the trolls flesh hot, the air itself stinging his face in the sprint.  The flames dart behind him, chasing him down of their own volition.  In a desperate move the troll attempts to force up the portcullis.  Discarding the trusted axe he grabs at the iron wrought bars and heaves with all his monstrous strength.  However the troll erupts with a roar of anguish, his hands quite literally melting to the beams of the portcullis.  Unwilling, and unable to pull away from the simmering beams of iron, the troll slumps to the ground, defeated.  The fire crawls over his bulbous and misshapen body, his boils popping and flesh sagging from bone.  The heat steals away the breath from his lungs and his final moments of silent crying is lost among the roar of Ignatius’ blaze.


The gathered Emlish guards and militiamen, having set up camp on the lookout, watch with an odd sense of terror and disbelief.  From where Brighwell would be, a rolling black cloud of ash billowed up into the night sky.  The cloud was framed by an orange silhouette that one might say resembled a man wreathed in flame.  The night itself had been vanquished by the flame of Brighwell.
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#2
The unexpected heat wave stuck Brighwell most exceptionally, albeit rather predictably to those who have taken to inhabiting her fortified walls.  The Flame Lord of Brighwell was most pleased with this turn of events.  Rumors were spread and missives received from his noble compatriots; those who are friend and foe had been fleeing to Summer Isle for a reprieve.  This suited him and his plans quite well.

With each passing day however, those plans became a memory that soon started to fade.  The soldiers and guards that had trained under the fiery but benevolent Lord soon found themselves drifting back to their villages and homes scattered across the countryside.  They knew that their Lord Ignatius would keep the wildfires at bay and thus could focus on this seasons harvest, a small token of their gratification for their Lord which he returned in kind to them.

One day Ignatius happened to notice that suddenly the only inhabitants of Brighwell were he, a skulking goblin, and a simple blacksmith girl.  Despite his desire to lead men into battle, this now suited him quiet well.  Perhaps it was the glorious heat that settled into the area, but Ignatius felt at ease with this new world, finally feeling a sense of peace within his core.

It was this one particular evening, notable only for the unparticular events that followed.  Ignatius had been near the grand fireplace of the manor, his favorite place to brood.  The fire that burned in the fireplace grew as Ignatius himself slowly fell into a peaceful, meditative trance until one flame could not be discerned from the other.  Without a second glance or thought there suddenly was not a trace of him left, save for a scorch mark upon the stone pavers.

Some travelers who pass by Brighwell now say they will see a diminutive goblin roaming about, a blackened hand scorched across his grotesque face, giving them the evilest of stares.  Others say there is a strange girl, a blacksmith she calls herself, that will speak to the fires of her forge, and the manor house.  Those who like to indulge in a grand tale will say the fire speaks back on occasion.
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