09-02-2020, 08:57 AM
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.
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.