Blue Fire 8

Blue Fire 8 is an encounter in Kingdom Aflame.
==Enemies==
* Royalist Militia Archer (Blue Fire 8) (220 Gold, 220 XP, 220 Energy, 2 HP)
* Royalist Militia Mage (Blue Fire 8) (220 Gold, 220 XP, 220 Energy, 2 HP)
* Mayor Hortensia Tarringan (Kingdom Aflame) (400 Gold, 400 XP, 400 Energy, 1 HP)
==Transcript==
===Introduction===
Theadric sprinted across the rooftops, towards the two guardsmen. He slashed left and right without slowing. They both went down behind him. On the opposite side of the street, the Kasan's magic ignited a sorceress -- turning her robed form into a great azure candle. Bands of rebels followed each of them over the slanted tiles. The very same roofs which had given the Ralmarthians the advantage were now avenues that led the invaders past their defenses, towards the very heart of the city.
He leapt down into the square and reveled in the shouts of confusion. The nearest militiawoman, quicker-witted or more desperate than the rest, tried her luck with a spear thrust. Theadric darted round the shaft and ran her through. His comrades were already dropping down to join him. So was the Kasan. They had their foothold, while Ralmarthan's warriors were torn between engaging them and bolstering the allies who faltered at the mouths of the other streets, driven back by advancing rebels.
A handful of enemies clustered close by, gazing around, uncertain of what they should do. %name% tossed a fireball into their midst. Theadric grinned as they burned. Crenus' lackeys deserved to roast like pigs.
***
"Chumgrak!" Nevis twisted and barged his way through the charging rebels.
Ryli and Yaealina were beside him in the next instant, surrounding the fallen orc, shielding him with their bodies. A shield smacked Nevis on the back of his head and he cried out. Thoughtless warriors, swept up in the thrill of impending victory, pressed around them on all sides, banging and jostling. Chumgrak groaned. Nevis clasped the orc's hand. The weakness in those thick green fingers shocked him.
"I can't heal him with these idiots in the way!" The felpuur growled. Claws shot out of her fingertips, and for a moment she looked as fearsome as the werewolves they'd slain.
"You heard her, you whoresons!" Kel's stocky frame emerged through the press, brawny arms shoving the rebels aside. "Move!"
"I... I think I may be wounded," Chumgrak said. His voice was almost a whisper. The orc tilted his head up and gazed at his bloody chest. "Ah... Yes. Definitely wounded."
The quartermaster stationed herself beside them like a bulwark. She kicked and cuffed anyone who came close, almost launching some of them into the square.
"We have injured here, you stupid bastards!"
"How bad is it?" Nevis asked. "Will he-"
Ryli hissed.
"Shut up!" Her hands pressed on the orc's chest. Blood stained her fur, painting her fingers in murderous hues. She muttered inaudible prayers.
All around them, rebels still rushed towards the square, not yet sated. Their red weapons and gleeful faces made Nevis' stomach turn.
***
Ralmarthan is yours. A whole city, conquered by your sword and leadership. The very thought's exhilarating. All that remains is to smash this last pocket of resistance, the pathetic royalists penned in the square. Perhaps they're regretting their allegiance now. Bemoaning the murder of rebels that brought you to their doorstep. Wishing they'd never made an enemy like %name% Kasan. If not, they soon will be.
You charge a trio of spear-wielding militia, sword raised, a war cry on your lips. Two of them drop their weapons and flee. The third must be a trained guardsman. He has a helmet and breastplate, the latter painted with the Seluthas' gold dragon head. They do him no good. Enchanted steel shears the blade off his spear and the head off his shoulders. Other Ralmarthians scream, put to flight. It takes you a second to remember that normal men and women aren't used to seeing their friends decapitated by blood-splattered heroes.
===Conclusion===
Hortensia Tarringan had her spear now, taken from a wounded militiaman when she helped him into the temple. A few of the clerics were still inside -- staying to tend to the injured as best they could. But there was little for them to do. The rebels were giving no quarter to anyone who fought against them, and even Ralmarthians who'd never lifted a weapon in their lives were swept up in the slaughter as they tried to escape.
The mayor's hand trembled on the shaft. She could only plant its butt on the ground and lean her weight against it, certain she'd collapse without its support.
Militia captains and sergeants barked orders and directed their warriors, a frantic last-ditch effort to hold this side of the square. It was no use. On the right, packs of wild rebels poured in from the street, shrieking like a tribe of cannibal headhunters. On the left, two warriors were at the epicenter of a terrible tempest.
Fierce, sudden heat blasted the mayor. It struck her like a titanic gauntlet of molten metal. Hortensia clutched the spear with both hands and somehow remained standing. The din of battle disappeared, devoured by an immense hiss and crackle, the voice of a million chattering fiends. For several seconds she tottered, unable to move, staring at the ground with unfocussed eyes.
"Mayor!" A hand shook her shoulder. "Mayor!"
Hortensia looked into a hoary, frightened face. One of the clerics. Orange light bathed him, giving cruel illumination to his terror. Flames... The temple was burning, its roof ignited by arcane fire.
"Move the wounded!" she said. "Move them!"
"We-"
She sprinted across the square, weariness and weakness smashed from her body by the pounding of her heart. Something flew by. An arrow, a sword, a spear. Hortensia didn't know and didn't stop. She reached the wooden platform and dashed up its steps.
"Stop!" she cried. "We surrender! Ralmarthan surrenders!"
***
"Our losses?" you ask.
For a moment Theadric says nothing. The two of you walk in silence, gazing at the teeming mobs of victors and vanquished thronging the square. Then he sighs.
"Heavier than we expected."
Groups of Ralmarthians huddle together, surrounded by armed invaders. Men and women from both sides tend to their injured. The mayor flits among her people, whispering words and aiding the clerics. You shake your head. This was all her doing. The blood of royalists and rebels is on her hands.
"If there are enough cities like this one," you say, "taking them could bleed us dry."
"Yes... But there's another way. If we send a message here, if we show them what happens to towns that side with Crenus and murder rebels..."
"They get conquered and occupied?"
"No. Put to the torch. Raze Ralmarthan to the ground, and no other city will dare stand against us."
You try to speak, but the magnitude of what he's suggesting stills your tongue. A myriad things spin through your mind.
"I understand, Kasan. You're a hero, a noble champion. This isn't your way. But I promise you, burning Ralmarthan will save lives. Hundreds. Thousands."
"Maybe. But not everyone would understand that. Some would call us monsters."
"You're right. And your name and reputation must be protected. This isn't a deed worthy of the Dragon-Rider's heir. So I'll take the burden. If they hate or fear someone, let it be me. Lead part of our force away from the city. Take the wounded with you. I'll wait till you're gone and give the order myself. Your hands will be clean, Kasan."
"The Ralmarthians?"
"They can watch their homes burn, then I'll drag them out with us."
You continue in silence once more, the stratagem revolving in your mind. Destroying an entire city... The thought is abhorrent, but it could be the lesser evil. How many men and women died today? How many more will perish if other cities resist you terrace by terrace like Ralmarthan did?
The two of you reach the square's edge, where scattered corpses litter the mouth of a street. A burly man in executioner's garb lies dead at your feet. The wound that carved his chest open must have been powerful indeed. Nearby, three people -- rebels, from the look of them -- kneel around a groaning orc.
"Need a healer?" you ask.
"I'm a cleric," a felpuur says. She doesn't turn around. "His wounds are sealed and bandaged. He just needs time to recover."
One of the others, a young lad, stares at you. His face is pale, eyes wide. His lips quiver. You've seen the horrors of battle do that to men much older than him. His face is familiar... Maybe you've seen him around the camp, perhaps exchanged words during training. He looks away.
"Can he be moved?" you ask.
"If we have help," the cleric says, "but-"
"We're evacuating the wounded."
"Now?" says the third kneeling rebel, a half-elf. "Why?"
"We-"
"When the king's armies hear about this, they'll march on Ralmarthan," Theadric says. "Want to be besieged here, with the piles of rotting dead?"
He points at the felpuur and the half-elf.
"You two, help move him."
They glance at one another, but bring the orc's arms onto their shoulders and try to lift him.
"Wait," you say. You take one thick, heavy arm, drape it around your neck, and let the women manage the other between them. "Can you walk?"
"Chumgrak can..." he murmurs.
The boy's still staring at you, as though he doesn't even know where he is. Poor lad.
"Nevis," Theadric says, "you stay here."
"But-"
"There's a bit more work to be done, and you can get your hands dirty with the rest of us."
Category:Kingdom Aflame