Fire at the Orphanage

===The Fire at the Orphanage===
A tale featuring Orloc in life. Be advised that this story contains violence and implied atrocities not suitable for more sensitive readers.
==At the dawn of madness==
"I never wanted any of this. I never wanted to be a criminal. Sometimes, necessity makes you do strange things. Holding a knife to someone's throat while strange men rifled through their possessions, people who hold no loyalty to you or to your hopes, your dreams, or your goals. Someone I had never met, someone I would never know, someone whose very life was clutched in my hands. My breath smelled foul inside the bandanna drawn over my mouth. I wondered if he was repulsed beneath the fear. Did he hate me?
Shouting. They can't find it. It distracts me long enough to loosen my grip and take an elbow in the ribs. My winded yell caught another man's attention and he intercepted our fleeing captive. There was a struggle. He was determined, but we had to eat. Desperation is a powerful thing. Suddenly our prisoner went stiff, then limp. He fell to the ground with a blade between his ribs.
No! That isn't what we promised, that isn't what we were here to do! The wagon was our goal, not the driver! Damn him, damn that greedy bastard. I confronted him, shoved him. He shoved me back. Damn you! Damn you and all your murdering kind!
Warmth. Over my fingers. I looked down and saw my knife in his gut. I saw his eyes glittering wide, like saucers of standing water. Warmth...over my fingers...
I had no choice. I had to do it. I had to run, I had to get away before they knew."
==One summer day...==
Oran sighed heavily to himself as he bit off the last hospitable part of a red apple, pondering the sweetness of the fruit and how it had been the only flavor he had tasted in nearly two weeks. Apples, apples, apples. Easy to steal, easy to carry, but they spoiled quickly and were no good for long journeys. Hiking the entire way from Tarren Mill was a tiring endeavor and a long one to boot, so most of his food had to be pilfered along the way. Not that he was particularly opposed to stealing, it was just a hassle. Especially when there were witnesses...
Tossing the core, the young man stood and brushed his leggings. It was a lovely midsummer afternoon and the shade from the nearby oak tree was splendidly cool. Maybe a good swim would take the edge off, Oran thought, but it seemed like such a waste of time. There were provisions to gather and places to disappear to. A guard patrol had come dangerously close to finding him as he passed through one of the hamlets on the road, a little town overlooked by a shadowy keep that he wisely chose to avoid. It was hard enough to give the guards the slip in town, but when they had found him again out in the woods they gave him no other choice but to fight back. Lordaeron steel was a fine replacement for his worn old shortsword but the two guards had put up quite a fight, but was it worth the life he took? Absently he untied the dirty bandage around his upper arm and gingerly fingered his scar. It had closed up, but it was probably going to be infected. At least his shirt covered most of it. He wondered if someone had gone to the authorities. The old bandit crew was certainly not the most reliable sort, but if they had been caught as he almost had been, one of them would have sold them all out for the sake of his own skin. Now that the surviving guardsman had seen his deed and knew his face and his direction it would only be a matter of time before they found him here in the southern reaches of the kingdom, so he immediately struck out to the northeast in hopes of losing them in the wilderness. Crossing Lordaeron's heart had been terrifying, but travelers on the roads were so frightened of bandits that they often ignored anyone not with their troupe.
After several weeks, Oran was able to sleep again without waking on the hour to the sound of imagined plate stomping through the trees. He had spent the last several days on the outskirts of this new place, pilfering apples and snitching a drink from a well or trough when he could. Against all his better senses he observed, looking deeper into the town itself every night. Darrowshire was quaint. A pretty place with its creature comforts, it was just large enough to ghost through but just small enough for rumors to persist. Oran knew it was dangerous, but if anything in his life had been reliable, "danger" was right up there. After almost a fortnight of waiting he began to yearn for the experience, to be able to walk through an open market like a normal person. Debates raged through his thoughts and refused to let him sleep until he began formulating a plan to do it. No one would know his name, he swore, and no one would be more privy to his origins than necessary. A traveler passing through on his way to Stratholme would do as an alibi. It would be dangerous, but it was necessary; Oran would never have peace of mind until he knew he could pass for something other than a deplorable convict.
When the day came, he strolled through the streets nonchalantly, looking around at the humble marketfront around the town square. Fresh bread was such a delicious smell, so he stopped off at one of the stands to browse the selection. A young woman was there, wearing a simple brown dress and blouse with a white bonnet. Immediately he felt a flutter in his chest, a kind of apprehension over his plan to buy a bit of food. No need to get anxious, he told himself, though it hardly felt fearful. Still, he was having a degree of difficulty keeping his hands still, so he thrust them into his pockets in an attempt to appear casual. Shopping for bread. Shopping for bread. The lady showed no outward signs of recognition, much to his relief, so he allowed himself a bit of comfort as he purchased a fresh loaf of wheat-bread with a handful of coppers he'd taken off of the guard he had--no! Don't think about that, just pay the nice baker and be on your way.
"Thank you again, Jeanne! Tell ol' Missus Wimble and the kids I said hello!" the cheerfully plump vendor woman called out, waving after the departing lady and her basket. There were at least three children playing in the narrow lane who stopped and ran up to her as soon as she passed. Were they her children? No, she had dark hair, they were all pale-headed or redheads. Unless she had a particularly handsome man, or many men...what did it matter? Oran shook his head and took a bite of his bread as he moved on down the lane, looking for a tavern to try and relax. Maybe the exhilaration had gotten to him, the drunken delight of a day on the town without looking over his shoulder in paranoid alertness swimming over his senses. But then, Jeanne was there in his mind's eye, and again Oran's stomach twisted into an odd knot.
He definitely needed a drink.
==The next day==
The fugitive woke up early from his bed in The Dancing Queen, staring up at the ceiling for a long while. He couldn't remember the last time he had a dream that was devoid of running, panic, darkness and fear. Last night had been the most fitful slumber since his nights alone in the woods, back when he had first run away from home so many years ago. His stomach felt light but oddly pleasant as he pictured the woman in the brown dress and white bonnet, her smile sweet as she turned away from the bread stand.
Jeanne...
How frustrating! She haunted his thoughts every time he closed his eyes. What kind of madmen dwelt on a perfect stranger so? Was it some stupid, childlike fascination with a girl? That sort of thing had died in his heart so long ago, or at least he thought it had. What use was it even to try? After all, he would not stay more than two days, just as his original plan allowed. Anything more would be too risky, and taking the chance to introduce himself would make it too dangerous to even try. What if she already had a husband? What if that husband was a constable or jailer or guardsman?
The questions ran through Oran's mind as he tugged on his breeches and his tunic. He might as well go out again today, he decided, perhaps to idly inquire about local rumors or hearsay. Case a building or two. Go see Jeanne. No, not the last one! Growling, the rugged criminal tugged on his boots and departed. There was no conceivable way he was going to end up at that woman's doorstep professing love and affection or other stupid things like some overstuffed, twitterpated peacock.
Besides, he had no idea where she lived. But...someone might. Oran stared out his room's second-floor window at the people milling in the streets, heaving a resigned sigh. One day was hardly proof that he was acceptable. One day was hardly enough to fall in love.
==Some time later==
"Oh my, he's quite the handsome man!" Missus Wimble teased, nudging Jeanne with her elbow. The short, squat woman was well-aged and well-respected in the community. She had raised her own family and sent them off to better things, so now she tended to the local orphanage to care for unfortunate youngsters whose families had been lost or abandoned. Her assistant, Jeanne Wainwright, was another kind soul and a lovely woman, though her devotion was to the orphanage first and herself second.
"Missus Wimble!" Jeanne scolded, "I hardly know him, but he's shown up every day and asked about the orphanage. I think he may be interested in adopting."
"Oh, he's interested, all right! But I don't think a man like that is in it for just a wee one. Look, no ring, and no married man dresses himself!" The elderly woman chuckled.
"Hush, you." Smiling broadly, Jeanne stepped out onto the stoop where the children were playing. There, the new man was showing one of the boys how to hold a straight stick to hit a ball. His face was strong, his hair was a honey-blonde, but his clothes were simple and looked well-worn. Where he came from or where he was going was as much a mystery as his name, so she approached the stranger with as sweet a smile as she could manage.
"Good afternoon to you, my name is Jeanne Wainwright. Are you...new in town?"
"Why, yes, I am. I'm a traveler by trade, so I show up from time to time." He smiled broadly and held out one hand. "The name's John Locke...heart. Lockehart. But, most just call me Locke."
Jeanne accepted the offered hand and blushed lightly as Mr. Lockehart gently kissed it. There was an air of exotic charm about him, like he was more than what he appeared. Her mother had warned her about these "dangerous" men, but life was quiet and simple and...quiet. A little edge had never bothered anybody, after all, and he seemed a gentleman.
"I see. Well, Locke, if you have any questions please feel free to ask."
"Actually, there was one thing. I'm not familiar with Darrowshire, sadly enough, and I was wondering if someone might show me around. Perhaps you could, if you're not terribly busy. I would...appreciate it." Jeanne felt her heart skip a beat as he flashed a polite smile. Indirect, yes, but it was evident that he was quite interested in more than seeing the town. She turned uncertainly back to Mrs. Wimble, who nodded and made a shooing motion.
"I would be honored to. Maybe I could encourage you to tell a few stories of your travels?"
They laughed lightly together as Oran extended his arm and offered the crook of his elbow. Jeanne gingerly took it and smiled, feeling happy butterflies dancing their way through her resolve. Surely she wasn't falling for this rogue...
==A nice tavern, some days later==
Oran and Jeanne sat together at a far table in The Dancing Queen, the low lamplight skittering across their half-finished meal. He had treated her to a very lovely outing after they had walked the town over a few times, just talking. They traded stories until nightfall and decided to retire to a late dinner. Neither expected to find so much in common with a stranger in a strange place, though the orphanage caretaker was hardly aware of her hosts' exploits or the fact that the money used to pay for their meal had been taken from the coinpurse of a murdered Lordaeron officer. His explanation for generosity had been a successful trade mostly taken care of by caravans and traders, and that his wealth came from a knowledge of opportunity rather than any applicable talent. Perhaps it was the truth, in a certain sense, although he made sure to dissuade anything too revealing as a "trade secret."
"Yes, I was an orphan myself. My father died in the War and my mother passed away when I was very young," Oran said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. He folded it neatly over his plate, feeling full and strangely content. It had been such a long time since he last had company, enjoyable company, not related to "work" or the like. The completely alien thought of entertaining someone someone in a cozy tavern had never crossed his mind before his arrival in Darrowshire. Tonight, though, tonight was perfect. Was this the kind of life most people enjoyed in the city? No guards, no pursuers, no worry and no fighting. It seemed like a dream that he could almost touch.
“I’m so sorry to hear. What did you do?” Jeanne asked, sipping at a small goblet of wine. She seemed genuinely drawn in, interested, willing to hear more.
“I traveled, mostly, moving from home to home. I was a bit of a problem child.”
“Well, we have a few at the orphanage ourselves, but I think they are showing a bit of improvement. Did you live with other relatives?”
“Goodness, no, most of my relatives were far away, or too indisposed.”
“I see,” Jeanne nodded, looking down into the last bit of her wine. As she sat in thought for a moment the old grandfather clock at the back of the room began to chime, sounding the hour. “Gracious! It’s eleven already! Locke, I’ve had a wonderful evening, but I really must go.”
“Could I walk you?” he asked, rising from his chair.
“Oh no, no, you’ve done quite enough for me already.” The girl blushed and took Oran’s rough hands in her dainty fingers. She smiled bashfully and leaned forward to place a kiss on his cheek.
“One can never do too much for the most lovely lady in all the kingdom.”
“Oh, you!” Jeanne scolded playfully. She picked up her cloak and drew it around her shoulders. With one last smile she stepped out the door and was off into the night, leaving Oran to stand in a slight daze at the table.
This was the night he would vow to never again murder or steal. His life from henceforth was lived for someone else and he would never do anything to harm her. Rising from his chair, he mock-danced in a quick twirl and dip in a moment of complete passion. His eyes, though closed, could see Jeanne in his arms, smiling at him without a care in the world for who he had been until now. It was only when a loud cough from the back of the room caused him to stumble into a nearby table and lose his balance that he broke from his reverie.
"Jeanne's a good lass," the bartender said. He was a portly man with a stern face, and although he had at first been very cold and distant, when he brought Jeanne back to dine his manner softened.
"Aye, she is. The best, I'd wager," Oran replied with a wistful smile toward the door.
"I thought she'd be an old maid a'fore anyone courted her. She loves them children so."
"I could love all the children in all the world if she would just love me..."
"You don't have to worry about that, lad," the bartender laughed heartily. "You don't have to worry about that."
==An ill omen==
Jeanne whisked through the streets as if moved by a fanciful breeze. Her skirt twirled about her ankles as she held her cloak tight about her shoulders. The night was not cold as she remembered his warm embrace and the lanterns were bare flickers as she danced by them. There was nothing else in the world but the joy she felt. No one had ever treated her this way, nor had anyone ever been able to make her heart beat with just a smile. If she and Oran had been paired side by side, their make-believe dance would have been a perfect ballroom display, although they were separated by a city. When she finally paused her head still swam, leading Jeanne to stop in the square and fan herself.
"No, officer, nothin' out of the ordinary 'cept a few pies gone missing from windowsills," a voice nearby said, drawing her attention. A man dressed in very official-looking silver armor was standing at the door to one of the nearby homes, flanked by two similarly-dressed guardsmen. They were speaking with the bleary-eyed owner.
"I see. My apologies for interrupting your evening, sir," the officer said, turning away as the door closed. Almost immediately the trio focused on Jeanne. None of them seemed particularly intimidating, but her stomach turned over nonetheless. It was rare to see unfamiliar Lordaeron officers in Darrowshire.
"Excuse me, ma'am," their leader intoned deeply, stepping forward with a lantern raised high. His face was weathered, his eyes creased and his mustache a silvery gray, but the odd angle of the light cast craggy shadows over his countenance. The image was jarringly grim, as were his stony brown eyes.
"Y-Yes?" stuttered Jeanne, in a near whisper, "Can I help you, my lord?"
"My apologies for holding you so late, but we're looking for a man who may have come this way." The officer produced a rolled bit of parchment and passed it to the girl. As she unfolded it his stern gaze sharpened alertly. Her cheeks seemed to pale and her eyes rapidly drew in the information presented before her.
Jeanne's breath seized in her chest, her heart nearly stopping. It was a wanted poster, and drawn with undeniable truth was the face that had so enraptured her not a night before. Feeling fled from her hands as she clutched it in bewilderment, the chill steadily creeping throughout her body. Were it not for the quick response of one of the guardsmen she would have hit the cobblestones firmly when her consciousness suddenly abandoned itself.
==Dark clouds approach...==
Oran lay in his bed, tossing and turning. He closed his eyes but could see nothing but Jeanne's smiling face. Her voice was still sweet on his ears. Nothing he did could make his mind quiet! Even still, the lack of sleep was nothing compared to the lack of her presence, her warmth. What he would give just to be with her again! Somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach butterflies danced on a warm summer breeze. He would have liked to blame the stew for it, but there was no denying his heart had been won by the beautiful girl at market. What a fairy tale, he told himself, but it was one he had missed ever since he was a child.
There was a tap at the window. Odd, he was on the second floor. Another one followed shortly after. He removed his arm from over his eyes and sat up, looking out into the darkness. A lantern-light shone on a figure in a hooded cloak and simple brown dress, and as he opened the pane a small pebble narrowly missed his ear.
"Jeanne!" he cried in a low whisper. She did not look up at him, but instead moved toward the back of the building with her circle of light clearly painting a trail to her hiding place. Almost immediately, Oran tugged on his tunic and breeches, fumbled over his simple shoes, and stumbled out the door to meet her, leaving his sword and scabbard propped against the bed. Waiting by the rear stables, Jeanne was turned away from his approach in a coy, shy pose befitting her usual teasing. He moved toward her, but she once more dashed off, this time headed for the woods. Oran called after her. When did not stop he frowned, brow furrowed thoughtfully. Was this some kind of game? Could she literally be playing hard to get? The idea was entertaining. He smiled again and ran after her, watching the lamp-light bob bobbing between the sparse trees in the thicket just ahead.
The two went off into the woods, one leading the other through limb and brush. Their pace was hurried, Oran's mind racing over the possibilities, both hopeful and fearful of what this midnight trek would bring. He had never known kindness so openly, and he had never wanted to give it himself so dearly to anyone more than right now. As Jeanne stopped in a small clearing between the trees, Oran found himself smiling wide at her without knowing why. Her breath was still quick and deep from the trip, and his was ragged from all the things he dared dream for the future. He laughed lightly as he watched her place the lantern on a smooth, flat rock, and briefly noted that this particular clearing looked like it had been frequented by travelers, possibly secret lovers out for other rendezvous under the moonlight. Jeanne faced him squarely a few paces away, and it was then that he could see her face. Though shaded by her hood and the odd casting of the light, it was easy to see her glimmering, wet eyes and the sorrow piercing through her every fiber. Closing her eyes a moment, Jeanne rested her hands over her heart, hesitating for what seemed an eternity.
"Jeanne," Oran began, reaching out for her.
She dropped to her knees and away from his embrace, much to Oran's confusion. His features spread into a frown before they were wrenched in pain, an audible thump rising from the back of his skull. The blow dropped him to his knees, and suddenly men leaped from the forest's cover. Strong hands clutched both his arms while metal was clasped about his wrists. A firm shove bore him roughly onto the mossy ground where he was pinned by a weighty knee right in his shoulderblades.
"Oran Locke, you are under arrest for the murder of Lordaeron officials. You are charged with murder on no fewer than two counts, theft, vandalism, highway robbery, assault..." a man's voice droned from somewhere above him, punctuated by the sound of manacles clicking around his ankles. All he could do was look straight ahead through blurred eyes at the woman standing fearfully by the lantern light, an armored figure comforting her, urging her to turn away. She stared as if in shock at the scene unfolding before her, then bowed her head and was led away by the guard. All he could do was silently question why, his voice refusing to pronounce the boiling emotion surging within him. Never in his life had he been so afraid or uncertain or angry, desperate for an answer. She was gone before a single piece of information slid into place and the realization that she had led the guards straight to him dawned through the anguish of his pounding heart.
And then, it broke.
==Eclipse==
The wagon bumped roughly along the rode, jostling its occupants. Its wheels were squeaky and terribly loud in the otherwise silent night. Oran sat on the floor, curled against the wall furthest from the door. His hands and feet were chained to one another, the only exit was locked from the outside, and there was a guard hanging onto the read of the wagon. His visor glowered in at the prisoner through the barred viewport, damning a pathetic heap of a man too cowardly to face him.
"Not so tough now, eh?" he growled. "You killed a good man back in Silverpine. You'll hang for sure."
Oran ignored the jeering as his eyes watched his shoes. The wood floor was uncomfortable, the limited motion from the tight chain was unpleasant, but he noticed neither of these things. He simply stared at his feet, seeing the night's events again and again in crucial detail. What use was it to even try escaping? He had no place to call home, nobody who wanted him. There was enough evidence brimming in his mind to prove his worthlessness. Even if some miracle managed to free him from his certain hanging, he would only ever be a prisoner to fate. The world had decided that he was just another criminal bound in chains. He would never be at peace.
As the drivers spurred on the horses, Oran began to move. One shoe brushed against the other lamely. Why he did it, he was unsure, but fidgeting felt somehow reassuring. Maybe the blood just needed to flow. Maybe his mind needed something to create, a representation of his pitiful state in order to prevent its inevitable dip into madness. Watching the sole move across his other sole did nothing to make him feel better until he shifted against the corner. His shoe probably had very little to do with it, but his foot stretching in a moment's limber expression caused one of the chain links to pull apart. He blinked, uncertain he had seen it, until he stretched out his leg again and saw that the two ankle-clasps, joined by a single iron chain to one another, had a bad link. The more he pulled them apart the more they spread, the iron groaning only slightly as the tiny gap yawned.
It took a few more minutes of strange squirming, but Oran managed to free his legs. The manacles were still wrapped around his ankles. Now the only obstacle was freeing his hands. Chained behind his back, the wrist-bindings were going to be difficult. Nothing nearby would lend itself to the task, and try as he might there was no way he could bend strong chains. Oran frowned and looked to the door again. The guard was not watching him now. After weighing his options the prisoner propped his feet up against the bench mounted to the wall of the wagon. With its leverage he was able to curl himself, bringing one foot just close enough to slip the toe behind his chain. It took a great deal of effort to pull into a tight enough ball to move the second into position. His ankles felt as if they might rip off as he struggled to get them to just the right angle, but when both finally slipped though he sighed with visible relief, both hands now in front of him.
Able to stand straight, he popped his neck and did so, the guard at the door entirely unaware of the situation developing just feet from his person. He was also oblivious to Oran's low crouch and sudden surge forward, at least until the door swung open, the padlock snapping and the hinges cracking out of the old wood. The guard fell to the dirt with Oran shortly behind. He recovered quickly and reached out for his sword, but was cut off when a chain looped around his neck and was pulled tight. It fit snugly between his helmet and breastplate, preventing his fingers from gripping it. Oran tightened his grip by crossing his arms, the chain drawing up against flesh. The guard's breath was coming in rapid pants, his choking protests falling on deaf ears. As he weakened, his assailant steeled himself and wrenched to one side with every bit of strength he could muster. The snapping sound was wet and hollow.
The wagon had stopped shortly down the road, giving Oran enough time to snatch the keys off the guard's belt. He unfastened the manacles still binding him and took up the discarded sword, turning to face the remaining pair.
"You...I will have your head for this!" the captain screeched, drawing his blade. His overhead strike was blocked, steel ringing against steel. It was good that his hands were numb or Oran might have dropped the weapon on the first strike. His heart was beating and his veins were on fire as the second guard came up alongside. A thrust, a quick parry, a step away to avoid the other blade. The guard followed to close the distance and took another swing, but this time Oran ducked low. The wide arc of the overeager sword opened a window which he took mercilessly, rising upward to slide the tip of his blade between the arm and chest, where the chainmail was weakest.
For a moment, Oran stared into the guard's youthful green eyes, watching them grow wide, truth settling in on the young man as blood trickled from under his plating. The gauntlet clutching the hilt of his blade loosened. He shuddered a quiet breath before his body was kicked away like a ruined doll. The captain's anguished cry heralded his renewed assault. It was all Oran could do to keep the furious blows from slicing off his head or a limb, each successive block driving him back, then to one knee. As the captain's last strike deflected his blade, he used the freed hand to grab a handful of mud and slung it into the narrow visor of the silver helm. When the older man shouted in frustration and clumsily threw off the sludged armor, Oran drove the pommel into his skull, much like they had done to him in the woods earlier that very night. The plate mail was heavy, his eyes were burning, and the steadily fear that was overpowering his instinct crippled the aged guard. The captain rolled to his back only to see the blur of metal falling far too quickly to be stopped.
Oran wrenched the sword out of the captain's visage. His cloven face would be unrecognizable to those who found him, but that was not important. Turning toward Darrowshire, the convict set his feet on the path, the flames in his chest searing him through and through.
==Screams in the night==
Jeanne awoke from her tear-wrought slumber to a strange sound. It seemed very far away at first, but it was growing. Voices. There were voices from somewhere else in the house calling out. Since her room was in the loft of the orphanage, she had trouble focusing on where the sound originated. Then her weary mind came into sharp focus and she bolted up out of bed.
"Missus Wimble! Missus Wimble, the children!" she yelled loudly as she hurried down the stairs to the upstairs. The hallway was dark and she had no lantern, but as her eyes adjusted to the dim haze she saw that the door leading to the elderly caretaker's room was slightly ajar. Perhaps she was already attending to the noise? It was so unlike her to leave the door open even a bit, for she was a light sleeper and even the smallest bump would disturb her. Jeanne crept to the doorway and pushed, the old frame giving a creak as she entered. She called out again, in a whisper, seeing a bulge in the sheets. Her trembling hand reached out to draw away the blankets.
To her horror, there lay Missus Wimble, her old face frozen in that last moment of surprise. Her belly had been speared clean through by a longsword, its pommel bearing the mark of Lordaeron. Dark stains spread through her nightgown and a faint drip, drip, drip was audible somewhere underneath the mattress. Covering her mouth, trying not to wretch violently, Jeanne spun and ran from the room, making it to the stairwell banister before she coughed and sputtered and began crying again, her eyes painfully dry from everything that had transpired so shortly. Despite her hands' death-grip on the wood, she managed to pull herself off the railing and stumble down the stairs. The shouts were coming from downstairs, and the pitiful voices mewling for her were more desperate than her terror.
Jeanne ran to the children's room as soon as she cleared the commons, her desire to burst through the front door and out into the streets overwhelmed by a sudden dread that drove her to hurry to check, just to make sure. The girls' bunkroom was empty. The boys', across the hall, was no different. She ran to the common room again and found no one, then she dashed down the hall to the kitchen. Empty, empty, empty, every room was empty, though the cries were getting louder, getting closer. The only room left was the basement, just past the hall closet, where they kept old boxes of clothes and supplies. Her heart sprang with a sudden hope as she approached the door, the old floorboards next to the seldom-used passage creaking underfoot. They were in the basement!
She hurried down the dim steps to find the children all gathered around a single lit lantern. They were huddled fearfully in the corner, crying and shouting. When they saw her round the bottom stair they yelled out and ran to hug her, clutching to her dress and swarming over her ecstatically. Her streaming, stinging tears were forgotten as she knelt down to gather up as many as she could, her name ringing like a joyous melody through the dank room.
"Oh, children, children, I'm so glad you're safe. Come, we've got to leave, we've got to--" she urged, turning back toward the stairwell. The old floorboard creaked ominously as she glanced up. A figure stood there, a man, tall and lean and dressed in simple traveler's clothing. As Jeanne lunged forward the door slammed and was suddenly braced by something heavy. Her cries fell on deaf ears as she and several small fists began pounding on the oak.
Oran stepped back, turning away from the basement. He'd shoved a heavy chest against the frame, one he'd found in the closet where he hid. The girl was weak, and the children were panicked. They would not be able to leave before he was long gone. As he stepped through the kitchen toward the back door, he tipped over a lantern onto the floor. No one had noticed the smell of spilled oil, or the empty barrel sitting nearby. It had been brought in when he snuck through the back and emptied about the house. The flickering wick inside the lamp quickly ignited the pool, orange flames licking at the wood cabinets and the pantry, eating out into the hall, across the fine rug to sweep through into the commons. He left, closing the door behind him, his eyes staring straight ahead as he marched out into the night. One of his cheeks twitched slightly, but he rolled his shoulders and shook himself away from the strange unfeeling.
==The next day==
The service conducted for the poor souls caught in the fire was long and mournful, the fires burning in the minds of those who had been woken up by shouts in the night. At first it was deemed a tragedy that would never be forgotten, and a memorial was planned for the innocents claimed in the inscrutable will of destiny. No one would ever know the truth behind the terrible deed, as all evidence had been consumed save for a Loraeron sword, curiously found buried amongst the rubble and seared hot from the flames. It was taken and buried on a hillside not far from where they laid to rest the many lost in a night of chaos and sorrow.
Oran Locke never returned to Darrowshire. He left by a route into the foothills to escape the inevitable patrols that would track him. Life...it had become such a burden. He could still feel the chains dragging on him, weighing down his limbs. There was little joy in the afternoon sun or the breeze that wafted down across Lordaeron's breadbasket. This place was full of pointless life. The more he thought, the more he considered his fate. If he was to be nothing more than a link in the chains of destiny, he must have a purpose. That purpose, his destiny, was not peace. Of all the things that he could have aspired to do, he never thought he would be chosen to give life weight, to give existence a meaning. It was a favor, a blessing to those left behind to have his hand touch them so profoundly, to show them the stark contrast between horror and complacent ignorance. A cracked smile tugged at his lips as he considered where he would bring truth to those who had none. So many choices. So many empty lives. He would be generous and he would be unprejudiced, something destiny could never be.
As a a path stretched out before his feet, Oran took a bite of a red apple before dropping it by the wayside.
It was bitter.