The grounds beyond the northern gate of Viemen were alight with bonfires and beset by a growing crowd. The last cart of dirt had been plunged into the graves not long after the sun had set. In the fleeting light, many had run back to their homes, if indeed they still remained, to retrieve personal belongings from their loved ones. Those of the laborers who stayed had gotten to work setting the fires to provide light for the approaching night.

There were no formal burial rites that were practiced in Omnirius; none since the final days of the Omnir dynasty and the death of the Deceluan influence. However, there remained some primitive customs based on an amalgamation of pragmatisms and word-of-mouth tradition. If time and resources allowed, a burial in the earth was ideal. Beyond the burial, some form of remembrance was customary, either in the form of story telling or song. Every funeral event typically was followed with a meal of the deceased’s favorite dish and ended with both a drink and a solemn acknowledgment of their passing. But for many in this world, there was not enough time nor energy to devote to mourning beyond this. Such gross extravagance was a luxury they did not posses. And it was even less so for the hardy people of Viemen on this night.

Families and neighbors were clustered together in groups all around the field-land. Three morbid tombs stood before them, casting long engulfing shadows over their grieving congregations. It had been many hours since the citizens had returned from the southern forest, and much of that time was spent venting sorrowful cries and eruptions of anger, grief, and loss. But such can only be maintained for so long. The night was cold and the people were exhausted. Tired, in a way that was inexpressible. Behind them, an ashen battleground wherein some had lost everything; yet before them was a tomb whose unceremonious construction was a testament to their utter misfortune.

At the foot of the central mounds was stationed Mayor Rothwell, alongside Julius and his men. Rothwell paced awkwardly among the mourners who were closest to him —some of the more wealthy merchants and craftsman of Viemen— as he waited for a particular arrival. Finally, a carriage appeared just beyond the posts of the northern gate.

Ellis and Mary sat in the front, steering the carriage as they went. Their path was a clear one, as many people moved to let them pass. Whispers spread throughout the onlookers as they moved toward the front of the crowd: exclamations of wonderment and disbelief that these two children had in anyway helped to fell such a catastrophic entity. Ellis searched frantically in the crowd until he saw Telhari’s head poking out atop everyone else’s. He was standing near a grouping of Lyusya, Albert and other Starspawn members a few yards from Rothwell’s position. Together, Ellis and Mary brought the carriage before Rothwell and dismounted. Ellis jogged to the back and drew back the curtains to reveal a bandaged Perry.

“You really are alive then?” Rothwell said with a smile.

Perry struggled to the opening of the carriage and gripped the edge for support.

“For the moment, anyway.”

Ellis supported his uncle as he got down from the carriage and stepped from beyond its shadow and into the light of the nearest bonfire. A murmur of excited realization spread from the closest onlookers as they saw who had arrived. And as Perry made his way over to stand beside Rothwell, there were many who moved closer to see him.

“He’s alive!”

“So, its true?”

These exasperations and more could be heard from the crowd— a mix of genuine surprise and cautious excitement.

“They are quite happy to see you,” Rothwell said with a bitter grin. “Even I hardly received such acknowledgment.”

“That is not why I am here,” Perry said with a grim expression.

“Sir Perry!”

A man stumbled forward from the threshold of the crowding citizens. He continued toward Perry so suddenly that Ellis’ had moved to the blade at his waist on instinct alone. But the man fell suddenly to his knees and prostrated himself as he cried.

“Oh gods…we should have listened…”

The man’s sorrowful admittance hung like a noose around Perry’s neck. He waiting for the man to calm himself, giving him the time to sit up and look at Perry directly.

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“You saved us…” he started.

But Perry would have none of it.

“Now is not the time for praise,” he said as he shook his head. “I did not come here for it, nor would I ask it of you. This night is for the fallen. Offer your tears to them, not to me. ”

The man nodded his head and sat up, wiping the dirt from his face.

“Lord Mannigold. Julian.”

Perry recognized this new voice from the crowd.

“Wilfred!?”

Wilfred Lorensburg was a merchant son to the patriarch of the Lorensburg family, which was itself a vassal of the Norgraves. It was only from other nobility that Perry would suffer being addressed as ‘Lord’ or to be called by his family name; that, and he happened to like Wilfred.

“I cannot believe you stayed!?” Perry admitted with surprise.

“Needless to say I very quickly came to regret it,” Wilfred added. “Of course, I was fraught with worry when we heard what had happened. No one believed you’d actually survived…”

Perry tightened his grip on Ellis’ arm and squeezed his shoulder.

“We managed, alright,” he said with a smile.

But their jubilations were short lived.

Behind Wilfred were others; six more of the wealthy and otherwise influential figureheads of Viemen, all waiting expectantly for Wilfred’s final question.

“Where is the Marquess?” Wilfred growled. “Where is Frederick?”

Perry held back his tongue. He had no idea where Lord Viemen might have been, but he knew full well he was not in Viemen. Was he dead? Surely not. But he had left no message nor warning, nor word of any kind with any of the other aristocracy in town regarding his intentions. Perry had sent a man to his manor to check in, but it was empty. His serfs and peasant workers had been corralled with the others, and none of them were informed of the Marquess’ whereabouts.

“Marquess Viemen has abandoned you.”

Perry could hardly contain his surprise as Rothwell uttered those words; louder even than Perry would have liked, such that those beyond their circle of men could hear.

“Julian!?”

Perry tried to interject, but the damage was already done.

“So it is true,” Wilfred said with a miserable scowl. “We always knew he was a foul man, but this…this is beyond forgiveness.”

The contempt was palpable as word spread between the men of how their gracious Marquess Frederick Viemen III had left his people to die, whilst he had stolen away to preserve only himself. It was not as if Frederick Viemen had much goodwill among the people. At most, they gave him the due respect that was required. Even among Wilfred and the others, Frederick was known to be of a disagreeable nature. He lacked the kind of stalwart grit that defined those southern men who lived so far from the comfort of Eadenfros. But now, there was nothing to shield him from their rage. Nothing of his status could outweigh the misery of this night, nor the turmoil and unrest of the people of Viemen who stood shoulder to shoulder in solidarity.

Perry could hardly admit he liked Frederick, but it would do good to encourage such hate at this time.

“That is enough!”

The crowd became silent at once.

Perry gave Rothwell a look, half expecting him to try and incite more discontent; but he kept his mouth closed and said nothing. His job was done.

“We will speak with Lord Viemen in time,” Perry started, “But we should not sully this night of mourning with words of hate.”

The men were angry at Frederick, this much was certainly true. But, as is the case in times of suffering, there are those who wish to lash out at the nearest vulnerable thing within their reach. Those who wish to express their rage. Rage at their circumstance. Rage at their inability to change what has already happened.

The people were hurting.

More so than their frustrations with Frederick, this ordeal was an expression of incredible burden. Of this much, Perry was certain. And if someone needed to be the one to call this emotional bluff in order to settle the air, he would gladly do so.

“I understand your frustrations,” Perry called into the crowd, “But do not deny yourselves this final chance to say goodbye.”

After one last glance at Rothwell, Perry left with Ellis back toward the carriage. The men left their circle and returned to their respective places. Ellis drove the carriage over to the other Starspawn, and the group convened once more in silence to pay their respects to the dead.

One by one the bonfires went out as people fell asleep beneath their blankets and pitched tents. In time, the lamentation of Viemen came to an end, and the night became silent and still. Even the frigid winds of late autumn seemed to lessen sympathetically on this night.

On September 8th, a dragon was spotted flying into Omnirian territory.

On September 12th, a dragon had descended upon the southern town of Viemen and set it ablaze.

And, on that same day, as much of the world would soon come to know, a dragon was slain by a Lindhathal Elfkin and the Starspawn Guild of Omnirius.