Time marched its slow and steady trail across the world.

That night- a night of shadows, gunfire, flames and death- would remain a bloody stain on Zarrhdad’s canvas for a long, long time… even as the Felisian military did its best to quell what really happened.

“One last gasp of rebellion! The so-called Ardashiran ‘Freedom Fighters’ wage all-out war in Zarrhdad! All throughout the beautiful Oasis City, innocent citizens of Trestaria- the newly minted Eastern Province of the Felisian Central Government- were gunned down in a wicked, indiscriminate act of cruelty and defiance. Our brave Felisian soldiers, assisted by their friends in the Zarrhdad Merchantry Guard, quelled the brutal assault with minimal force. A local day of mourning for the individuals who lost their life in this tragic event will be observed, and the beloved Oasis Fountain- tragically destroyed in the fighting- will be rebuilt as a symbol of Felisian-Trestarian unit.”

Most believed it.

Most felt they had to, held under the thumb of iron-eyed monsters with weapons far outstripping their own. The war was already over, this had simply made it official.

The rebuilt statue was nice and inoffensive, and did its job to ensure that unforgotten stain was simply shuffled away- not hidden, never hidden, but a pattern incorporated around it, as if it was supposed to be there.

Talk to most folk in Zarrhdad, and ask about it, and that’s the story you’d hear- of brave fighting men saving their city from the final remnants of a dead hierarchy.

But in the alleyways, behind closed doors, concealed behind thin cloth and cigar smoke and heady alcohol and burning spices, you could hear something else.

That that night, something buckled. Chaos rippled through the night, people driven mad with grief and want and pain, killing for revenge, for glory, for fun. And at the height of that fear, a roar echoed out, and for a moment things stopped.

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In an instant, all that chaos stopped, like a pure and true specter of death strained against their psyche.

People died, people were injured, but from the instant that wave of fear radiated out from the Ardashir Center- always there, no matter the difference in the telling, it’s always that central plaza where that beautiful statue was destroyed- not a single drop of blood was spilled. Like someone had gripped the monster by the throat and demanded it stop.

No one ever tells you the whole thing- no one could, Zarrhdad is such a vast city. But you’ll hear bits and pieces of it, the stories of their life, the way it all went down.

One such story belongs to a dancing girl.

Usually, she does it at the Ardashir Center- a brave, defiant, and incredibly stupid thing to do, but with the war two years over the soldiers have slowly returned to Felisia and the local police seem less inclined to do anything. Usually she does it there, for as many people as can watch, but she’ll tell you the story anywhere if you find her.

A story told in dance, a brass pole in her hands, swirling through the air- flames dancing on matches on the end, spiraling from her breath. Her vibrant-red skirt twirls, the gold beads of her top shimmer, and as she spins and moves it’s like a roaring inferno.

Her story is of a stranger, with a loaded gun and sad eyes, and the salamander that stuck to his back. As she dances, the flames swirl, and you could swear they take on images- hunting in the desert against a man-faced scorpion, fending off corpse-eating plants, plowing through the sand-seas on a camel-drawn sledge, and finally- the way her story always ends.

Chaos, swirling through the night sky. The Oasis Fountain, shattered by darkness, as salamander meets shadow. They clash, the former falls, and the later leaves.

But the later leaves wounded. The darkness fades.

Life goes on.

Her dance thus concluded; she would pass around an old soldier’s hat with a smile, and for a few dollars that smile would even reach her eyes. The salamander pattern on her clothing leaves no illusions as to her role in the tale.

And if you were to ask what happened next? That smile would grow a little stronger.

“Flame beat back that shadow twice before. Who’s to say it wouldn’t happen again?”

Then she’d go, a gentle swaying in her step.

The fountain’s water gone to steam with her dance, embers flickering as she leaves, one could swear she walked a trail of mist and fire.