As you approached from the west, the air grew thick and acrid, heavy with smoke and the sharp tang of panic. The barracks, once sturdy and imposing, was now an inferno—flames clawed hungrily upward, casting twisting, monstrous shadows across the walls of nearby buildings. Embers swirled violently into the night sky, carried aloft by scorching gusts. Guards rushed frantically in all directions, shouting conflicting orders that went unheard amid the roar of the fire. Some carried buckets of water, tossing them futilely onto the blaze, each splash swallowed immediately by the hungry flames. Others stumbled through the smoke, coughing, eyes wide with disbelief and fear. A group of townsfolk huddled nearby, frozen by uncertainty, staring in helpless awe at the unfolding disaster. The clanging of bells echoed urgently from somewhere deeper in town, calling for aid that was slow to arrive. Through the choking haze, frightened faces emerged briefly, illuminated in flickering orange light, then vanished again into the shadows, lost to confusion and dread. Amid the chaos, the voice of Brinnard Whitewood cut through the confusion like steel through cloth. Covered in soot and ash, sweat glistening on his forehead, Brinnard stood defiantly near the burning barracks, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the fierce glare of the flames. "Form lines, damn you!" he shouted again, voice hoarse but unyielding. "Protect the homes! Clear the civilians from the square!" Guards and townsfolk alike seemed torn between panic and duty, their movements jerky and uncertain—until they heard Brinnard's voice. Though strained and nearly drowned by the roaring fire, his commands offered an anchor in the chaos. He grabbed one hesitant volunteer guard by the shoulder, spinning him around to meet his fierce gaze. "You—rally everyone you can! We cannot lose this town tonight!" His voice was steady, even as embers rained down around him, and there was a determination etched on his features that refused surrender, even in the face of disaster. Though the flames continued to roar, and smoke swallowed half the square, Brinnard Whitewood remained at the heart of the storm, holding Rivermarch together by sheer force of will. Maximus ran to Brinnard. "What is happening?" Brinnard turned sharply, soot-streaked face tense with frustration, grief, and barely-contained anger. He met Maximus's gaze, urgency in every strained muscle and clenched jaw. "I don't know," Brinnard snapped, voice heavy and ragged from the smoke and strain. "I was trying to catch a damned hour's rest after last night, and then woke up to this—" he gestured toward the barracks, flames crackling violently, devouring everything in reach. His eyes darkened as he lowered his voice slightly, bitter and pained. "Caldor's dead. Someone got to him first. Grigori's vanished—no trace." The moment of vulnerability passed quickly as he straightened, wiping sweat and ash from his forehead, clearly holding himself together by sheer force of will. "Look," he said sharply, cutting off any further questions. "I don't have time for an hour-long talk right now. Get the civilians to safety or tear down those tents by the barracks—they're soaked in fuel. Move, or we'll lose more than just the barracks!" Without another word, Brinnard turned away, barking fresh orders to the frantic guards, plunging back into the smoke and chaos—trying desperately to salvage what he could of Rivermarch before it was too late. Maximus turned and started trying to stop the fire from spreading, making sure civilians were safe as well while doing it. "Gerrek come to me, men of the city watch come and keep this fire from spreading, arm yourselves and defend this city!" As Maximus's voice echoed through the smoke and flames, guards and townsfolk rallied quickly, forming bucket lines and dragging down the tents to stem the spread of the fire. But Garrek was nowhere to be seen, and no response came to Maximus's urgent call. Maximus, kept on working putting out the fire. He asked the other men around him, "What happened and what do they know?" Through the smoke and chaos, a quiet procession emerged from the shadows. Tartuk, silent as ever, strode at the forefront of a cluster of druids and kobolds, eyes glinting with determination beneath his hood. Without words, he raised his clawed hand skyward—a signal as powerful as any spoken command. In unison, the druids knelt, whispering ancient words as they pressed their hands to the scorched earth. The air trembled around them, charged with primal magic. Tartuk himself stepped forward, lifting both hands high above, fingers splayed wide, as if grasping the very heavens themselves. Dark clouds gathered swiftly overhead, thickening rapidly as whispers became chants, rhythmic and steady, weaving through the crackling flames. A distant rumble echoed as the sky answered their call, and the first heavy drops began to fall—slowly at first, then faster, heavier, until a cleansing torrent descended upon Rivermarch. Kobolds scurried tirelessly between burning tents, casting small bursts of conjured water to stifle flames too stubborn to die. Tartuk, drenched and unyielding, silently orchestrated his people's efforts with precise gestures and meaningful glances, his authority felt clearly despite his unbroken silence. The fire, mighty moments before, began to hiss and sputter beneath the relentless rain—Tartuk and his druids, their magic woven deep into nature itself, stood unmoving, resolute guardians against the chaos. Maximus continued to address his soliders. "Men, help Brinnard secure the camp, find Gerrek and make sure the citizens are safe and in their tents." Then he turned to Tartuk, "Thank you Tartuk, do you know what happened at all?" But Tartuk didn't even glance in Maximus's direction, pointedly ignoring his inquiry. Instead, the kobold silently gestured to his druids, already moving deeper into the camp, their focus entirely on the struggle against the flames. Tartuk's silence spoke volumes: whatever answers Maximus sought wouldn't come from him. As the rains summoned by Tartuk and his druids continued pouring heavily, the roaring flames sputtered and hissed, slowed but not extinguished. The oily fire still smoldered stubbornly, defiant beneath the persistent deluge—but at least now, Rivermarch had precious time. Maximus's command cut firmly through the storm, rallying the guards once more: "Men, help Brinnard secure the camp! Find Gerrek and ensure every citizen is safe in their tents!" The volunteers, now forming organized groups, swiftly moved to follow the orders. But at the mention of his name, Gerrek's continued absence remained glaring, an unanswered question looming in the air. The storm still held Rivermarch firmly in its grip, winds howling through the streets and rain hammering down relentlessly. Fires fueled by oil-soaked tents sputtered stubbornly, resisting the downpour, even as guards and volunteers desperately fought to contain them. At the docks, a single gunshot split the night, sharp and sudden, echoing briefly through the chaos before fading beneath the roar of the storm. Shortly after, dark-hulled ships quietly raised anchor and slipped away into the darkness, leaving only confusion and unanswered questions in their wake. But slowly, gradually, the rains softened. Tartuk and his druids stood silently at the heart of the city, hands raised toward the skies, whispering to the elements as the storm's fury eased into a gentle, healing drizzle. Clouds began to part, revealing stars shimmering faintly above the battered town. With the lifting of the storm, weary townsfolk emerged cautiously, their faces reflecting exhaustion, shock, and quiet resolve. Guards moved among them, coordinating efforts to salvage what remained and checking that all had survived. The night had left wounds that would linger, and there were still pieces to pick up, truths to uncover—but Rivermarch stood firm. It had survived the night, battered yet unbroken, ready to face whatever dawn would bring. As the heavy rains summoned by Tartuk began to ease, Maximus stood steadfast near the edge of the smoldering barracks, the tense lines of his metal frame gleaming faintly in the dimming stormlight. Around him, Rivermarch slowly emerged from chaos into a weary calm. Guards and townsfolk moved methodically now, salvaging supplies, assisting the wounded, and reinforcing damaged structures. Maximus glanced briefly upward as the skies cleared further, silently acknowledging Tartuk's quiet, determined presence as the kobold and his druids continued their careful work. The chaos had finally started to settle, but its scars were evident everywhere. Nearby, Brinnard, worn thin by the relentless crises, murmured quietly to his grandson Brinn, then turned and disappeared quietly into the night, seeking rest he desperately needed. Tybalt remained conspicuously absent, his whereabouts still uncertain. Maximus patiently waited, his watchful gaze protective and vigilant. He murmured softly to himself, a rare note of humor slipping into his voice, "About time someone tells me what's going on." Despite the levity, his eyes remained alert, carefully observing every movement, every shadow—ready to act should the need arise. As he stood watch, a nagging memory surfaced—Brak, the small, overly confident Ysoki who had once sought to join the city guard. Maximus recalled clearly the little smartass's constant complaints, the heated arguments, and how Brak spectacularly failed every physical challenge. At the time, it had seemed merely amusing and a mild irritation, but now, knowing Brak had betrayed them, it twisted bitterly within him. As Rivermarch slowly began its cautious recovery, Maximus stood firm, the weight of betrayal adding to his resolve. He remained a silent guardian, patiently awaiting clarity and answers.