The First Rule of Fire

Despite what her personality would have you believe, Magistra Csenge  would mantain that she did not often drink. As harlarious the mental image is, many a fire mage has learned to fear the combination of a ill-spent spell and the dangers of acohol, though perhaps not as much as the nearby bystanders did.

Csenge was wild as the free flame. She was not, despite what current evidence suggested, stupid. The drinks dangling at her belt were certainly not for herself, no matter how the sloshing sounds might suggest they'd been emptied recently, and the smell around her was simply the result of a misfortanate curse, and the pounding in her head had nothing to do with a hangover. The only problem with this reasoning was that it left her no excuse to explain why she was here except some sort of idiotic morality.

Csenge generally perferred to get paid for things. At least, this is what she said. It was amazing how little evidence of this popped up, if you looked at her recent jobs. What could she say? She had a soft summer heart.

And, admittedly, a gigantic tab to pay off. But that was nothing unusal.

The ground crunched under her feet as she walked towards the barracks, snow melting at her approach. The forces of the winter of death had claimed their territory in the usual manner, and she was claiming a little of it back. The approach was not subtle, drawing shambling eyes from everywhere, but she wanted everyone - everything - to be near her when her plan exploded.

It was a simple plan. Most things with fire usually are. Grunting under the weight, Csenge shifted the large bales on her back. While you could do everything by magic, it was generally quicker and cheaper to give it some mundane aid, and it pushed less on the hangovers.

Behind her, following the trail of melted snow, the unquiet dead stepped over and on their victims as they moved to surround her. The stronger looking ones they stood up again, to join the fight.

These forces tended to have more of a main hall than a barracks, being an informal sort of army, but that only meant there were more people at her destination, for the area served as a gambing den and mess hall and bedroom as well as a place for the soldiers to discuss soldiering. Therefore there were a lot of heads that turned when the doors were kicked in.

Followed by the rest of the village's forces, the tower's most irresponsible and possibly suicdal Magistra strode in. Reactons to this were a little slow. Soldiers are used to having their enemy line up neatly in front of them on a battlefield or sneak about in the back, not stride in boldly to your barracks. Weapons were grabbed late - too late, because the Magistra had already made it to the center of the room.

"Hello, ladies and gents." Csenge said, casually defacing a copy of 'The Rules of Winter' as she passed and loosening her belt with the other hand. A soldier risked her ulife in a mad charge, and promptly became a cloud of burning cinders. Csenge smiled triupmhantly, at least until the could came near her and she started coughing. She recovered herself. "It is the seaons - well, somewhere it is - so Magistra Csenge has come to offer you some gifts and advice."

She reached for the bale on her back. A good twenty crossbows aimed at her. Obediently, the Magistra put her hands up, sending the hay shattering to the floor and spreading everywhere in a puff of autumn air. While everyone was distracted, she wriggled her hip a bit and slipped off the loose belt, sending the drinks to the floor. The bottles smashed open, spreading strong burning alcohol all over the building.

"Tell that fool of a Lich the one rule he forgot. One fundamental rule of the universe that everything obeys in the end, especially dead, dry flesh." Cseng snapped her fingers, creating a small spark. The undead that still held some residude of self-preservation sprang back.

Arrows were fired. Charges were made. The former turned to ashes before they hit anything, and the latter were pushed back by the force from the rapidly heating, expanding air around the firemage. Quitely, the magistra smiled. In the darkness, lit only by the flame, her face was as brutal as the wildfires of summer. She blew on her finger, spreading heat everywhere. With a rush of smoke, the edges of the drink caught fire.

Csenge shut the door of the house behind her as she left, leaving the undead to scramble and tear at the wood. Sighing at the loss of a good bottle's worth, she picked her hood over her bald head and set off. It would be a long walk to the nearest point of civilization, or at least the nearest tavern.

In front of her, the straggers retreated. Csenge paid them no mind - soon they would be taken up by the advancing army. And behind her - behind her, the barracks continued to flame away to screams and scrabble. Given what they'd did to this village and her drink, the Magistra felt justified in giving them a personal experience of the lesson.

Given sufficient heat, everything burns.