[DAY TWELVE…]

[MORNING]

Griff

Something had happened yesterday. Something big. Something serious.

The lord would not speak of it. Had hardly said a word all morning. Didn't need to. He had fresh burns all over his body, and he was wearing a new robe; identifiable only by the fact that it was somewhat newer and less worn than his customary vestments.

A runner had come by the keep earlier. Dickie Rich wanted a meeting. Brimstone had sent the lad back with his acceptance.

Things were happening too fast. Too many moving pieces. Too many new faces.

Yes, something had definitely happened. And it was not good.

"My lord, are we under attack?" Griff found himself asking, even though he knew he ought to be keeping his mouth well shut. But there had been reports of explosions throughout Topside in the early hours. People had died. The fires were still raging. Only Brimstone himself could have done that. Surely, there was a reason behind it. Some enemy the lord had been warding off.

They walked to a Topside cafe called The Swallow. Dickie Rich was waiting for them there, sitting at one of the tables. A short, over-groomed man in a crisp gray suit. All the other tables were empty, and the only bustle came from the staff scurrying about near the back.

The lord sat, and Griff remained on his feet until Brimstone bid him take a seat as well with a small gesture. It was just the three of them at the table. The kingpin had brought no protection of his own—maybe meant as a sign of trust. The insistence on a public meeting place, however, suggested anything but.

On their side of things, Griff was somewhat confused that Handsome wasn't with them. He was hardly fond of the little creep, but had reluctantly accepted the man as part of the scenery, almost always at Brimstone's shoulder. The fact that he wasn't there felt almost as irregular as if the lord had decided to attend the meeting with no clothes on.

"Good morning, my lord," Dickie Rich said with a slight nod once they were seated. He took a small sip from a coffee cup. "I'm sorry to hear about that dreadful business last night. I trust that you're all right?"

"Yes, I am," Brimstone replied. "You're well-informed." It did not sound like it was meant as a compliment.

"A terrible shame, what happened to Master Handsome. He was a good man."

"He's dead?" Griff asked.

"Yes," Brimstone replied. "He's dead."

"How?" Griff caught himself, cleared his throat. "Apologies. I mean, how, my lord?"

"One-Eye. He showed his true allegiances last night."

"Then… you killed him?"

"He got away."

"I see." Griff was not at all surprised to hear of the assassin's treachery—he'd known the man was a snake from the off, after all—only the suddenness of it.

A waitress came by to take their orders. She was a pretty thing, with dark hair and big eyes. Griff averted his gaze once he realized that she was familiar to him. Zara? Was that her name? He had seen her in the markets once, asked her out. She had turned him down.

Griff had expected Brimstone to simply send the girl away, but instead ordered a cup of black tea. That was very strange. Brimstone never ate or drank anything prepared by someone else's hand. The last time he had was that time with Lady-Consort Dawn, and that had turned into quite the debacle. Maybe he didn't really intend to drink it.

Griff ordered nothing for himself. He was itching to take out his tobacco tin, but figured it was probably best to leave it, considering the company he was in.

"In light of Lady Winter's intensifying efforts to depose you," Dickie Rich said, "you will need steadfast allies now more than ever."

"And you would propose to become one of those allies?" Brimstone asked.

Dickie Rich offered a polite smile. "That's right, my lord."

"You have already pledged your financial support."

"And I would be willing to double it. I have had correspondence with mercenary outfits from Octant One who have indicated that they are amenable to taking on a contract here. Something like two thousand men, at least a third of them Laborers. Say the word, and I will have them shipped over." He took another sip of his coffee, and stroked his pencil-thin mustache with the back of his thumb.

"How generous. And in return?"

I want the right to assign the first seat on the Stormfront merchant's council once the city has been taken, as well as two lower seats. Three total."

"That's a very reasonable proposal."

Dickie Rich nodded. "I'm glad you think so."

"Of course, lies often sound reasonable. They are designed to be palatable, after all."

The kingpin's brows rose at that. "Lies? Beg your pardon, my lord, but my offer is completely genuine."

The serving girl interrupted them as she returned with a steaming cup. "Here is your tea, my lord," she said, gingerly placing dish and cup down on the table without once meeting Brimstone's eye.

"Thank you, my dear," Brimstone said, gaze fixed on her as she straightened. "Now, would you mind telling me what sort of poison you put in this?"

Zara went stiff, eyes darting between the three men as though hoping this was all part of some joke, and they were all about to start laughing. But no one laughed.

"My lord, I didn't… I wouldn't…" she stammered out.

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"No?" Brimstone's face was perfectly slack. "Then drink it. Have a sip."

"But my lord, this is for—"

Brimstone swept his hand in a lazy gesture, and a wave of sudden light and heat and noise made Griff flinch. The table rattled. Suddenly Zara did not have a head on, and her limp body toppled back to upend a table behind her and send chairs clattering.

"I'm sorry," Brimstone said. "You were saying something. Go ahead."

Dickie Rich was staring at the headless corpse, cheeks quivering. "Uh…"

"Can't remember? Give it a minute. It'll come back to you. In the meantime, I have a funny anecdote I'd like to share. You see, the Misfortune told me something last night before he slunk away. He said that my wife did not betray me after all—that she was set up.

"So I went down into the dungeon early this morning to learn the truth. After speaking to Dawn, I still could not make heads or tails of it. Truth…" He traced his pinky finger along the edge of his steaming tea cup. "...or lies." He traced the cup the other way, then lifted his finger. "But then I had a revelation. Would you like to hear it?"

Griff was stunned. He could not speak, or blink, or breathe. Dickie Rich appeared to be suffering the same problem.

Brimstone took their silence as encouragement. "I realized," he said, "that there is no such thing as truth. The thing we call 'truth' is just another lie—the greatest of them all, perhaps, followed closely by its ugly children; loyalty, hope, love, empathy, to name a few.

"My Misfortune." Brimstone chuckled bitterly with a small shake of his head. "I thought I was being ironic, giving him that name. Now I understand the real irony. The joke, I suppose, is on me." His wet, red-tinted eyes moved between Griff and the kingpin, and he seemed dismayed that they were not laughing with him.

"He told me something else, you know," Brimstone said. "Something I already knew, but his admission was refreshing all the same. There is a conspiracy against me. A conspiracy seeking to undo me, and the order I represent.

"I have spent so long weeding out traitors. Picking apart words to find the ones I can trust. At the very least, I thought that Handsome, a man who could tell no lie, would be trustworthy. But Will…" Brimstone licked his withered lips, looking as though the name tasted bitter in his mouth. "...the Misfortune cast doubt over him too. I have now found myself replaying my conversations with him. Odd things I never noticed at the time. Patterns. Was he part of the conspiracy as well? Were the two of them working together all along? Did one recruit the other?"

Dickie Rich found his tongue at the same time as his feet. Beginning to stand, he said: "My lord, it appears you have a lot on your mind. Perhaps we should adjourn for—"

"Stay," Brimstone said mildly.

The kingpin halted, his butt hovering just off the seat, one hand splayed on the tabletop. It was clear from his eyes that he had realized he was not where he thought he was.

"It was so exhausting," Brimstone said with a sigh, and ran a hand across his blank, scar-slick face, "stumbling along in the dark. Fumbling for the light of truth, not understanding that it was an illusion. I was blind…" He let his hand slowly fall, and looked up at Dickie Rich. "I was blind, but now I see. My eyes can now pierce the lies, and parse the patterns. I understand, Master Rich."

"My lord…" Griff stammered out through cold lips.

Brimstone did not pay him any mind, attention fully focused on the kingpin. "Come closer," he said, quirking a finger. "I want to tell you a secret."

Very reluctantly, Dickie Rich slowly inched closer. Brimstone kept moving his finger, and he moved a little closer still, until he was leaned halfway across the table.

"I know you're a part of it," Brimstone said in a soft, soft voice.

Dickie Rich jerked his head back, and tripped over his chair as he tried to scramble away. "Pe—" he blurted, but was unable to finish whatever he was about to say as his clothes suddenly went on fire, and he began to scream and thrash instead, and was soon rolling on the ground and pawing at himself in a vain effort to put himself out, skin crisping and sizzling.

"You're all part of it," Brimstone said. "Everyone in this city. Every. Single. One of you. Lying to my face. Whispering behind my back. Making up your little schemes. Thinking I don't see you. But I do. I see it all, now."

For some insane reason, Griff suddenly felt a strong urge to reach for his tobacco tin. It was so absurd he nearly laughed, but he managed to hold it in.

The lord's attention turned to a young serving boy next, having halted halfway across the establishment in an abandoned effort to check on his dead coworker.

Brimstone's hand went up. "You."

Griff found himself moving without really knowing why, unable to catch himself. Put himself between Brimstone and the young man who stood frozen stiff with a platter to his chest. "My lord, don't—" Griff said.

Then everything got so bright.

* * *

Griff awoke to the wood-on-wood sounds of heavy debris settling. Looking up at a broken roof, plaster and ash and splinters raining down at a trickle.

His ears were ringing bad. He worked his jaws to clear them, but it didn't help.

People were shouting in the distance. Managing to lift his head, he looked around at the unrecognizable mess of rubble that had been made of the cafe. The wall on his right was completely missing, showing the sunny street outside. Bodies were strewn here and there. There was a severed arm lying discarded off to his right. He found himself wondering whose it was, before looking down at the ragged stump of his shoulder and realizing it was his own.

Brimstone was standing at the mouth of the ruined wall, back to Griff, brown robes smoking.

"They gave me no choice," the lord said. "Infection goes too deep. I will have to burn it all down. Start from the beginning. Only way to make something pure. Only way to make a place where she can be safe."

He reached up and tore his robes away, exposing a body that looked far too withered to wield the power he did, twisted and marred top to bottom in layers of scarring, making the few clean spots of skin look out of place.

The lord looked out over the city, nodded quietly to himself, and said:

"Semblance Art: Hell Visor."

At that, he began to change. Something sprouted from his skin, grew out of him. Red and glistening; hard and sharp. Brimstone arched back with a groan—Griff could not tell if it was one of pain or pleasure—and threw his arms wide.

The red protrusions extended further until they met across his body, slotting into one another to form a sort of carapace of interlocking plates. Lastly a ridge sprouted along the centerline of his scalp, rising and splitting and curling in across his skull until it had taken the shape of a close-fitting helmet.

Brimstone fell to one knee as the transformation reached its end. Steam rose off him in waves, jets of vapor periodically hissing out of gaps in his armor. His head slowly turned, and Griff found himself staring into the twisted face of a grinning demon, eyes smoldering like coals, smoke and flame billowing from the mask's smiling mouth.

Then his attention slid from Griff. He faced forward again, placed his gauntleted palms flat on the ground, and stayed on one knee while sliding his other leg out behind him in the ready pose of a sprinter.

For a moment, all was still and silent aside from the distant shouts of people further down the street.

Then Brimstone's carapace shivered and bristled, and several plates along his back and hamstrings and calves rose up to let out focused jets of flame; expelled with such force that the ruined furniture behind the lord went tumbling and sliding along the splintered floor.

Brimstone launched into a burning sprint like something shot out of a cannon, trailing smoke and flame behind him. Griff lost sight of him almost instantly, but was able to roughly track his passage off along the right somewhere by the dull explosions that shook the ground and the screams that followed, rapidly increasing in number and urgency.

Griff lay there for a while, blinking up at the ruined ceiling. He was going to die. Could feel the life go out of him already. Even with his points in Totality, he could not halt the bleeding. Wasn't sure he had a mind to, in the first place.

Then, with a sigh, he fumbled around with his left hand until it found his right pants pocket, managed to fish the tobacco tin out. Be damned if he was going to die without a bit of baccy. He quickly found, however, that he was a hand short of being able to actually open the damn thing.

That was pretty funny. He chuckled to himself about it.

[At 8:54 AM, Brimstone begins his rampage through the city.]

[By 9:00 AM, casualties exceed five hundred.]

[By 10:00 AM, five thousand.]

[He does not stop as the morning progresses.]

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