An Arsonist and a Necromancer Walk into a Bar

Interlude VI – Mt. Palmira

[Ten Years Ago]

​

Deep in the ash-fields of Iscrimo, where rural farmland was the norm, there was once a small village. It sat nestled in a small valley, between the soft, snow-white peaks of Mt. Palmira and the crags of the ever-smoking Mt Fumoso. A thin creek ran through the valley, which the handful of farmhouses that made up the bulk of the village clung tight to.

Vittoria, it had been named, after the woman who'd founded it. Nobody who lived there remembered who she was, and so children often made games of making up her reason for coming here. Some say she was a knight who slew a dragon, others a princess fleeing the empire. None of them knew if they were correct, but few cared. They were of Vittoria, and that was all that mattered.

But living in the small village in the valley was a young girl, named Palmira.

Palmira was six years (and two months!) old, living with her Mama and Papa on their farm. They lived a simple life, with few personal effects. She spent her days helping out on the farm and playing with the few other kids in the village. Her parents were kind, but often strict. And she did love them, even if they could be kind of dumb sometimes. Like they were being today.

"Mama, please!" the young Palmira wailed, clutching at her mother's skirts. "Everyone else is gonna be there!"

"No means no, young lady," Mama huffed, hands on her waist. She looked just like Palmira imagined herself when she was older, except with black hair that she kept tied in a ponytail over her shoulder. "You have chores you need to do today!"

"But! Mama!"

"You have only yourself to blame for this. Maybe if you didn't keep slacking off you'd have gotten them done, and you would be able to go with all your friends to see the priestess."

"But…" Palmira sniffled. "But, I…"

Mama sighed. Leaning down, she straightened out her hair with a soft smile. "How about this," she soothed her. "If you finish your chores early—and finish them properly—I'll let you go play with your friends. Okay?"

"What if… What if I go now and finish them later? Can't I do that?"

Mama smiled, before gently pushing her out the door. "Nope!"

--

​

Palmira groaned, dragging the bag of cockatrice feed behind her. Ash from Fumoso fell gently from the sky, falling on her shoulders like snow, which occasionally caused her to sneeze. She held the opening of the bag tight, making sure none of the ash got in.

"Stupid Mama!" Palmira swore to herself, the cruel insults of 'dumb' and 'meanie' flying from her lips. Truly blasphemous, this child. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Feeding the animals always came first, Mama said, but Palmira hated feeding the cockatrices. She had to wear a blindfold the entire time, and they'd bite at her fingers if she accidently got too close. It sucked!

But at least that was over now.

As she was putting away her blindfold and the remaining cockatrice feed, a couple of girls walked up to her, waving.

"Hey, il Tizzone!" one of the other girls shouted at her. "What're you still doing out here? You coming with us or what?"

She huffed, annoyed. Last week she had been Palmira la Giovane, but then the couple down the road had named their new daughter Palmira, and so she lost the rights to that name.

This was because, of course, Palmira was not the only Palmira in the village. She was named after the mountain, Mt. Palmira, which rose to the north of the village, along with about a third of the other girls born in the village over the past several hundred years.

The other Palmiras—the important ones, at least—were the elf Palmira l'elfa, Palmira la Palmira—who had won that title in an epic battle between the many Palmiras of the village, ending with her victory—Palmira l'alta, and now the new baby, Palmira la Giovane.

And now she was Palmira il Tizzone, Palmira the Firebrand.

Honestly, you accidentally set the donkey on fire one time—

She shook her head. That wasn't important right now. Turning to the other girls, she huffed, stomping her foot. "Mama won't let me come until I do my chores!"

Palmira la Palmira scoffed, flicking her long grey hair over her shoulder. "Boo! Why're you listening to her? My Mama said the same thing, but you don't see me following her blindly!"

Palmira il Tizzone considered this. It was a good point, but… "Won't Mama be mad if I don't listen to her?"

"Please! You're what, six now?"

"Six and two months!"

"Exactly!" la Palmira grinned smugly. "You're a big girl now, you can decide when your chores are done. Just like me!"

Palmira il Tizzone considered this exceptional point. She was a big girl now, Papa had said as much last time he picked her up. In that case…

She ran up to the other girls, who cheered. Palmira la Palmira wrapped an arm around her neck and ruffled her hair, and with that the group were off to see the priestess.

They found her quickly (the village was not particularly big, after all). She'd set up beneath St. Fiora's chapel, which was by far the largest and best maintained structure in the village.

The priestess sat on the steps, granting Miracles and divine wisdom to all who asked. Already a massive crowd had formed around her, what must have been the entire village showing up to see her. Including, unfortunately, Lenna.

Lenna was the mayor's daughter. They didn't live in town—they were old money, so they lived further down the river, in their family villa.

Palmira didn't like Lenna. She was a big meanie-butt. The biggest, one might even say.

The girl had already pushed her way to the front of the line, begging the priestess to bless her unfortunately beautiful pitch-black hair to make it fire-proof.

Heh.

As Lenna walked away from the priestess dejected, the two of them locked eyes.

Palmira stuck out her tongue, while the other girl simply sneered and stuck her nose so high into the air it was a miracle she didn't choke on ash as she did so.

Palmira and her gang of prepubescent girls shoved their way into the crowd, giggling to themselves as they caught sight of the priestess.

The priestess was a beautiful young woman, draped in ceremonial cloth and wielding a divine staff. She smiled at the crowd gathered before her, radiant with the light of the Goddess. To her left, a Paladin leaned against the walls of the chapel, arms crossed with a bored look on his face.

Palmira stared at his sword, before turning her attention back to the priestess. She was helping out one of the many village elders, who'd all gotten here early to beg healing off the priestess.

Old Tizio came first, sitting close to her, his face awash with awe and relief. The old man had broken his leg a few years ago, but it never healed properly, and so he'd walked with a painful limp ever since. But as the priestess' hand moved over his leg, it healed in an instant, as though it had never been injured in the first place.

"There you go, Signor Tizio, good as new!" she smiled at him, kindness pouring from every part of her body. "How do you feel now?"

"I feel… amazing!" he drawled, his near-toothless mouth messing with his ability to speak coherently. "Better, even! Why, I don't remember the last time that old knee of mine didn't ache! Thank you, Priestess, thank you so, so much!"

"Please, don't thank me," she clasped her hands together in prayer, Old Tizio swiftly following. "Thank the Goddess, for it is only through her that this miracle was possible."

"Oh, oh, do me next!" Giovori il Piccolo waved his hand excitedly, the tiny boy pushing his way to the front of the crowd. "Do me, do me!"

The priestess smiled indulgently at him. "Are you injured, child?"

"Uh…" his eyes widened in realization. Then he punched himself in the face. "Now I am!"

The priestess looked like she really wanted to sigh, but forced herself to hold it in. "Very well. Then come here, child, and let the Goddess' blessing heal your wounds."

The priestess continued her charity work, healing all who came up to her and, once that was done, simply talked with whoever wished to talk.

Soon the sun began to set, and as the sky grew darker the priestess flicked her fingers. Two brilliant white flames burst into life beside her, bathing the town center in light.

"You can make fire?" Palmira leaned in with wide eyes, reaching out to poke the closer one. The priestess gently grabber her fingers before she could do so, pulling her away.

"Indeed," she nodded, a nostalgic smile on her face. "Fire is our gift from the goddess. It grants us warmth in the depths of winter, light in the darkest nights, and even cooks our food! I was a fire mage long before my Revelation, and even though my flames now burn a different hue, that makes them no more or less divine."

"Wow! I can do that too!" Palmira smiled, raising her hands. Some small sparks fell from her fingers, but nothing more. "See!"

The priestess' eyes widened, and an inscrutable look crossed her face. But then it was gone, and she gave Palmira s soft smile. "Marvelous, young lady. Perhaps, one day, you might even be a priestess like me!"

Palmira giggled.

Soon after the people began to trickle away from the chapel, returning to their homes for dinner. Palmira tried to stay longer, but she began to yawn, and eventually la Palmira grabbed her and dragged her away.

"Come on, il Tizzone," the older girl scoffed, dragging her along. "I'm tired, and even big girls need their beauty rest."

Palmira pouted, but complied, rushing to keep up with the taller girl's long legs.

The priestess left the next day, their village only a small stop on her quest to slay the Demons that plagued the world.

Palmira, on the other hand, would have her own, self-inflicted demons to fight.

"Well well well," Mama stared down at her, a smile as wide as it was fake stretched across her face. "Look who finally came home."

Palmira froze in the doorway, having forgotten what exactly had been waiting at home. "Uh, Mama, you aren't mad at me, are you?"

Mama was, in fact, mad.

--

​

The next night, Papa snuck her up onto the roof so that they could watch the stars together. It was one of Papa's favorite pastimes, and he tried to bring her up there every night.

"Don't tell your mother about this," he held up a finger. "You're supposed to be grounded, after all."

Palmira nodded solemnly. She knew Papa was risking being relegated to the dreaded 'guest bed' for doing this, and she would respect his sacrifice. Because Mama would find out about this, they were both aware of that, but she wouldn't be learning through Palmira.

See, this was why she liked Papa more than Mama—he was fun.

With that out of the way, they laid their backs against the thatch roof, before turning their gazes up to the heavens.

"You see that?" Papa pointed to a cluster of stars, four in a line with two more off to the side. "That's the Eraldiki, the banner of the herald, Exul!"

Palmira frowned. Wasn't there supposed to be a person attached to that? "Where's the rest of him, though?"

"He's not visible this time of year," Papa smiled, the stars reflecting in his eyes. "He only shows up in winter, to lead us back to warmer days. But his banner is always visible, to remind us that the summer is only temporary. It's even said that if his banner ever disappears, that means there will never be another winter again, and the world will fall into an eternal spring."

"Wow!" Palmira said, more for Papa's sake than hers. She didn't care as much about the stars, but she did like spending time with Papa, so she made sure to sound as enthusiastic as possible.

"Of course, that's just an old wives tale. But it's fun to think about, isn't it? Ah, but Exul himself has a much more interesting story, have I told you it before?"

Yes. "Nope!"

"Well, it all started back before the Dark Age, before the Cardinal Sin, when Man still lived in Paradise…"

His voice droned on soothingly, and slowly, her eyes began to droop closed. As always, she fell asleep up there, listening to Papa talk.

And as always, she woke up tucked into her bed the next morning.

--

​

Days turned to weeks turned to months.

Her life didn't change much. Mama grounded her, but eventually the grounding ended, and she was allowed to play with her friends again (except for la Palmira, who herself was still grounded). She still worked on the farm with her parents. She still practiced making sparks when nobody was looking. And she prayed at the chapel every week, thanking the Goddess for all the good in her life.

Then, in a single day, all of it went up in smoke.

She was eating dinner at the table one morning, Mama sitting next to her while Papa was getting an early start on the days chores. It was oatmeal she was eating—even to this day, she remembered perfectly. The taste, the texture. Even as the rest of her childhood faded from memory, that little bit still stayed with her.

Palmira took another bite—and then the ground shook. Violently.

The force of it nearly knocked her out of her seat. Behind her, Mama had to grab onto the wall to not fall over, and all around them things fell off the shelves and off the counters. Palmira shrieked.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Then Papa burst in from outside, running up to them. "We need to leave!" he nearly shouted. "We've got to go, now!"

"What…?" Palmira asked, still dazed. Mama simply nodded, grabbing a bag of bread and their coats.

Papa grabbed her, lifting her up on his shoulder. "Papa!? What—what's going on?"

He placed a hand gently on her head. "Hey, hey, it's okay. It's fine. We've just got to take a little trip, that's all. Just… ah, think of it like a vacation!"

She still didn't know what was going on—why Papa and Mama were freaking out so much—but she also didn't know what else to say. So she simply snapped her mouth shut and nodded, doing her best to stay quiet.

Papa rubbed her back, and the three of them ran outside.

It wasn't quite pandemonium out there—there just weren't enough people in the village for things to get that bad—but it was definitely chaotic. Families ran about their farms, packing away everything they could get their hands on. Some with efficient grace, others with panicked speed.

Mama joined them, loading up the sealed cages of their cockatrices onto their neighbors wagon while Papa ran ahead with her. They joined a group with the other village children and their parents, all the people too young or to weak to help out. They were marching north, on a long unused path out of the village.

"Eh?" Old Tizio frowned at Papa. "What are you doing over here? Shouldn't you be helping your wife gather your things?"

"Ah, well, you know," Papa's smile was weak as he shrugged. "We don't own that much, so my wife told me to stay with Palmira while instead. It's best to keep her from freaking out, you know?"

The old man scoffed, but didn't say another word, letting Papa carry her along.

They continued on their way, the elderly comforting the crying and confused children. Eventually they'd made their way up the cliffs of Mt. Palmira a fair distance, and Palmira couldn't help but look down the mountain over her Papa's shoulder, down at the village she'd spent her whole life growing up in.

It looked… so small, from up here.

The ground shook again, harder, and this time Papa nearly fell to his knees trying to stay steady.

Palmira, when looking back on this day, later realized that the villagers had been aware of the danger of the volcano erupting. Mt. Fumoso had been a known volcano for centuries, and the people who lived at its foot all knew the dangers of that. They were people of the Pumilios, they knew the warning signs of what happened when a volcano was close to erupting, and so they prepared accordingly. This wasn't the first time Mt. Fumoso had a dangerous eruption, but it was the first in a while, so they'd been expecting this for a bit.

But, the thing is…

They'd gone in the wrong direction. It wasn't Mt. Fumoso that was erupting.

High above their heads, the soft, snowy peak of Mt. Palmira exploded in a violent cacophony of sound and heat. In an instant the sky vanished, replaced by smoke and fire.

Papa spun around, staring up at the peak in horror. The children around them screamed, and the elderly joined in. They were now too close—too close to run, too close to escape, too close to do anything.

It was a pointless thought. Even if they'd been on the other mountain, at the peak of Mt. Fumoso, they still would have been too close.

Papa fell to the ground, holding her tight, as though he could somehow shield her with his body.

It was a futile effort. She could see it through the gap in his arms. The cloud of ash.

No. What came bearing down on them could not be called a mere cloud. It was a wall. A wall of smokey darkness that came closer and closer. That grew larger and larger, until it was all she could see.

That grew until it was upon them, until it was behind them.

Until there was nothing left but ash and smoke.

Palmira hugged her father tighter, and the cloud of death consumed them.

--

​

It was hot.

Her legs, her chest, her arms, her head. Inside. It was so.

Unbearably.

Hot.

She could not see. She could not move. She could not breath. Her skin was melting off her bones and her insides were filled with ash.

Yet, somehow, she lived. And once she realized that, no matter the agony of it, she realized that she did not want to die.

She pushed. Forcing all her will into the simple effort of moving but an inch.

Her fingers twitched. They dug and chipped at the still molten stone. She pushed, and dug, and pushed. She crawled forward, bit by bit, unsure of where she was even going. But she knew she had to move.

And then, finally, the stone gave way, and darkness gave way to light.

Palmira broke through to the surface, shedding flesh and muscle like slag. She dragged herself up from the ground, hacking up stone and ash. She glanced up feebly, fading eyes taking in the hell she'd been reborn into.

The world was dark and grey in all directions. Black clouds hung low in the sky, occasionally erupting with bursts of lightning. Ash fell like snow, covering the molten ground in an ever-increasing layer of soot. The only breaks in the bleached hellscape were the burning corpses of trees, just barely peaking over the ash.

She didn't recognize this place. And yet, she knew without a shadow of a doubt where she was.

Mt. Palmira overlooked the wasteland that had once been home, now nothing more than a city-sized crater, bellowing a seemingly endless amount of smoke and ash into the sky.

Tears didn't fall. Could not fall, the heat had sealed her tear ducts shut and burned off her eyelids. So instead, she did the only other thing she could think of.

She pulled herself up on charred fingers, her remaining skin blackened and lungs filled with ash.

But the pain had long since numbed, and with heaving, hacking breathes, she managed to force herself to her feet.

Then, slowly, she forced one foot forward. Then another, and another.

Palmira marched through the knee-high ash. Not because she knew where she was going, but because she knew staying here would mean death.

So she forced herself forward, across the ashy wastes, one foot in front of the other. Even as her feet melted, even as the ash tore at her skin.

Until, finally, her blurry eyes caught movement. Bright white shapes, speeding through the ash as though it didn't bother them in the slightest.

One of the shapes turned towards her, and then all of them rushed at her.

She blacked out for a moment, and then they were there, hands grabbing her shoulders, her legs, her torso. But they grabbed her gently, almost firmly. Masks completely covered their faces, and their breathing was heavy and loud. They were speaking garbled words that she was too exhausted to piece together.

And as though there was nothing left fueling her, Palmira fell into their waiting arms and blacked out.

--

​

Consciousness returned to her slowly. It flickered in and out, a blur of sights and sounds and smells that she could make no sense of, overwhelming her until she passed out once more.

When she finally woke up, she was in an unfamiliar room, wearing unfamiliar clothes. The room was small, with only a single small bed and a chair.

One of the white shapes was sitting on that chair. Though, now that she saw them up close, she could see that it was a man, draped in a bright white cloak and protective gear.

The man looked exhausted, but once he saw she was awake, he smiled, practically jumping out of his seat.

"You're awake!" he sighed in relief, kneeling beside her bed. "Thank the Goddess! How are you feeling?"

Palmira opened her mouth, but all she could manage was a painful cough.

"Right, right, I'll get the priestess, just wait here for a minute!"

She wanted to reach out for him, to beg him to stay, but she couldn't bring herself to move.

So he left. And then returned a few moments later, an old woman of the cloth by his side. The old lady prayed for her, placing gently hands upon her burned body, and slowly the pain began to numb.

The man handed her a cup of water, telling her to drink slowly.

She did, and it was agony. But she couldn't bring herself to stop, and once she finished the whole cup she almost cried with need for more.

But the man took the cup away and then, slowly and quietly, they explained to her what had happened.

The village she was currently staying at had heard the volcano erupt, and sent out a runner to the city to get help.

The white shapes that had found her were Esploratori di Cenere, mages specialized in searching for survivors following volcanic eruptions. They'd found her and brought her to the nearby village, where the local priestess was able to stabilize her.

Unfortunately, the village was too close to ground zero of the eruption, and almost everyone had perished. Only three people managed to survive, and almost entirely due to luck.

Palmira had only survived thanks to her tenuous grip on fire magic, allowing her to survive long enough for others to find her help.

Giulia survived thanks to her location. She'd been out hunting with her father in the mountainside, so she'd missed the worst of it. Though she didn't get away unscathed—she and her father had both ended up breathing in too much ash, and even now were wracked with painful coughs. And her father—who'd already been an old man—ended up rupturing his lungs, leading to his death.

Lenna, of all people, had survived by simply not being there. She'd been visiting her family the next town over, the town they were currently in, and had missed the eruption. Though that didn't mean much—her home, her family, and her wealth had all been destroyed by the volcano as well, leaving her alone and destitute.

Palmira, Lenna, and Giulia. The only survivors of the once village of Vittoria.

Palmira wished she could cry. But her body was still healing, and so all she could do was shake painfully.

The man stared down at her with exhausted eyes, eyes that spoke of having seen this play out, time and time again.

But, even so, he softly grabbed her hand, and promised her it would be alright.

--

​

She spent a few months in that village, recovering. Recovering what she could, at least. She'd been at ground-zero of the eruption, and been more hurt than anyone else. From what the priestess told her, the burn scars would never heal, and for the rest of her life her face would be deformed from the heat. It was more awful news to pile onto her, but at that point she couldn't even bring herself to care.

Palmira found she couldn't stay. The small village… it gnawed at her. It was so similar to her home (her old home, now buried under tons and tons of ash) and yet it was so different. The elders were still old, the children still lively, and the farmers still farmed.

But they were not her elders, her children, her farmers. They were all strangers.

She couldn't stay here, where the memories haunted her.

So, when a merchant caravan arrived in the village, heading up north to Iscrimo, she jumped at the chance to leave.

And Lenna and Giulia, perhaps feeling the same way, or perhaps just not wanting to watch one of the only people from their home run away, went with her.

The white scout who saved her paid for her trip, and the priestess healed her one last time before she left. The caravan leaders grumbled at their inclusion, but one of the merchants took them under her wing, giving them enough food and water to survive. Francis, a half-elf from the north. Palmira never met the woman again, but she would always remember her kindness.

The caravan marched north, deeper and deeper into the Pumilios, the landscape around them slowly changing with each day that passed. From the rolling hills of Alovoa, to the towering peaks of the Pumilios Mountains.

Their caravan continued to follow the Nera, the great river that most smaller rivers in the area flowed into, as hills turned to mountains and mountains turned to volcanoes. Soon the sky turned more red than blue, and each mountain they passed spewed ash and smoke into the sky.

It terrified her.

But it also comforted her. The fact that they spewed smoke so obviously was almost a relief. She knew they were volcanoes—everyone knew they were volcanoes, and so nobody though her weird for being nervous about them.

(It was the normal mountains she kept a close eye on, the ones that seemed so innocent. She didn't trust a single one of them.)

Eventually, though, they reached the end of their journey. Ahead of them, in the distance, she could see it. A massive city, a settlement larger than any she'd ever seen in her life. It was built atop a massive plateau, surrounded on all sides by volcanoes. Terrace farms clutched at the edges of its walls, while the black basalt the city was built from seemed to cast the whole of it in shadow.

She'd never seen anything like it in her life, and yet because of that she knew there was only one thing it could be.

Iscrimo, the Ancient City of Fire.