The dark cloud of smoke above obscures the light of the full moon. A man dressed in a blood red cloak observes the carvings made into the trunks of trees in a dense forest. The wildfire will reach this part of the forest soon, and all of these sigils will be burned into ash and cinder. There had to be a purpose to it all, but the cloaked man can’t tell what it is. Not yet.
The sigils themselves are unfamiliar to him, but he copies them down. The Library will no doubt have something on this design. Power, focus, effect. The Law of the Triad is universal, no matter what world you visit. Whoever was doing this was collecting a massive amount of power from the heat of the wildfire, the dying breaths of all the creature that lived in the forest, and the life force coming out of the trees themselves.
If the cloaked man is correct, the sigils will act as this person’s focus. If he could just decipher them, he’d be able to tell what sort of intent was behind their crafting. Perhaps, if he did that, he’d know what a single mage, cult, or whatever, needed with all this power.
“If you think that blanket of yours will save you from the inferno, you’ll be very disappointed. Though I suppose you won’t be that way for long.”
The voice that speaks behind the cloaked man belongs to a woman. He turns to see a petite woman with brown hair and a checkered pattern on her skin tight bodysuit. She is standing with the heels of her soft leather boots tucked together and her arms folded in a confident stance. The serrated hunting knives that line her leather belt are all the threat she needs to keep people from thinking she is weak.
“The Harlequin. It is nice to finally make your acquaintance.”
“And to whom am I speaking now?”
“I’m the Librarian.”
“Oh please. You say that as if I should expect there to be only one of you. How many of you are there any way? And where do you keep coming from?”
“Are you the one whose carving these sigils?”
“Don’t change the subject. I want to know why you people have been following me. I haven’t done anything to you.”
“I assure you that I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve read about your work, but I have never encountered you before.” The cloaked man looks back at the approaching flames. They aren’t much more than a yellow-ish orange haze, but he knows how quickly wildfires can move once they get going. He doesn’t have much time before he has to make it back to the cabin.
“You may not have crossed my path, but one of your more effeminate counterparts has given me a real headache. I want you to send a message to her and anyone else that thinks they can mess with my work. Don’t.”
The cloaked man gives a confused look. As far as he knows, no one from the Library has ever met with the Harlequin or any of her victims. He looks at the woman standing in front of him, giving him a serious look and touching one of her knives. It was probably best to humor her and merely walk away rather than try to insist further.
“I understand. I will tell anyone I come across that your work is to be left alone.”
The Harlequin nodded. “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a set of sigils to examine. Whoever designed these really knew what they were doing, and I could use their expertise.”
“You’re not the one doing this then.”
The Harlequin continues to walk away, leaving the cloaked man to make his escape back to the cabin. He looks over his shoulder one last time before he sprints away from the inferno.
He uses the breathing exercises he was taught to keep his stamina up long enough to make it to the front door of a half-collapsed cottage. It has timber supports that were cut from the local flora and drywall purchased from a local hardware store. The front door morphs from a plain dark wood to the intricately carved oak door that the cloaked man throws himself through. It’s just in time. The next moment, the flames of the wildfire consume the cottage, and all that’s left is ash and cinder.