"You're late." Scarlet replies, in tones low and cold. Unlike most people in her situation (are there ever any?), she didn't start when he materialised, but took a slow, careful drag on the cigarette. "But, no matter," She continues, only now turning her gaze to study the man carefully. "I shall leave the more.. technical aspects to you. That is to say- the lighting of the fire. I want it hot. Red-hot. Hot enough that everything inside burns." This may seem odd, considering it is her house that they are standing before, but regardless.
She reaches into the bag and pulls out thin leather gloves, pulling them over her hands, before dropping the end of the cigarette on the ground- admist a few others that are days and weeks old. She drives it into the ground with her boot. From her sack, she now draws a pair of boots. "If it suits, you, I would prefer you to wear these shoes- I would not like the imprint of your soles on the ground."

Only the slightest tensing of the corners of his mouth reveals his internal reaction to the request. He's taking a share, like the others. So he really can't complain. He just nods cooly, "Alright," and sits on the ground, leaning his back against the soon-to-be blazing structure, where he removes his boots casually, and then leans for the shoes which he finds a bit large for him. The fat constable is shorter, but somehow has bigger feet. They slide on rather easily, and Trane stands, moving directly toward the bag, "You have a flint about here?" he asks while looking at the bag.

Scarlet reaches in, "I am a smoker, am I not?" And draws one out- passing it over. Then, she picks up the sack, and stands up straight. There is lamp oil in the kitchen," The word- so domestic, so homely, sounds wrong coming from the mouth of this woman. It is even spoken with a sneer. Several things- shining tantalizingly even in the darkest night, are withdrawn from the bag and slipped into pockets somewhere about her person. The gloves prevent give-away fingerprints. "Let us commence, shall we? Enter from the back."
With this, she disappears around the back of the building, dropping a thick gold ring in the dirt near the door, and motioning for the man to walk by it.
He does, following behind and glancing at the ring passively as he enters the building. Once inside, he finds it safer to speak in a normal voice. He is focused, and immediately starts to pick out the things he needs. The lamp; firewood at the fireplace. Parchments. "Well start several fires. One in each room. I'll set a pile for each one next to a wall. We need as many flammables as we can get. Those parchments will do, and I'll pile the firewood you have in each room. Do you have any clothing you are parting with." It's a question framed like a statement. He doesn't wait for the answer, instead immediately moving to the fireplace, where he takes several of the split logs and carries them toward a nearby wall and makes a small, stacked pile, and then throws some of the parchments from a nearby table on top, followed by a smattering of lamp oil. His work is calm and focused and entirely undistracted.

"Of course. Whatever is in here now, you can do what you like with. All my valuable things are elsewhere. There are blankets and old clothes." The woman leans back for a time against a wall- looking at them in a somewhat nostalgic fashion. Perhaps if anyone had been near enough, and not making noise stacking wood, they would have heard her mutter very quietly; "They are only walls. Only walls." And with this thought in mind, she makes herself busy- in a cool, collected fashion, of course. Piles are built- the fire is ready to be lit.

Trane finishes the tasks smoothly, rapidly, and silent. When it comes time to light, there are several stacks of firewood in each room flush with a wall, topped like a dessert with old clothing, parchments, and lamp oil. When the last one is readied, he returns to the front room. There are beads of sweat on his forehead.
He eyes Scarlet for the first time since entering, "You should probably head outside. I'll be lighting them fast and the fire will grow very fast."

Without a word, she slips out. There are still things to be done, however. A key is left in the path beside the house heading toward the back door. For any who would know such things, it is a replica of Scarlet's key, such as someone might make to break into a house. She slips comfortably toward the road and walks a short way along, then drops a small locket inside which is a picture- drawn very carefully- of a woman. People would recognise this as a picture of Dormi Whitethorne. Moving back to the street outside the house, she scatters biscuit crumbs, then dusts her hands by way of 'a job well done'.

Inside, cracklings start, followed by flickering of a soft orange glow. At first, the glow which beings in each room is soft and almost welcoming in the darkness. But within seconds curled black smokes seeps out of windows and through the chimney, creeping its way out of the house in large volumen. The black whisps soon become heavier puffs of grey; choking clouds straining to find their way out of the home. There is no sign of Trane yet.
And then there are sounds as well. The clattering of a pan falling. Some strange popping noise. And then the unmistakable, low roar of a large fire which is already consuming the small building. It is soon clear that the fires in each room were successful, and that they are rapidly beginning to destroy the structure. The architect of this malevolence is still not to be seen.

Scarlet watches the glow, and seems as though she can't decide whether to be upset and moved by the burning or her home, or amused by the whole ordeal. It doesn't matter though, for soon she's moving off, motioning for Trane to hurry along- no doubt people will be waking up soon, and the last thing they need is to be seen fleeing the scene.
Some time passes, and it is not until the house is fully ablaze (and, in fact, that the fire has leapt to the house beside it) that people start to emerge curiously from their houses. Shouts and screams go up into the damp, cold night, and this draws out more Breefolk. Several people run for guards, others run to get buckets and begin trying to throw this over the blaze, but the heat beats them back. One sleepy-eyed curly-haired girl stumbled from a house nearby, and gasps, then nearly bursts into tears. For Megan Tasselberry, this is a scene all too familiar to her.
Smoke pours from Mt. Doom as the Dark One's evil sorcery lags the game.
The smoke clears as good triumphs and the database saves.
It is only a matter of minutes before one of the constables, Trig Beatlewood, has arrived at the scene. The fire is raging, and he is soon assisting in the throwing buckets of water at the inferno. He is about to throw a heavy bucket of water into the blaze at close proximity to it when he notices something shiny on the ground. Being a young lad, and one who's prone to curiosity, he sets down his bucket even as large flames lick dangerously close to him. Reaching down, he retrieves a ring which is quite warm to the touch due to the proximity of the fire. And then. . . what is that. A shoe? He picks it up. That looks like . . . . He shakes his head, but holds onto the shoe as well. He'll need to examine the ruins better once the blaze has finally settled down. In the meantime, he takes the two items that he has found, and runs to put them in his knapsack. A flame shoots out where he was just standing, unbeknownst to him.
Announcement: Mouth_of_Sauron has changed the poll to: Count us on two hands

Megan runs over- curls streaming out behind her, nightclothes doing very little for modesty. "Be careful!" She calls out, as if that course of action wasn't obvious enough. The poor girl is a wreck, and clearly in need of some moral support. The house burns, and burns, and the house beside it starts to burn- a large family pouring out of the door and staring in disbelief as the thatch of the roof errupts and bursts into flame. Around the corner, another house suddenly errupts after burning slowly from within for some time. What will happen next?!
Late on the scene also is Ottewell Whitethorne, who trots into the area clumsily and heavy of breath. His eyes widen distinctly at the sight. The rage of the fire at the Whitethorne residence has already begun to die down . . . He can see that it was the first to ignite. He stands dumbfounded. Even as he does, young Beatlewood is before him, shoe in hand. "Saaargent. This is your shoe, innit?" Ottewell looks at the shoe distractedly, merely nodding. He's so captivated by the multiple fires that he doesn't think it strange that his young subordinate is holding his shoe. Then it hits him. "What're ya doin' with my shoe?" The young constable's face has changed from one of curiosity to one of suspicion. The older constable is out of breath, sweating. And why was his shoe here? "Sarge Whitethorne. You better come back to headquarters and talk to the Cap'n with me."
Constable Ottewell already recognizes the implications. The leather of his shoe, by the looks of it, is curled by heat. It must have been near the fire. Ottewell merely nods in response, knowing that he'll have alot of questions to follow.

Somewhere on the otherside of town, there is a knock on a door. It opens suspiciously, as one who is used to unpleasant callers at night. Then, upon seeing the cloaked and hooded figure outside, opens the door fully, and allows her in. A quiet conversation ensues, then they both slip out into the night, and move quickly toward the burning house. They look similar- dark hair, eyes, skin, that sort of thing.
Meanwhile, the house is nearly demolished, and the water seems to be doing very little by way of putting out the fire. Megan Tasselberry watches in a curious fashion as one Breeguard leaves away the other- reading the expressions as she is so used to doing. Something isn't right.

By now half the town, if not more, is gathered around the several fires. Many of them lined up in bucket lines; passing buckets from the nearest well or stream a great distance to the fires. Any little folk are helping now; straining to lift the big people buckets over their heads and pass them along. Even Dormi Whitethorne is there, with her daughter Bella in her arms; watching the fire with fear. Hoping it doesn't spread to her home. She's had enough trouble for awhile. She keeps expecting to see her husband nearby, and waits patiently for his arrival. Long minutes pass, and he does not arrive.

Scarlet Greythorn could be seen moving through the crowd- stealthily, so as not to draw a great deal of attention to herself. The walk is a hurried one- as if she too were going to help, but also one designed to instill the qualities of disbelief- after all, it is her house burning, shock, fear, and all these emotions expected of her. Rumours fly, whispers abound, especially at the sight of the constables wife, and Scarlet does not fail to hear them. She sidles up beside Dormi, and shakes her head. "I can't believe someone would do this..." She mutters, not looking toward the woman, but directly at the house.

Dormi doesn't even recognize the woman. She's heard her name countless times. And if she did know who was speaking to her, she'd certainly react in some fashion other than simply politeness. Instead, she nods sadly. "Aye. But might'nt it be an accident?" she questions. The four year old in her arms, Bella, only finds the fire fascinating, and smiles at Scarlet, while pointing at the Scarlet's now charred home. "Fire!! Pretty!!" The shout is followed by a series of giggles.

"An accident?" Now Scarlet looks to the woman. Of course she knows Dormi wouldn't recognise her- they haven't met formally before, and that's part of the beauty of the conversation. "I don't see how. It's my house, and I was looking after my sick cousin when it happened. I certainly didn't leave the stove running, or any fires lit. I don't see how it could possibly be an accident..." Scarlet looks to the child, then shakes her head lightly, "No, not pretty, not pretty at all.."

Dormi frowns deeply and whispers something in the ear of the child, which somehow manages to stifle her giggles. Young Bella puts her hand over her mouth, hiding her smile which still exists. Mrs. Whitethorne shakes her head. "Miz, I am so sorry for your . . ." She doesn't even finish the statement before she sees the glimmer of something familiar on the road before her. Her eyes go wide, and her mouth opens. She quickly puts Bella down, taking her hand, and walks to take the object from the road. Even as she lifts it and opens it, she lets out a loud gasp; nearly a cry. The locket of her he always keeps. She's frozen for a brief moment. But only a brief one. And then she has swooped Bella up into her arms, and is walking rapidly away from the scene with the locket in her hand; oblivious now to Scarlet or anyone.

Scarlet follows her gaze and tilts her head. "What's the matter?" She asks, as if there wasn't matter enough, then trails along innocently behind. If the woman had paid her any attention, she would have noticed a tiny smirk settle itself upon her features. Of course, she doesn't, and as she powers away, Scarlet turns to watch the house burn steadily. The smirk fades, and is replaced with that look people get when everything has gone perfectly to plan, and all the pieces are fitting together. The fire begins to relent as water is poured over it.