The Dreaming Mark and the Vessel of Fools

An un-fire, that un-burns

I uncorked the little glass phial and poured the ashes in a neat line on to the Watchwarden's desk. "I suspect your answers will be in here," I offered with a smirk.

"I am already aware that my crime scene burned to the ground, Randulf. I'll thank you not to rub it in." The Watchwarden, already quite fed up after dealing with the suspect that was just in, was itching to throw the man out. "But I know you better than that. You must think there's more to Hiram's death than a simple accident."

"I do. My intuition lead me to the atrium fireplace; I suspect that these ashes will tell you how your fire started."

"Surely what you have here is old kindling and nothing more. At best it was an accident, and at worst, arson."

"Just watch." I rolled up the sleeves of my robe, revealing the intricate marks on my forearms - tattoos and a few scars alongside - of my patronage to Prambiot, the Shadow-Guide, and contorted my fingers into just such a pose over the pile of ash. At once, the warmth of the Watchwarden's office seemed as if it was being sucked away, as the wall sconces struggled to remain lit, and the ashes on the table began to gently lift from the table, as if a fell wind blew through the room. As I subtly gestured both of my hands, the ashes formed into a floating ball of black powder, centering around a smaller, blacker void, trying to steal the very light from the room before us. The sphere gradually flattened itself into a squarish panel, flexing about as if unsure if this was the form it needed to take. The blackness began to bleach into a pale beige color before it started to stitch itself together into a solid shape, before rolling itself up into a small tube and landing on the desk with no sound at all. The light, and all of the wall sconces, resumed their pleasant existence, as the warmth returned to the air.

The Watchwarden simply stared at the once-ash on the desk, as if this was a thing not to be touched. I clapped my hands together one time, then unrolled my sleeves again. "This would be your evidence, I believe. Go ahead and look," I told him. He carefully reached for the object - now resembling a rolled paper leaflet - as if it would crumble back to dust if he were too rough with it.

"By whatever means necessary. Hiram. Ensure that all is erased. Dispose of this note when it is done," the Watchwarden read from the paper.

"Then I think that is sufficient evidence that this was murder, Watchwarden."