It was a beautiful town, and looked quite natural when contrasted with the landscape. There was a small forest just to the north of the settlement; it was clear that this was the place where the townspeople gathered wood to build their houses, there being tree stumps evident, along with the faint creaking noise that happens when a pair of men take it upon themselves to cut down a tree.
The houses were a simple affair, being only one level high and made of logs, planks of wood making up the decks, housing old men who rocked on their chairs and smoked their pipes, remembering the good old days and glancing up at the sun, wondering when dinner would be set on the table. Children darted around the streets, kicking balls around and throwing things at each other. Laughing. Enjoying.
Moving towards the centre of the village, the houses became a bit more...impressive. To a city dweller, they would still represent some of the worst housing available, but to the people of this town, they were practically mansions. In the middle of all this, there was a house that quite clearly belonged to the leader of the settlement: it was made of bricks, and other longer-lasting, more expensive materials. In front of this house there was a square of sorts, and in this square, there seemed to be, what some would call, a spectacle.
A metal cage was sat in the middle of the square, with people gathered around, giving the cell a wide berth for whatever reason. The ground was stained near the cage, and there were several men stood in the middle the stained ground. They seemed to be guards of sort, with plumes in the helmets and shining armour. Obviously, there had been a commotion of some sorts.
However, aside from the apparent mishap in the town square, it looked to be a peaceful town, a town surrounded by nature and animals, living with the environment as if they were kindred spirits.
And Varsk wished it would burn.
He was sat atop a hill some few hundred metres away, his face twisted with rage. He clutched his arm, black blood oozing from a wound that he couldn't close: it was a big cut, granted, but something about it refused to heal, or at least start the process. Little did he know, but a relatively large shard of silver was lodged in his arm, the pure metal blocking his impure magic, his rage stopping him from feeling what should have been an intense pain. The demon looked upon the village, and cursed everyone who lived there, everyone who had laughed and jeered. He wished them all to burn, to writhe and scream as flames licked their bodies, scorching flesh and melting bone. Varsk's hair, unruly as always, was matted with blood, his tongue constantly darting out of his mouth to catch the drops that slid down his face. He wheeled around in rage, slamming his fist against a boulder, and howled in pain as his hand broke. While he was usually a bright spark, his rage seemed to expand and fill his mind, leaving little space for anything else. He sank to his knees, once again trying to stem the flow of blood from his arm, and muttered under his breath, tails waving behind him in a mad fashion, his rage reflected in the appendages.
"Damn Ulzaa..." he started, and slipped off into an unknown tongue, before fading back into common. "...Should have left me alone...shouldn't have done it... should burn" The last words were a low, demonic hiss, his sickly yellow eyes gazing back towards the village.
He would wait for nightfall. And then they would burn.
