Bells rang, people rushed. The stacks of black smoke tarnished the golden sun, covering it, but doing little to shroud the heat for Spyre. There he was, a head of red hair that bolted from one well, to the next. Expending his energy reserves to pull up and dunk down buckets of water. One came up empty - its daily supply having run dry, and not even a dent put into the heat and suffocating air that rose from the mines below. Ropes and pulleys for the shaft elevators gave away, carts and boxes stuck on their lines somewhere below. Most who survived were already out from those places. Telling tales of sudden bursts of fire, of the ground moaning and roaring. The best thing to do was seal it up, the village ultimately decided. Let the fires burn away the coal, but hopefully choke all of it out. Fires need oxygen after all.
Natural fires, anyway.
While the single Geomancer present in the village moved rocks, and collapsed the front of the coal-shaft, Zelrius helped people fill out reports and letters to spread the word, and ask for help from the Adventurer's Guild, or perhaps even the Lions. Platinum Ranked as he was, this sort of community outreach was becoming more and more natural to him.
It didn't sit right with the man. Off to the side, he shed his brown and black leather coat, the top buttons of his robust under clothing undone to free his collar and pulled loose. The man lifted what was left in a nearly empty bucket of water to dump on his head, hoping to cool himself off from the effort, and to maybe slow the beating of his amped up heart from the morning of activity. It was less than helpful, a frown forming faster than the sizzling steam had. The way it rose from dry, hot air that his own pyromancy forcibly created around him. A self feeding cycle as the bottom of his jaws began to grind his teeth back and forth.
That frustration would have stuck - if it wasn't for the familiar sight of an explorer whom Zelrius had continually crossed paths with. At the tables, at the gambling parlor, and now here. This man was at Vintergard - his blood a red overlay over his skin, mapping out the network of veins and arteries all over his body. With a sword shrouded in a mist. This time, he wasn't with the Elf, Luthien. Someone with talent - moreso than him. Zelrius stood, moving toward the man in question, calling out with a "Hey!" as he approached.
Only realizing when he got too close that his own fire magic would make being near him uncomfortable, stopping short of the other's presence about twenty feet or so. "I've seen you before," the pyromancer admitted, not really sure what else to say. Letting the awkward silence sit for a second, before thinking of some other question to keep the conversation moving along. "You, uh, sightseeing in Spyre?"
@Yugam
