Oh god, oh god, oh god.
He has no idea how it happened. Sir Aaron’s mouth flaps idiotically at the sight of the tree burning before him, letting out its inaudible tree screams of agony. Still jilted and definitely confused, he lets his Aura shield down, sloooowly backing away from the carnage. It totally wasn’t his fault. Nope. Not at all.
Well, son of a harlot. This is unfortunate. Then again, he supposes he’s not the one in the blame. After all, when he used the little money he’d earned through a birdcall imitation contest on something called fireworks, he’d expected they were a device that would make fire work. So he wouldn’t need to struggle with sticks between his palms for minutes on end to start a bonfire, he means. Something as necessary as that should NOT explode on the user. Clearly this is a defective product.
Sir Aaron whistles one of his bird songs, breaking into a sprint toward the nearest reservoir. He made this fire; now he ought to put it out. Then he’s going to give the fireworks guy an earful. Maybe take him to the court to be tried for witchcraft. Not watching where he’s going, he suddenly bumps headfirst into somebody.
"Thou saw nothing," he hisses.