Sequence I: Miraculous Miasma - Harvest of Sorrow, Fields of Despair

[Kylerryth]

WARNING! This is a Sequence Complete: Kylerryth thread. There may be any and all of the following involved: physical, mental/psychological, emotional, and/or landscape/widespread violence; mutilation; threats; nightmares; sundry illnesses; and general strangeness.

* * * * *

What if spring did not come off quite as advertised?

* * * * *

As of two weeks ago, near the occurrence of the First Omen.

It was with prodigious haste that spring descended upon Myrken Wood, and with extreme prejudice that the aforementioned season exterminated any and all traces of its frore sibling, the consistently dispassionate winter. Spring's floral and animal ardor was matched -- or, some may be inclined to argue, defeated -- only by the impending fiery wrath of summer. It was of course not yet summer's turn to grace this particular portion of the planet with its hot embrace, the heat of which was, in the norm, measured by the sweat on the brow of the farmer; in the hotter part of its duration, the dry, papery rasps of grasses forlorn and the clop-clop, clop-clop of hooves on hard cracking earth, on dusty trails and fallow fields; and in the most rare and extreme cases, the lowing of cattle whose pasture has diminished, whose udders do not yield the quantity or quality of milkings past. It was, however, not that hot right now. Many townsfolk think it is a little warm for the season, but nothing so out of the ordinary that it occasions remark.

It did seem to be getting hotter, though...

* * * * *

As of two weeks ago, near the occurrence of the Second Omen.

The land is vivid and noisy, as is customary at this time of year. Every branch and bough is decorated with a sprig, a spurt, a splendor of verdant vibrancy; every blade of grass struggles to outdo its neighbor, standing taller, glowing greener, like thousands upon thousands of lilliputian space rockets awaiting the final countdown. The greenery is accompanied by the return of chirping, singing birds; the waking of chittering, chattering squirrels; the bleating of sheep and the soothing, guiding words of the shepherd; and many more sounds, more sounds than nearby Myrkentown could generate, more sounds than the suddenly popular and reviled -- yes, both at once -- Broken Dagger could aspire to create. The flora drank copiously from the goblet of the brightly burning sun, with trees racing each other to the canopy and the brush below meekly accepting their table scraps, with flowers and grass stretching and swaying to glean the best angle at which the rays of the blazing ball above struck them; the fauna reveled, alternating between scampering in the warming light and relaxing in the cooling shade, but always conversing in multitudinous tongues, by sight and sound and scent alike. This was the pulse of nature, wild and alive and throbbing, and it could not be ignored.

Yet upon closer inspection, were those not yellow-brown colorations on some of the leaves?

And today had felt hotter than the yesterday...

* * * * *

As of one week ago, near the occurrence of the Third Omen.

Day by day, Silver Lake was slowly shrinking. Where water and earth converged to form an edge receded gradually -- more of the latter was visible than the former, and it resembled dry and busted clay more than loam, almost as if it had never dreamed of moisture, much less actually tasted it. The water did not quite ripple as it had; the lake's lapping at the ankles of would-be swimmers and bathers did not seem quite so vigorous, nor so enticing. Eventually all but the most adventurous souls would find little rest and relaxation around or in the lake, for even Silver Lake itself was growing warmer by the day.

Day by day, all the leaves became yellow, then brown, and then dead. The ground was becoming littered with the broken blades of countless armies of withering grass; their stamina was renowned, but when the life-giving sun became a vengeful tool of searing photosynthetic-overload, depriving soil, grass, and trees alike of their required moisture, there was little else to be done but lay down and die. Soon enough, those felled blades were covered by their arboreal shields, albeit frail shields that, if put under too much duress, crumbled and left remnants strewn about -- and those remnants would in turn be blown away by the weak wind, borne to another grassy graveyard, and another, until the wind finally collapsed, drained of its remaining strength and endurance. It was as if the trees were weeping their new growth in lieu of sap, which, one townsperson joked, the trees had already sweated out of themselves completely. Another townsperson shushed him, but not before the words had an effect: several eyes drifted uneasily to the not-so-distant and not-so-verdant woods, and then to each other; and without words, exchanged the same growing fear and suspicion.

Day by day, the crops of the farmers began dying. Day by day, their livestock grew hungry and thirsty. Day by day, their fertile soil became useless, as though their fields had been set to the torch and then salted.

And to make matters worse, it was getting hotter...

* * * * *

Present day. The Fourth Omen.

Even at night the air is arid and scathing. It is a parched sigh over chapped lips; it carries dust to make sight and breath difficult, and it is doubly unkind to those whose skin is left bare. Those brave personages outside at night wore scarves to protect their noses and mouths, light and airy clothing befitting of summer but voluminous in place of scant, often going so far as wearing gloves to safeguard their hands.

During the day, however, when the sun was at its highest and brightest and most puissant, it was not uncommon to see the billowing smoke of fires in the farmers' fields and in the not-so-distant woods.

And from his vantage point on the hills near the steaming Silver Lake, Archimedes grinned.

* * * * *

END OF SEQUENCE I.

SEQUENCE II: COMMENCING.

[HeySeuss]

Proxenus found that it was too damned hot out to do much that morning, and so rather than actually cook, he tore down his weekly menu and went to work; he moved the water and the liquids, anything he had, into the cool confines of the wine cellar itself, to keep it from going with the heat, and also to make sure no one broke in on the stores. He put the huge domestic longhaired beast of a cat, Clearchus, down among such stores, partially because the poor thing would die in the heat, and partially to kill the mice. (That cat wasn't too worried; it kept him out of the way of Dorian.)

After that was done, he went outside, in naught but a chiton and sandals, and began to shovel out four large holes behind the back door to the kitchen; he lined these holes with rocks and dropped the pots into them, with an eye towards putting them into the sunlight. He'd curse the heat, but he wanted to conserve precious body moisture. Either way, his old body was tanned and leathery; in his seasons he'd campaigned in the sun and dust of a true desert, though that was what Myrken would be soon if something didn't give.

That was two problems licked; water and the ability to keep cooking, albeit in a limited fashion. The animals were holed up in the barn, and he'd simply tell Molly, when she awoke, to keep them in there all day, where they wouldn't dehydrate themselves. It was a lucky thing they had the feed there, as well.

Nonetheless, even with the austerity he was planning, he took a chicken and very carefully slit its throat as an offering to the Gods upon the small altar he'd kept out back. He sang the paean in a lower and more somber voice than his usuall kitchen-room ditties, left the innards to burn upon the altar, and took the rest of the bird to bake in one of the pots.

Wiping off the sweat from his brow, he went into the tavern and methodically and ruthlessly swept up the candles, lamps, tinder and firewood, to keep some idiot customer from adding to the heat problem. He carefully opened as many upstairs windows as possible.

When Proxenus was finished by these preparations in the mid-morning, he could glance around satisfied; he'd did his damndest to keep the tavern running so far. Man and nature so far hadn't brought it to a halt. He wondered if perhaps something else was coming next.

[Treadwell]

It's a sight most wouldn't quite care to see: Aloisius Treadwell sitting in his second floor meetinghouse office, layered in sweat from the heat outside. . . and nothing else save what passes for his underwear. In the absence of any modern inventions to cool things off a touch, this lazy, heavy, particularly hairy old tub has it all very hard as he sits there huffing for breath and puffing out smoke from that seemingly always present pipe. At least he's out of sight of the one window.

All that aside, there's one thought nagging the councilor who had been recently stripped of magical powers beyond mortal imagining, a thought given gruff, grumpy, grumbly voice.

"There's nothing you can do about it all, Aloisius."

That said, he turns his attention back to another mug of ale poured from a barrel beside his chair. Why is there a keg of beer in his meetinghouse office? Well, this is Treadwell.

"Either way, it's simply much too hot to get out and do much today, mmph. Far too hot, yes. Might as well sit in here and at least try to stay cool." He gives a glance at the folded up burgundy velvet robe resting on a chair opposite his desk. In all honesty, Tready just doesn't want to put that hot thing back on right now. So, while the cook at the Dagger is working his hardest to keep the inn running smoothly, the tax collector at the meetinghouse is doing his darnedest to not do a darned thing at all.

[NightSteel]

Ezekiel Jones mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he did the milking in the barn, the doors thrown wide open. Meanwhile, Sarah gathered the eggs. This heat, the effects it was having on the grass and trees, it alarmed him. The combination of more expensive feed and dying grass would soon result in a shortage of food for his cows, and a consequent reduced production of milk. He would need to cull the herd if the heat lasted more than a few days.

The pigs and chickens would be alright; slop was never in short supply, and grain was grain. Myrken's grain seemed to be somewhat hardy, and he hoped that that would hold true. Also, he was a conscientious farmer, and rather than waste his meager profits on unimportant things, he used it to stockpile supplies. He may not fare well, but he wouldn't fare as badly as some others might.

Still. He would have to start praying for rain.. He didn't know where else Myrken would get water. He'd just gotten business, and now mother nature was conspiring to take it away again..

[Dorian Mode]

Proxenus had done fine work, there's no doubting that. Such fine work, in fact, that there were several additions to the tavern's landscape that she simply couldn't comprehend -- what is this business with pots and holes, for instance? The meaning elludes her even now. But one small addition had seemed necessary.

So that morning, the tavern was filled for several hours with the din of good nails hammered through protesting wood. From room to room, she'd gone, with heavy hair pinned high on her head, and the sleeves torn from her gown, and an armful of sheets weighing down her bare arms. Proxenus had left the shutters open to permit the entry of cool air but, she'd soon discovered, there's none of that to be had. So when the tenants return to their rooms this evening, they'll find fine cotton curtains nailed to the tops of their windowframes, permitting the few breezes entry, but shading the rooms from the worst of the midday sunlight.

It's funny, the useful things you can find in books.