Bullocks the Governor!

[Suede]

"I was long tongued at the nubbing ken from the Upright Man that the hush o' the Gov'nah is tarry lolly kimmed." The man pressed his lips against his mug and took a long draught, a trick of ale running from the corner of his mouth even as the wood was slammed down onto the table and he released a noisy breath in compliment to the drink.

He was named Sean, a tall curly haired man turning into his thirties with the eyes of a man many years younger, just because he had a passion for mischief. And two of his three companions were staring at him in utter confusion.

"What did he say?"

"Something about buggering the Governor... I think."

The third remained silent for a bit, his eyes crossed slightly as he processed what was said. "He says he heard at the Meeting House that the Governor ain't really dead."

Sean nodded and leaned forward, drawing the others in closer with a crooked finger as he began to speak with all the confidence in the world over his latest news. "A knight of the post cackled on his salmon... and the twitch ain't like to palavar. He cackled the Mister slim rapped the hush o' the Gov'nah, and he be clicking a stuling ken to bing the chatts, y'see?"

What? The third man's face was sweating as he tried to keep up, his two companions having abandoned any hope of understanding Sean in favor of praying their fellow would have better luck.

"I think he said the Governor is hiding from Councilor Guillaume, who tried to have him killed so he could keep the Interim seat."

"Perposterous!"

"How could he even managed that?"

Ah, and here Sean glanced around once, just to be sure no surly guard or fanatic would interrupt them. "The culls flay the queer cuffin to reg, y'see? He be gamoning the sly and the underdubber will miss the Gov'nah's yelping. Ah've got the Upright Man's Jukrum, and ah pilfered meself to the Gov'nah's dive. 'E's a puzzle-cause. Can't even filch 'e's Gov'nah. All mooned with vowels of Mister Slim."

This was getting difficult, the third gentleman was actually writing things out to spin them around with eyes and ears together. "He says the Governor can't go to the guard, but Giscard can't really kill him, so he covered the man in runes, a sort of assurance he has debt to pay, and used their magic to make him forget who he is."

"The Governor can't just magic someone... he's... he's... He's a bloody little Lothbury Noble ninny."

Ah, but Sean threw up his hand and asked them to pause. "Ye ken Mister Slim's Shanty doo? Mooned thrice again in jumbles. He's a blimey talker, a singer o' spit who's bidgering our cullful dimber damber! Thems Sparkles at Lothbury? A black pig he can't angle." He slammed his hand down, and after a while they all nodded.

Altias was alive, or so they say, the words would whisper. You can find him, the rightful Governor if you know where to look. It's him alright, symbols carved across his body by none other than Giscard Guillaume to twist the man's mind. For he is a Warlock, haven't you seen the runes he covers his office in to summon spirits with? Don't you know the fires at Lothbury were caused by his magics?

And thus another brush fire burns in the Myrken people, and at least a few more turn their scorn towards Lothbury and Giscard, and a few more folks find no reason to trust the oddly missing Interim Governor.

[Carnath-Emory]

Oh, word does spread. Why, there's the Ethelmars down on Bobbin Street, and their tales of drow that eat afterbirth -- but oh, really, that's old news, and not the interesting sort, anyway; after all, don't those savages down in Heath do the same? Oh no, there's better to be found on the streets this morning: that the Crown sends a fleet of airships to reclaim truant Myrkentown; that ghosts wander the shores of the Silver Lake; that the drow have negotiated an alliance with the monstrous armies of Derry; that the Council consists of a madman, a monster and a thief; that Janeiro will arrest any man seen wearing a grey sash. No, blue! No, grey!

See? There really is an element of truth to most gossip.

But sadly, not all gossip was created equal; not all of it spreads so successfully. Drow abominations run through the town like wildfire, of course; so does talk of Janeiro, although the advent of sashes has quietened that a little, lately. Sensing seriousness here, sensing genuine conspiracy, tongues have begun to wag a little less willingly on that topic. Ghosts and dragons and oozes remain fair game, of course; so to does that perennial favourite, the Council. But...

One does not speculate much on the matter of Lothbury, nor of the Guillaumes who inhabit it. Oh, in theory it's a good target: anything so prominent tends to be, after all. But 'Lothbury' is an old name, in Myrken Wood; like 'Guillaume', it predates Myrkentown's era of autonomous rule. When there is speculation regarding the Guillaumes, it is ordinarily directed towards guessing the quantity of land, business and labour they command, and in the end, it generally comes out to "a bloody sight more'n I can 'magine".

See? In this matter, there's more than just an element of truth to the gossip.

So while the Council is fair game, slander directed specifically towards the Guillaumes tends to be stifled before it can much start to spread. Call it self-preservation, before an entity that holds so many purse-strings; before nobility that has thrived here for so long that it's as familiar and reliable as the coming of dawn. 'Runes', one man will say, over a beer at the Floating Dragon, and his friend will bid him to silence. 'Witchery', will gasp a lass at her embroidery, and blushing with distaste, her friends will hurriedly find new topics to speak upon.

'Thessilane lace,' the girls will cry. 'Just look at those cunning little designs!'
'Them Drow lasses', his friend will slur. 'Wildcats 'tween the sheets.'

And that will be the end of it. The Myrkenfolk are scornful, yes. But they are not insane.