All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Dhugal]

Mathias’ eyes widened in disbelief. Was the woman mad? Had she spent
too much time hammering away at roof shingles under a hot sun?

He bit down on the inside of his mouth to keep from yelling at her. And
as she took hold of him, he tried to pull away. Then inspiration struck.

He stopped…looking up with an expression of terror into the sky,
pointing as if at some horror. Then he fell to the ground while pulling
away from her grip.

[Quincy]

Mathias thrusts a finger toward the sky in horror.

"?!" Quincy releases his robes and jerks her head up, staring heaven-ward and squinting against the brightness. "What? What is it?!"

"Uh, I don't see nothin'! ... Eh?" She tilts her head back down to look for an eye-level face, but no one is there. A thuddy noise forces her wide eyes to the ground in pursuit of the novice.

[Dhugal]

Released from the madwoman’s grip, Mathias rolled quickly
away and up, then moved away from her as fast as he could,
looking back over his shoulder past her at the Governor with
that hard angry stare before he made an elusive shift to avoid
recapture by the garrulous Quincy.

And still, no sound escaped his lips.

[Quincy]

"Hey! Get back 'ere!"

Quincy clanks a few paces after the nimble novice, hollaring desperately:

"The Heals!"

After a few, heavy strides in the weighty armour, however, she stops and simply stares after him. Her hopeful expression fades into disappointment.

"Aww."

[Dhugal]

He stopped briefly when he was a safe distance away from
Quincy's clutches.

And then, in a way, he did express himself.

He could not speak. He would not break the penance imposed upon
him by Father Abbot Fidelius. But there were ways, ancient ways,
ways that men and women had used for uncounted centuries with
which to convey their anger with each other without recourse to
words.

He turned and gave Governor Calomel Cinnabar that time honored
digital salute.

Then he walked, albeit briskly, away.

[Cinnabar]

Distracted with matters of organisation, it's a while before the Governor notices the growing altercation between the fighter and the novice. A curious frown as the lad goes through his little charade. Hm. Mathias? Looks like it. He's just beginning to make his way over when the novice offers that gesture and departs, and that prompts a lifting of pale brows, and a wry grin in the moment after.

"He doesn't seem very penitent." A glance for Quincy, then, and a shake of his head. "We've got other healers, and healing supplies too. That lad's only good for gossip and slander, and he's not even any use for that now." Well, the penance would certainly prove an obstacle to the boy's stage career. Heh.

[Quincy]

Dark eyes widen at Mathias' very final gesture.

Gossip and slander? Quincy has missed something. She looks at Cinnabar, adjusting the helm under her arm, somewhat placated by mention of ready healers -- but still very curious about the manner of silent Mathias.

" .. 'e sure don't like you. Wha' did you do? Put 'is mum in jail? Make fun o' his dress? Call 'im mutey?" Each guess is punctuated by a ponderous tap of metal to her jaw.

[Cinnabar]

"You know, I'm not entirely sure." A quizzical frown at the departing novice's back, then that letter is carefully tucked away in a pouch at his belt. Hm.

"In any case, we've more pressing business to tend to for now. Long overdue business, at that. Have we got everyone?" Grey eyes turn to the rest of the assembled group, soldiers and constables and the mismatched band of individuals who'd agreed to aid in this task. "Still missing a few, I believe. Once they're here, we can begin."

[Jirai]

The child made a rather quiet entrance, preferring not to draw much attention to herself. Kyra had said to be here for this, and so here she was. Brown hair with its pale fringes was knotted tightly behind her head, leaving the scarred side of her face quite visible. A gloved hand lingered on a sword hilt as she looked around the gathering.

This might be fun.

[Cinnabar]

Things are coming together. Warriors assembled, those with grievances against the Fiend, those who have suffered or grieved by the ghoul's actions, those who would see Myrken safe from such a scourge. So there's a sense of satisfaction growing at the sight of them, of confidence in this plan. Calomel counts those present, notes equipment and arms and armour. Good. Prepared.

It's around this point that a Constabulary officer hurries up, looking more than merely nervous - there are signs enough of that among those assembled, mingled with grim resolve, and rightly so considering the Fiend's reputation. No, this messenger seems positively harried, and there's a brief, hushed conversation between the Governor and the Constable; some brief news given, a frown of first confusion, then vexation. A question from Calomel, and first a nod, then a shake of his head from the officer which does nothing to improve the man's mood. After a few moments of this the Governor nods, some brief, terse thanks offered for the news, and he moves to a spot from which he might address those assembled. It takes a few moments as he chooses his words, moderates his expression, a deep breath or two to bring relative calm before he speaks.

"Ladies, gentlemen. Your attention, please." Waiting until most of the heads in the crowd are looking his way, then speaking on in a firm, clear voice, though he cannot entirely keep his tone from... what, annoyance? Anger?

"I have been advised that our artificer is not present; indeed, she should have been here a while since, in preparation for the assault. However she has not appeared, nor can she be found. We are looking into the matter, but since her skills are so pivotal to our efforts today, until such a time as she has been located the mission cannot proceed." Better control, now, steady and matter-of-fact as he meets the gazes of those gathered. Some show disappointment, perhaps; others, relief at a confrontation postponed.

"I must offer my deepest apologies for this... difficulty, and for wasting your time by calling you here now. I would also like to thank you, all of you, for being here, for showing willing, for being prepared to face the Fiend for the sake of Myrken's people. I will not forget this." Helmet shifted from one arm to the other, voice steeled, firm with determination, with frustration at being denied this opportunity. "Rest assured that we will strike against the Ashfiend, but I will not risk your lives by doing so without a plan of action firmly in place. To improvise at this point would be rash, probably suicidal. If you are willing, I would be honoured to call upon you again when we have found our artificer, or determined an alternative course of action. Until then, please be about your business. And again, my thanks for your time."

[Cinnabar]

Things are coming together. Warriors assembled, those with grievances against the Fiend, those who have suffered or grieved by the ghoul's actions, those who would see Myrken safe from such a scourge. So there's a sense of satisfaction growing at the sight of them, of confidence in this plan. Calomel counts those present, notes equipment and arms and armour. Good. Prepared. A few are yet to arrive, but there is yet time. For the moment, at least.

Time for instructions, also. A few words to one of the Constables nearby, and a small detachment of officers hurries for the main Constabulary building on some errand or other. Meanwhile the Governor seeks a place from which to address the gathered forces, settling eventually on a sturdy weapons crate, looking out across those assembled in the winter sunshine. A deep breath, and he raises his voice to speak.

"Ladies, gentlemen. Your attention, please." A pause, while the murmur of conversation subsides and heads turn to face him.

"Firstly, I would like to thank you, all of you, for being here, for showing willing, for being prepared to face the Fiend for the sake of Myrken's people. This will not be an easy confrontation, by any means, but with strength of purpose and perseverance, I believe it is one we will win. With your assistance, we will put an end to the creature that has preyed upon the good people of Myrken for far too long." Grey eyes are steady, watchful as his gaze sweeps across the crowd.

"Our plan of action is this: We ride out against the Fiend as one, to where he lairs. We have the means to find him." A glance for Rhaena Olwak, and a nod of confidence. "There we will engage him in a fiercer combat than he has yet known. His flesh is ancient and resilient and cares little for wounds that would kill a normal man; thanks to the work of our artificer, Elspeth von Drakken, we have a means to confront the Fiend more directly, where he is weaker - attacking his very mind, his will, his resolve." A squad of a dozen Constables emerge from the main building; each bears an object, broad and circular and wrapped in canvas, resembling a round shield in size and shape. "These will allow us to overcome him. By our uniting the will of many against his own he will falter, and he will fall." No small degree of conviction on his own part, there, tone and expression conveying that he is confident of the soundness of this plan; how much is for true and how much to inspire those gathered might be anyone's guess.

"He will seek to oppose us, to destroy us. He will likely be protected by his servants - those he has slain, and stolen, and raised through the blackest of arts to carry out his will. Soldiers of the Myrken Army, men of the Myrkentown Constabulary, volunteers from across Myrken Wood and beyond, your task is twofold: to give these unfortunates a more final rest, and to protect those using the device from the Ashfiend and his servants." He pauses, then, looking to be sure that he has their full attention. This part will likely meet with some discontent, but its importance cannot be overstated.

"While the device is in use, the Ashfiend and those assailing him will be entranced, rendered insensible, as if in a deep slumber. It is vital - vital - that the Fiend is not assaulted while this is the case; to do so risks stirring him from the enchantment, and then all we work for here today is lost." A moment to let that sink in. "He is a ghost given form, and so to destroy his flesh will not end him - not truly - but free him, liberating him from his body to wreak his madness anew. Defend yourselves from him, certainly, but do not seek to slay him. When the time comes and he is brought low, we have ways to see that he troubles Myrken no more."

So, that's the plan. Simple, straightforward, desperate.

"We move out soon, so make what preparations remain; Brother Wilden will give blessing to those who desire it. Any questions?"

[Malaroth]

The plan had been explained to him before, concerning sorcerous tools and strength of arms combined to bring the haughty Ashfiend low. That Calomel had yet been behind turning against Vraal, who surely knew the method by which the Ashfiend could have been destroyed, brought a sour scowl to pale lips framed in trimmed stubble. Whatever desperate graspings had brought them this far would have to suffice in order to save Myrken's populace from the undead horror. Still, pride left salt in an old wound visited upon him by the Governor, whether the man knew it or not.

Regardless, now was the time for united action.

A small part of him wondered at the precision with which Calomel spoke. Would the Ashfiend, indeed, also be imprisoned within this fugue state? What guarantees were there that such would be the case, or that the device would even work? What if the monster commanded his minions to destroy the magic devices?

What if the entire plan were an abysmal failure, Calomel? What plan did you have in place to ensure a safe and tactical retreat? What if your plan involved, once again, specifically placing Patience in the way - if only to quiet that Kaczmarek girl's incessant curses? The same girl who had such close ties to a known fugitive, that had been placed into a position of authority?

His eyes were downcast, hardened, as he wondered if the Governor had signed many death warrants, or only one. Strangely, if it were just the one, it was the only one he truly cared about.

Fate was a cruel mistress.

[Jirai]

As Calomel finished his speech, the veiled girl made her way over to the Governor. She moved confidently, despite the restless shift of fingers which toyed with the hem of her vest.

"The mountains just to the west of the lake." She said quietly. The directions would get more specific the closer they drew, of course, but for now this would be enough. "I intend track him closely - hopefully I can let you know when he notices our approach."

There were downsides to that monitoring - but she judged the benefits more important. Unless Glenn Burnie protested too much, of course.

[Kait]

Patience

The squire listens to the rallying speech with a grim frown, hazel eyes never once leaving the man who would lead them against the Ashfiend perhaps for the final time. Calomel's words are firm, and simple enough, but still there is room for doubt in her mind. She knows so little of the particulars of this device, of what might actually happen once whatever magic it contains is employed, and yet she is somehow less concerned with this than the posture of the knight whose shadow she still occupies.

A side step then, and slender fingers reach to lightly touch upon the pads of his own, if only briefly. It is enough to say that she is here; her gaze will remind him of promises that must be kept, things she will not speak of again, not in this place.

"I have learned some, and I am glad for it. I would charge you with teaching me more after, and learning with me." Her quiet words are for him alone, as is the smile that slowly reveals itself despite these dire circumstances.

[channe]

She's simply quiet in her half-borrowed armor, looking neither to the Knight nor his squire but to Rhaena and Calomel; she's tied a green armband on, and a golden pendant of an acorn graces the hollow of her throat.

She is a soldier today, and waiting for her orders.

Indeed, Malaroth must be wondering why. But then, this is Myrken Wood, and such things have a habit of going unexplainable; such as, for example, why other known fugitives are simply ignored, why people such as Jirai the Drow are allowed to drink in the tavern without Constables attempting to arrest her. Oh, Jirai the Drow has committed crimes more heinous than Aeryn Karolinger.