Hell Hath No Fury....

[Tyralor]

The laughter that echoed throughout the halls of the Order's headquarters was something of an unusual sound. While there were numerous cadets and guardsmen that shared a moment or two of humour between themselves, few had discovered the Lieutenant's funny bone, so to speak. Nonetheless, something had obviously tickled the Lieutenant's fancy. The statement "All over a few cups and a kidney stone." caught the attention of a few of those that lingered in proximity and wonderment by the Lieutenant's offices. Even Lannew seemed a little bewildered under the circumstances. Eventually, the Lieutenant opened the door to the offices and rested against the frame with a broad grin displayed across his features. It still took him a few moments to actually sort out what he was going to say. As amusing as the situation was, it was gradually getting to the point where the Council would take action. The wrong action, in Kilborn's mind, based on their history of events, but action nonetheless. He gestured Key into his offices and closed the door behind them.

"By Straka, they're going to muddle this up unless we do something." He commented to Key, once they were securely ensconced within his private office. No specific specification as to who 'they' were, though it'd be difficult to avoid leaping to conclusions, considering it was Kilborn's point of view. "The way the Council and the tavern are being run currently, they're just likely to exasperate the situation, like that Councillor did with the threat against the farmer's lands. We need to get this resolved Lannew, not allowing either side to dig in their heels any further. Can you copy this down?"

"Have a messenger sent to each member of the Council, stating the following: Straka has investigated the situation concerning the farmers fully. Our investigation warrants the recommendation for the barmaid to issue a full and public apology to each of the outlying farms currently insulted, harrassed and bullied. The Pritchites have been using legal, non-violent, means, and have been met with illegal threats, and attacks. Attacks against both farmers and members of the Order of Straka. Further tactics to intimidate and pressure the Pritchites will be met by increasing resistance and may the burning of fields in defiance, and the loss of a . Their demands are simple. An apology from the barmaid. It is the Order's determination that this is a reasonable and civil request, based on the evidence that was gathered, and would furthermore, immediately begin to reduce tensions in the region."

A nod from the Lieutenant suggested he was finished dictating, and a few moments later Key was assured that the wording was correct. "It amazes me, the immaturity of the council members and their staffs. After all the folks in Myrkenwood have been through....this is how they deal with them? Send off copies of the notice and include one to be posted at the Dagger as well."

Pritchite irregulars. It was still funny to think of, though the support for Straka was worrisome to the Lieutenant. True, Straka had been involved and probably limited the damage that might have otherwise been done, but it seemed as though certain folks were attempting to thwart the peaceful resolutions available to them. He sighed and watched his aide depart to prepare copies and send them out. The province was becoming less and less civilized. Maybe Straka should pull up its offices and abandon their post here. One could only guard a den of ruffians for so long.

[Dhugal]

Word of Councilor Treadwell's approach and tax demands had spread
quickly after his first stop. At his second stop, he would quite probably
be astonished to be met by a large group of men, with John Bates in
their midst sitting atop a stone wall. In one hand he was holding a
rather hefty looking coin bag.

He stood, approached the carriage, and dropped the bag inside where
it would no doubt make a loud thunk. "There's your taxes, Councilor,
for all the Pritchite farms, and I'll thank you to count it before you leave.
No need to leave your coach. I'm sure it won't take long to count."

Folk might assume that Mary did John's thinking for him but nothing
could be further from the truth. He'd foreseen such a move right after
Councilor Suede's earlier threat and he and his brothers-in-law had
each contributed money to an emergency fund for just such a need
as this. And being that those with them were in better shape than those
farms closer to town where the worst effects of most calamities fell,
there was not much coin needed to make up what the smaller farms
were short of in paying.

There would be no food in payment.

Riders had already been sent to the non-Pritchite farms to warn
them that Treadwell was on his way there next, to eat them out of
food and home, so to speak, financially. Once the taxes had
begun to hit home with the farmers who'd felt the worst of the drought,
the Council would be far more unpopular than the Pritchites were. The
Councilor might find his reception a bit icy at those he visited later.

The other men crowded round the carriage. "Count the money, and
then be on your way, Councilor. And you tell the rest of the Council
we'll remember this at the next elections. By the by, did you raise these
taxes on your own initiative, or did you discuss it with the other
Councilors first?"

There was a murmur of agreement from the other farmers.

One of the good points of a boycott: one was able to save money for
a rainy day.

[Treadwell]

Treadwell would have simply left. He had other taxes to gather, other folks to talk to, and he wouldn't sit there and be pressured by a bunch of yokels.

[Suede]

Suede and his little friend had watched the exchange from one of the fields. he was entirely sure what had transpired, but a little common sense and creative thinking had left him with a fairly solid idea. He frowned, scratched absently at the back of his head, took a reassuring breath, and began a slow stride towards where Bates and his fellows were. As he approached he'd have the modesty to remove his hat.

"Ah, Mr. Bates! I would have a word, sir. I wanted to apologize for my earlier actions, they had been meant as merely a scare tactic... albiet in the most uncooth of means, to prevent you from boycotting the town. I realize now it was not the wisest of moves..."

He was new to the position, perhaps they could forgive him on that note, if nothing else.

"However, I didn't realize Treadwell was intending to gather extra taxes against you... in an effort to wash away a bit of bad blood, I'd like you to give me the opportunity to get your money back, if you'd be so kind?"

[Treadwell]

Treadwell didn't gather extra taxes against just the Pritchites yesterday. He gathered them from the whole darn town! He'd managed to pull in a sizeable sum from everyone who was home, and from the more cooperative farms not aligned with the Pritchites, a token bit of sustenance here and there--certainly not a great deal, but enough to do something with as planned.

That was yesterday. He found himself waking up this morning and heading to his toy shop. The door clicked open, he wobbled in, and in the hot, stuffy room, a chuckle rolled forth from a man crouched on top of one of the tables.

"Well! Could you be a good man and tell a common chap about that fat sparkly 'round your neck, Maggie?"

A gasp choked from Treadwell, who fell back against the door with a whumpf, closing it. His visitor jumped forward, landing in a crouch with the sheath of his sword clanking against the floor beneath that red-brown fox fur cloak. Before Tready could move, the lighter, more agile fellow was on him, shoving the ball of a man away from the door and wrapping an arm--and a knife blade--under the bushy beard around the councilor's neck.

"So you've been made Chief Magistrate back home again, have you, Alley-wishus? Well, Maggie, I'd dare say we've some unfinished business to attend to! You see," a nudge here into Treadwell's behind from a bony knee, "I do recall you never paying me for that last little job you had me do, old boy. I do recall that's why I left you with that scar 'round your throat, something I see you, mmmm. . . . had fixed?" The knife still held in place, he brought up his other hand, his fingers pinching tightly around the multitude of saggy flesh at Treadwell's neck.

"I was willing to forget all that when you came here. You see, with no power and no place back home to call your own, old boy, I took a bit of pity on you. But this here," he jerks at the golden chain around Treadwell's throat with his free hand, "just changed my mind! I could get quite a lot for this, you know. Any last words?"

The response was breathless and strangled. However, it was clear enough for the rogue holding him to hear.

"I've a proposition for you, Fox!"

"Have you, now? Would I end up getting paid for it this time, old lad?" Another knee to the rump, and with Tready still held, they would walk toward the kitchen door at the back of the shop.

"Of course! Of course!"

"Of course I'm not letting you go 'til I hear about this all."

"I'm still working on that! Let me just, mmph, say that it's a chance for you to make a good deal of money."

"Ohhh, Chief Maggie? I'm listening." The knife would ease up from Treadwell's neck. They had things to discuss face to face.

[Dhugal]

Suede might know how to read the mood of the townsfolk but he
certainly wasn't doing very well judging the mood of John and his
friends.
"Eh…. another politician from town. Lost his way, do you think
lads?" John paused as the farmers laughed. He scratched at the
back of his neck as he considered his answer to Suede's offer.Then
he waved a hand in refusal.
"Despite what some townsfolk would like to believe about us, we
are lawful folk. Everything we've done has been within our rights as
lawful owners of our land and citizens of Myrken. We've paid our
taxes like any other responsible citizens. That's good enough for us."
"As for you, Councilor Suede, I wouldn't trust you as far as I could
spit. You tried to play politics with this situation. We see you for what
you are, and we've no use for you about these parts. Now, if you run
after your fellow Councilor, maybe you can catch up and get a ride
back to town with him."
At that, John turned his back and walked away, and the others
followed.

[Suede]

"Just because it's within the law, hardly makes it right, Mr. Bates." Suede grinned with quite a bit of amusement. "Trust me, I know. And yes, forbid me play politics, you certainly are doing enough of that for the rest of us. Particularly the Queen of Snots."

He scuffed a foot slightly and turned to his friend, who was grinning the serene grin of someone that pretened most of what happened wasn't really, besides... it was a sunny day?

"They're right, of course. Who needs me when they have that Bates woman, I think more people trust her less than they trust me. Come on then, at least most of the other farmers have a bit more sense."

And they wouldn't head right back from town, instead walking further into the farmlands at nothing more than a stroll.

[Dhugal]

Suede's insulting remark of Mary Bates as "Queen of Snots" had not
gone unheard. Young Matthew Bates and several others had heard it,
and their angry shouts after the Councilor caused John to stop and place
a hand on his son's shoulder to keep him from chasing after the scoundrel.

"Matthew, it's only words. He's a politician. Words flow out of their
mouths like cow dung from a sick cow. Let be, hear?" He looked
past the boy to the other angry men. "I know Mary's not the most
popular woman in the world. But who's been more honest with all of
you? Mary, who's main point is that Myrken Town has claimed too many
innocent lives ands your families cannot afford to lose you to some new
disaster in that place?"

There were a few reluctant head nods at that one. John knew his wife
rankled some folk. He went on with his list.

"Councilor Suede, who threatens one day to seize our land and crops,
and then another day comes creeping around claiming to be our friend?

"Or fat Treadwell, who decides now in the midst of a drought
to raise our taxes? And if you don't have the coin, well that's
alright, he'll just take the food out of your children's mouths to feed the
folks in town who hate you." John gave a shrug. "Or perhaps he figured
that if you couldn't pay, he'd just take your farms like Suede threatened."

There was a roar at that last point. John held up his arms to regain
their attention. "That's why we established that fund, for just such a
move. And we'll have money waiting the next time Treadwell comes
a-calling, never fear."

"Folks in town say we're wrong, even though that drunk that threatened
Brother Cyth now sits in the Gaol for murder. But we didn't do anything
morethat what we have the right to do. Maybe now it's time to do more."

"Like what, John?"

"Talk with your neighbors. Ask them how they like having the Council
raise taxes now in hard times. Ask them what they think of the Governor
who spendsmore time on personal matters than actually governing."

"Ask them if they've had enough."

"And then tell them we're going to send out petitions to have the
whole lot of Councilors removed from office, because we've sure as
hell have had enough of the Council out here!"

Suede might have thought John Bates was playing politics before.

He hadn't been.

But he was now.

[HeySeuss]

“Oy vey, I’ll think about it!â€

[Dhugal]

John hadn't expected to win over any large number of new converts to
his cause immediately. What he did hope though was that it would plant
a seed here and there that would bloom when Treadwell the Taxman
came a-calling at non-Pritchite farms and the new taxes hit home. Not
every farmer were drunken idiots like some of his neighbors and he had
faith that hard reality would bring about more folk to the Pritchite view
of the present Councilors.

Meanwhile, he had already sent out Mathew with letters to the Duke and
other prominent figures of authority stating the recent events, and while
acknowledging that while the origins of all this might seem ridiculous, he
hoped that those reading his petition might agree about the high-handed
actions of the Council and the negligent conduct of the Governor.

He had no idea that others might have already complained about the
Council as he drew water from his well

He paused at one point at the faint sound of laughter from a neighboring
farm. "Gods, I hope they haven't wet their pants again."

He went back to work.

[Tyralor]

Another day had passed, and no action as of yet. None of this particularly surprised the Lieutenant. The council was rarely prone to swift movement, though this tended to be one of those situations where sitting on one's laurels was bound to stir up more problems, rather than less. So the Lieutenant sat down and once more composed a letter to each member of the council, and one for the tavern as well.

Councillors,

Once again I write and inform you that Our investigation concerning the outlying farmlandswarrants the recommendation for the barmaid to issue a full and public apology to each of the outlying farms currently insulted, harrassed and bullied. The Pritchites have been using legal, non-violent, means, and have been met with illegal threats, and attacks. Attacks that were launched against both farmers and members of the Order of Straka. To prevent further violence, and to permit us to set one issue to rest, I implore you to act swiftly as we have recommended to conclude these most unfortunate events.

Lieutenant Joshua Kilborn.

Not that he expected them to listen. A moment's consideration, and he penned an extra copy. He could have some scribes copy it again tomorrow and repeatedly send messages to the council until they did act on the report issued from Straka.

[Jirai]

This had gone on for far too long. Emotions ran high, and simply added to the mess that was Myrken Wood these days. When faced with such a severe drought, the last thing that was needed was for these farmers to refuse to sell what food they had managed to produce. The situation could not continue like this.

So, perhaps there would not be too much surprise when cries of "Fire!" broke out on the Bates farm in the middle of the night.

The fire-watch had been set up, and so the Bates farm would not suffer the complete destruction that the Baker farm had. Still, there would be some destruction, and any destruction on a farm during this weather was Not Good. This fire - or rather, fires - were clearly set. No sooner had one small blaze broken out, and men gone to extinguish it, then another would errupt. This might suggest that there were several people involved, but not a one was seen.

And perhaps, in the rumours that were always the aftermath of any sort of destruction, would be heard: "They deserved it."

[Dhugal]

Kildrummy was awoken the morning after the Bates Farm fire by someone
pounding on his cottage door and a boyish voice shouting. "Lord Kildrummy!
Lord Kildrummy, are you in there?"

"Bluidy hell, boy, are y' tryin' to boost doon m' door?" The highlander
stumbled half-asleep over to open his door and was greeted with the sight of
a young acolyte from the monastery. "Wha' is it, laddie?"

"Father Master Fidelius sends greetings and asks that you come to
St. Thecla's as soon as you may, that matters have taken a grave turn and
your assistance is required." The boy recited his superior's words faithfully,
even adding an emphasis on the "grave" that Fidelius had used.

Kildrummy grew concerned. "Did something happen to Brother Cyth?"

"No, m'Lord, but I think he wants to talk to you about Cyth. I think. He
didn't say." The boy shrugged.

"Alright then, lad. Tell Father Master Fidelius I'll be there in one hour."
Kildrummy tossed the boy a coin for his trouble, and then set about becoming
mores respectable looking for a visit to a monastery.

****************************
"Things have become violent, and I cannot risk having this holy place caught up in it." Father Fidelius, a tall gaunt man with the face of an
ascetic, sat at his desk with his fingers steepled as he looked across at Kildrummy. "We have children here, orphans from the recent troubles,
and older patients who've come to live out their last days in peace.
While I and my House do not fear for our own safety, I do fear for the
lives of innocents."

"Violence? Wha' hae happened, Father?"

"A mob set a bonfire ablaze outside the Bates Farm last eve. We've
heard reports of chanting and a curse left drawn in the dirt. For all I
know, it could have been the work of these cultists that have been
reported in the area."

Kildrummy frowned." Beggin' y' pardon, Father, but a bonfire an'
chantin' like bluidy savages does nae seem soomewhat t' get y' cassock knotted oop o'er."

Fidelius shook his head. "Normally I would not. But the fires set about
the farm by someone were considerably more dangerous, and the Bates
lost their crop. John Bates sent word to me this morning that the Pritchites are leaving Myrken. He was concerned for Brother Cythwyllthfyr's safety
once they are gone and Cyth is the only target left for angry towns folk.
I must concur with John's fear. So I've decided to send Brother
Cythwyllthfyr away, and I'd like you to escort him on his journey safely
back to the Chapter House. Will you help him?"

"Bluidy hell..er..beg pardon, Father. Aye, I'll guard him." Kildrummy stood,
nodded respectfully to Fidelius. "Tell Cyth to get his things packed an' I'll be
back after nightfall."

Kildrummy walked quickly down the hall away from Fidelius' office. He'd
have to pack his own things as well before he'd be able to leave Myrken.

[Dhugal]

Once the mutual decision to leave the close vicinity of Myrken Town had
been made, the Pritchites began the move. But this was no hysterical
flight from the thugs who'd made their threats. It was slow and methodical.

A cabin had already been built out where the water project had begun,
and it was decided that the families would head there and expand it first,then
use it as a base from which to spread out and build new homes for each of
the families. Maps were studied and areas parceled out based on the acreage
of the present farms, each placed near one of the streams that flowed down
out of the Siskasoon Mountains. Even in this heat, there would be enough
run-off from the peaks to water fields and quench a thirst. Seed stock
was to be shared out among all and men made ready to go ahead and
plow the new fields. It was hoped they might be able to get a crop of wheat
in before Winter.

Over John's protests the other farmers had decided to help him in his
preparations. Wagons would be loaded with every movable object at the
Bates farm, including doors and window shutters, even the posts and
rails of wooden fences. Nothing would be left behind that was of any
conceivable use to the family, and nothing would be left that could be
used by those who'd might want to move in afterwards.

The process was to be repeated over the next few weeks at each of the
Pritchite farms. And since the Bates' farm had obviously been deliberately burned,the others decided they would not leave their crops behind either
to be harvested by the townsfolk. Word had been sent to Lt. Kilborn of their decision.

Each farmer in turn would burn their crops.

As John Bates climbed up into his wagon seat to start yet another trip east with a load of possessions, smoke would be drifting westwards from
fires set in the fields along Derry Row. When the move was over, all that would remain of the Pritchite farms would be empty houses, fields of ashes, and smoke clouds.

[channe]

So this was how it was to be.

"Bastards," she said, softly, standing at the end of Derry Row with two of her younger brothers; they'd come to gawk, of course, as part of a small group gathered there to watch the exodus. Good, sensible Myrken farmers all.

The flames shot up into the scalding summer air, and Agnieszka tasted ash.

She was young, but knew the patterns of famine well enough to know what would come next: scarcity. Then rationing, rhetoric, the first knell of hunger, and the madness that followed when the emptiness twisted the souls of those who were left. Famine was what originally brought the Kaczmareks to Myrken Wood; it was what haunted the poor and bit at their heels like stray dogs ravenous for a cut of meat.

The burning of the Pritchite farms would only contribute to the coming crisis; that was clear.

Just yesterday, Colleen Briarwell had whispered to her as they hauled dirty water from a well that was rapidly running dry: Mother is not eating; she has given her food to the baby.

She had been at the trial. She has seen the blockades. She has heard the rhetoric in the sputtering market and formed her own opinions. She practices her passes and footwork religiously with a stick, her sparring partner a tree; she rests her knees on the exhausted ground and works to eke life from soil that may as well be stone in the gardens. There is no time, in these near-desperate days, to do much else.

And yet, her questions remain unanswered: and what of us? Must we starve for Straka's unjust fixation? Must we die screaming, our backs a Bible of fear? The Council still eats meat; Straka cheese and milk, while we on the farms lose more ground every day.

She speaks it in her heart of hearts; on the outside, she tightens a sunburned hand on the hoe she's using as a walking-stick, and turns to her brothers. Her last greeting to the Pritchites will be a wide sneer.

"Curse 'em to a burnin' death, an' let's get back. Thom'll need our help."