The #Broken_Dagger Forum

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.



The drought was worsening.

The heat had not let up, and it gave no sign of doing so in the near future. In the far future. In any future conceivable. There was the arid, lung-burning air; the drying of ponds and lakes; the diminishing of rivers and, yes, farmers' wells; and the dying of crops and livestock, though whether the latter was dying more often from lack of the former or the merciless torridity was up for debate. There was all this and more: strife among the commoners of Myrken, which in turn tumesced until it included the Order of Straka, the Myrken Militia, and the Judiciary Council of Myrken Wood -- the very last of those three having remained oddly silent in the wake of these incidents, what with the Governor appearing to be more eccentric by the day, Councilor Guillaume barricading himself in Lothbury Estate, Councilor al'Nerun being nowhere in sight, whether in town or in the Meetinghouse, and Councilors Treadwell and Roschen ... well, both were in town now and again, primarily to maintain their respective businesses, but they, too, had said and done aught about what was happening, at least in a way that was pleasing to commoner and nobility alike.

Add this question to a steadily growing list: Will the weather ever go back to normal?



The insect population was behaving strangely.

In itself, this statement is not remarkable. Many people consider the behavior of insects to be naturally unnatural -- that is to say, what comes naturally to them may seem unnatural to us. However, when the entire insect population abruptly vanished today, it was bound to be noticed -- and not by just one or two people, either.

There was no trace of their departure. They were simply gone. Some might view this as a blessing, others as another sign of the weird and the wicked. That depended on whom you questioned about the matter.

And another: Where are the insects?



Not so the animal population.

When random animals -- cats, dogs, rabbits, deer, squirrels, mice and rats, and sundry others -- began depositing their gory remains on people's doorsteps, it was something of a surprise. What was more surprising, however, was this: all of them had been killed with one stroke, and all had been either decapitated or bisected at the torso.

Unsurprisingly, the most common addition to the aforementioned remains was several people's vomit.

And yet another: What -- or who -- would do such a horrible, gruesome thing?



Oh, and about that giant broadsword...

Despite the efforts of an unknown force (though the wall of ice had long ago melted from the intense heat) and the Order of Straka (who had built a fence around the sword and then set up patrols), these obstacles could not prevent people from utilizing the previously mentioned farsight to study the sword from afar. One of those people was a scholar by the name of Euren, who, upon leaning down and peering through the farsight, saw one of those sun-baked, well-worn leather wrappings move.

In the end, the real and all-consuming question plaguing many residents of Myrken, however, was this: What was happening?



Those questions did not plague Archimedes, though. There were no questions in his mind. Archimedes surveyed the land from his perch atop one of the many hills near Silver Lake, and what he saw displeased him: an abundance of life, of life clinging to living. He would cleanse this portion of the realm for his Master, his Creator -- and before the other Emissaries arrived. A papery rasp was all the laughter he could muster as he stood, dusting his hands as a craftsman embarking on a particularly ambitious project might.

There were no questions in his mind.

Everything must die.

Bony fingers flexing, Archimedes started down the hill.

Dea walked the road between her small cabin and Myrken proper for the first time in weeks. It was too bloody hot to go anywhere. Sadly, it was simply time to get some supplies. When one is out of bread, flour and wheat to grind for flour steps must be taken.

There has been a slowly increasing number of townsfolk coming to see her for daggers. There were enough blacksmiths in town that she felt no reason to offer her services, but those on the farms seemed to know, and come to her for their more simple needs. Those, she would gladly serve. Some came due to the forming of the groups surrounding the poor dead barkeep, Pritchard. Others wer frightened by the sword. Still more had come now that both the bugs had gone, and the appearance of strangley mutilated animal corspes.

Truthfully, she was disturbed by this too. The heat had been enough for her, but now small animals were found with missing heads, or simply cut in two, and left to rot where they lay. The interesting thing, was that no bugs came for them. The normal process of rotting, with flies and maggots, was stunted. Normally other animals would come to eat the dead flesh, but they did not come.

So, as she walked the road, here and there down the road, there were carcasses, swelling in the sun's brutal heat, flesh cracking and peeling. It was all becoming a little bit gruesome. A little bit more unnatural then she was comfortable with.

A glance to the once estate of Captain Kanashia, almost a prayer whispered under her breath to the fortress that loomed there now.

"I know you see this. I know none of this is escaping you. Where are you?"

With dust stirring beneath her worn boots, she continued onward, through death and unnatural heat, to buy some bread.

Treadwell isn't, honestly, very keen on waking to find dead animals all over town. The perpetually sweaty toymaker (who, honestly, has indeed shed a small number of pounds from such by now) sits there gulping his way through the water at his toy store, so, still wearing his purple pajama jumper (which is of course soaked with perspiration) and not bothering to comb or brush or wash his mustache and beard, Tready wobbles out to the local town crier shack to give the folks of Myrken Wood a message. Well, he gives good old Jack Alldale the message, and it's Jack's country twang that rings it out over Myrken.

"'ear ye, 'ear ye! Counc'lor Tread'ell's jus' mentioned there's somethin' we all need to get to workin' with, and that's all these dead critters! Anyone needing a good shovel or spade for diggin' a hole to bury the poor things should just go 'round to any of the stores in town and ask for one; the Council's a-footin' the bill! All you store owners, Tready'll waddle 'round and pay you back come the mornin'!"

At that, a satisfied Treadwell scurries out of the shack and, still wearing just his pajamas and carrying his cane and mug of water, huffily waddles homeward to check on his pet lemurs and his family. Well, there is also the matter of lunch.

There was no doubt in any person's mind that at some point or another, this combined heat wave and drought situation would come to a head.



When Myrken's farmers went to bed the previous night, their crops had been kept as healthy as possible, what with the aforementioned weather conditions: they had taken every step they could to prevent a total loss, whether individually or collectively; and the majority of Myrken was helping, whether on the farms themselves or in keeping the farms supplied with water enough for families, crops, and livestock. In short, it was, despite the drawing of lines and development of factions whose ideologies bordered on the zealous, the picture of a community banding together in a time of need.

Then it happened.



Some farmers would wake to find their stored crops spoiled and putrefying, their rancid odor detectable long before the barn doors were opened, before they had come within twenty paces of the barn itself; and their fields, too, would be dead and decaying. In every case, well over three-quarters of what they had been storing and growing would be ruined, and what remained would have to be inspected thoroughly before it could be deemed salvageable ... or be thrown on a steadily growing pile, which would later be burned.

Other farmers would wake to find their stored water contaminated and their wells polluted, often to the point where determining whether the water could be used even if boiled or otherwise purified was, at best, a risky endeavor in which few wished to participate. To drink the water was nigh unthinkable; to serve it to their crops and livestock, just so. Many farmers were left scratching their heads, wondering what could have perpetrated such a fell deed. Or, thought those farmers whose minds drifted into the realm of tenebrous thinking, not what ... but who?

Perhaps it might come as a surprise, then, that the farms of the Bates and Jones families were untouched. Perhaps it might come as a shock, then, that none of their relatives or friends had been gifted with misfortune, either.

And perhaps it might spawn suspicion when, the very next day, more crops died and more water was polluted -- but not on the Bates' farm, and not on the Joneses' farm, nor on any of their relatives or friends' farms.



As if these incidents were not enough to bring the pot to a boil, there is indeed more.



The giant sword transfixed in the ground just outside of Myrkentown's eastern border had changed.

The sword itself stayed silent and motionless (save for the previously mentioned twitch), a monument to battle that had, in a cruel, chance twist, inspired a battle of sorts. The red lettering on the blade had never disappeared, either. It had, after all this time, remained a quite brilliant scarlet, glistening as though freshly drawn in the blood the sword's singing and the resultant madness had spilled. Nor had the message been altered since that event.

Until now.

The red letters vanished one by one, gradually diminishing in size until they seemed to sink into the titanic blade's steel, and all were gone within a minute. Within another minute, however, a new, more disturbing message appeared:

WE ARE COMING

"What'd you suppose it's doing now?"

"Ain't the foggiest of notions. Can't be good though, can it?"

The two guardsmen took a few glances between themselves, and the sword that they were watching over. None of them had gotten close to it since that first day. No one had particularly wanted to either. If it was doing something bizarre though, they'd best react sooner, rather than later. The guardsmen on the left reached down to his belt and tugged off the bell they carried there.

"Wait, there's some new words coming into focus"

"What's they say?"

"We are coming"

"Blasted hell. Why can't they be going. Don't they know we don't want their kind 'round here?"

"Wait! You know who they are?"

"Don't know 'em, don't want to know 'em, don't care to know 'em, don't want to see 'em round either. Best be iffen they left us as we were and buggered on off."

"Oh." The second one coughed slightly, and attempted to disguise the hint of redness on his cheeks. "I think I'm going to fetch the Sergeant. He'll know what to do." He was hurrying off even before he'd finished the statement. No bells to warn folks at this time.

"Right idea that." The other of the two stated to the silence where his companion had once stood. He kept staring at the letters written upon the sword.

There was nothing to prevent, the shiver that coursed down the guardsman's beck.

There had been word of the sabotage, or whatever happened, of so many farmer's food stores and water supplies; it was notable that they were loyal folk to the town. People that relied upon the town as the town relied upon them.

Proxenus One-Eye, sometimes thought to be a cold, humorless warhorse of a man, realized the course to be taken, and provided the necessary means for it.

He sent around men to either give or read off this announcement

"Unto the Honorable Citizens of Myrken, Ave!

Given the recent circumstances of sabotage and violence done against the farmer folk of Myrken, we are offering evacuation of the outlying areas into the provisional headquarters of the militia and into what lodgings we can arrange in the town itself for those who are unable to fend for yourselves. Furthermore, from our stores and supplies, we will provide for what was lost in this grevious act of thuggery and extortion.

Though there is no telling, as of this writing, who is responsible, we should be reassured that the council and Straka will do their best to see to their duty to root out the cause of this. In the meantime, the militia will do as it has been charged by Myrken all along.

We shall care for our people in a desperate time."

Hardier folk steadfastly decided to stay, others went with the militiamen, neighbors and relatives of these stricken people, as stricken as they. Either way, the militia did not press the point, they merely informed those still loyal to Myrken of the old warrior's arrangements.

Some glanced to the farms of the Bates' and the Pritchies with killing in their eyes. Others blamed Ezekiel and Sarah Jones, though considerably less-- they, after all, had not abandoned the community, nor were rumored to harbor ambitions loftier than themselves. Nor did the Jones' have any particular history of clashes with the local government. The Bates', however, certainly did. They also had all the reason in the world, according to the cynical, to see their neighbors suffer for their loyalties. It futhered their ambitions considerably.

As a result, anger simmered in the people sent to help evacuate those that would leave; none bothered to go near a farm of Pritchies; and they were in such force that the Pritchie Irregulars, so-called, could not stop them from this mission of mercy.

Some hurled curses. Others were silent and baleful in their wrath. Professional officers such as Proxenus, Haar and Gerard were there to help keep the hot-blooded among them on task, to prevent a bloodletting there and now. Evidence, they emphasized. Let Straka and the Council do their jobs, lads, they said, there would be justice in the end. But let the truth come to light before blood spilled.

Some believed, some didn't. Calm words weren't always comforting to those feeling helpless in the face of a disaster.

Either way, the militia arrived at a calamity that they'd hoped to avoid. refugees to feed and shelter. But they'd prepared it, at least.

In the meantime, another letter went out, this time to the Judicial council,

"Unto the Judiciary Council of Myrken Wood, Ave!

I have offered evacuation of loyal farmers and their goods in light of the recent events because of the potential for further violence against them, though this was already a devastating blow struck upon those who were already struggling to continue with their lives.

I am doing my damndest to hold the militia back from irresponsible acts that may come of anger towards those who have conspicuously not suffered any setbacks during the latest rash of attacks against food and water stores. However, I must warn of the potential for violence. To this effect, I am going to keep as many of my men working as possible, so as to avoid them having the free time to formulate plans; with so many refugees, it seems we have ample reason to keep working.

It is up to the Council and Straka to find the source of this pernicious attack upon all of Myrken, and hopefully allow the citizens their chance for justice.

May We All Bask in the Favor of the Gods,

Proxenus."