The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Comparitively speaking, this has been one of Myrken Wood's better weeks. Unfortunately, this means very little, when one considers what the week's being compared to: the horrors of the Flux, for instance; the terrible riot; longer-ago matters like the Baie, the Horde, the Flood...

But still, compared to such outright disasters, the matter of a broken teacup and an obstinate barmaid matter very little indeed to the average man.

Myrken Wood is a difficult place to live. There's no doubting that; even those who travel here willingly (and some actually do) will tell a hapless outlander this. Myrken Wood, they say, is an ordeal which which demands a certain sort of response from a certain sort of man; it separates the wheat from the chaff; sharpens the wit -- and swords, too; magnifies the soul and challenges the body. Myrken Wood, they say, has no mercy for the weak, but blesses those who do.

By this time, of course, the stranger in question has usually fled...but that's alright: there are generally others to replace him. The great exodus after the Fivefold Blight had severely sapped the population, but in the years which followed had seen something of an expansion, and its name was Opportunity. Merchants, hearing of openings from as far away as Xanth Grange, had rushed to fill them and inflate their prices accordingly. Other less reputable salesmen had come to contribute their ways to Myrken's flourishing black market: exotic foods and knick-knacks, pretty curiosities that couldn't otherwise be had, in a town that needs all its resources for the day-to-day business of survival. Men had come to test their swords and their courage, finding places in the Order or Militia. Shipwrights from New Dauntless, who'd lost everything during the war with Thessilane, had come to lend their skills to a whole new sort of construction -- for there are barns to be raised and Walls to be built, and this news travels as well as any other. And like any pocket of troubled land, it draws the desperate, the criminal, those who want, most of all, a province where people don't ask questions.

Myrken Wood does not yet thrive, not quite as it had in the years before the Blight. But it struggles nevertheless, gains some ground here and there, and the population has learned to turn a blind eye to the less threatening disputes. This matter of a barmaid and a teacup is certainly one of those. Blessed Saint Pritchard has enjoyed an enthusiastic following, but this was partly due to the sheer quantity of merchandise that his annointing had generated -- and in any case, there are those who recall that Pritchard-the-Man had no time for damned fools, and less for rubbish being left on his barcounter. Mary Bates has also enjoyed a following, but that's diminished a little lately, too. While generally eager to enjoy a good bit of rowdiness (and Taxman Treadwell is an irresistable target any time), there's such a thing as Going Too Far.

When weapons are drawn and Straka must intervene, a good lark has Gone Too Far.
When boycotts are enforced in earnest and good men suffer for it, things have Gone Too Far.
When the names of Myrken Wood's few real heroes are maligned, the conflict has Definitely Gone Too Far.

Such is the case now. Mary Bates, it's murmured, is enjoying her renown just a little too much. Mary Bates, it's said, musn't have lived here in the time of the Baie. Mary Bates, they insist, most certainly wasn't caught in the Baie's massacre all those years ago, else her life might have been amongst those saved by Noble Captain Kanashia and Good Governor Bromn, and perhaps, just perhaps, she might have had the decency to mind her words when referring to the likes of those.

For Myrken Wood knows suffering, knows loss, and has a keen memory for both; very few who'd been there had forgotten the acts of the only Councilor in decades -- or more -- to fling himself into direct danger for sake of his townspeople. The Baie had claimed many lives that terrible day. But not, it's remembered, quite as many as it could have.

So while Mary Bates and her cohorts enjoy the support of close to three hundred farmers, others have begun to... distance themselves from that group, and they by far outnumber the troublemakers. Men and women see to their barns, to their dwindling stocks of grain; to seeding their land with what water can be had -- for which praises are mumbled to Straka, Council and airships alike. Men and women, quietly deciding Enough, see instead to the day-to-day business of survival, with the spirit of a people who one day hope to thrive.

“Fellows of the militia. As you know, of late, there has been a separatist movement amongst those who seem to carry a grudge from an affair that happened weeks ago, before many, though not all, of these calamities hit this town. I am glad that this militia has, but for a trifling handful, remained cohesive in the face of this attempt to divide us into weakness in a time when divisiveness is most certainly a danger. In watching the wrangling of the last few weeks, our enemies must surely be laughing.â€

Aye, some folk had little use for the Pritchites, but as John had thought,
some folk began to have inner questions about the points John Bates
had raised.

Yes, Mary Bates was at fault for part of this, but why should the rest of
the town suffer because of Molly O' Neil's foolish temper? What was needed
was for both women to come to their senses.

And then there was Councilor Suede's threat to seize the crops and farms
of the Pritchites. If he had been able to get away with that (and thank the gods the Straka had put an end to that idea!) then who might he have
used that tactic on next, whose property might have been taken in some pretext or another?

Worst of all was Treadwell's raising of the taxes. Bad enough to have
to struggle with this drought. But now farmers faced the prospect of
either paying with their own food and starving, or losing their land in
forfeit. And merchants who were barely keeping afloat because of poor
sales and lost customers were now frantically trying to find ways to keep
the tax from destroying their dreams. Councilor Treadwell was beginning
to lose some support.

And the Governor?

He was going to open a bakery shop.

As for those who questioned how long Mary Bates had been in Myrken,
they were reminded how her father had raised his six daughters and
worked hard on so much land that each daughter had brought their new husband a new farm as their wedding dowry. Just because Mary and her sisters had remained quiet up until now did not mean they'd just arrived
in Myrken.

In fact, the more level headed citizens would point to the fact that
the only violence that had been committed had not been by the
Pritchites but against them. First someone had started the fire
at the Baker farm, and then some group of ruffians had wounded a
Pritchite farmer, an act committed in full sight of that Sgt. Otis of the
Straka.
And despite these attacks, the Pritchites had not responded in kind.

So these thoughts grew and were discussed along with the present
state of affairs in town. And while the towns folk did indeed recall the
past deeds of the heroes of previous crises, they also heard their
childrens' stomachs rumble with hunger, saw their crops die in the field,
and watched their life savings dwindle into ever-smaller amounts.

And the seeds planted by John Bates' words began to find fertile ground.

It's a hard lesson for heroes. People come to forget what you've
done in the past when new troubles arise

When that happens, they want to know what you will do for them now.