The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Evening of the thirty-first day of the seventh month, 211.

Aloisius Horatio Treadwell is in a most uncomfortable position.

The last thing he recalls clearly is tumbling down the stairs in his council office, an office he'd had relocated to the small property adjacent to his toy shop in the middle of Myrken Wood.

He remembers snips of lying there on his back at the bottom of the stairs into the cellar where he kept the month's tax funds--and only this month's! Everything else had been safely relocated to a chest in his basement at home long ago. Without proper security at a proper meetinghouse and council chamber (proper, at least, in his mind, given his status as a politician with decades of experience in one of the largest, most corrupt cities in Amasynia), he had seen fit to split up, silently, the currency in question.

He remembers there being something like what must have been a dozen fellows coming in, one of whom was the apparent leader. . . whom Treadwell had, in a wheezy, frustrated fit of rage and bewilderment, viciously attacked from his spot on the floor. His cane had met the man's manhood harsh and direct. . .

And then he had been drugged? There was a deeeeeelightful smell of peppermint (his belly rummmmbles now at the memory!) and the feel of a cloth over his face.

He woke who knows how many hours later, groggy and thirsty and stuffed into a hidey-hole underground like a far away, mythical elephant into a summer sausage stocking. It's a very tiny cave somewhere in the chain of caves and caverns and passages in Myrken Wood--that much is obvious from the stone surrounding him, the slimy sludge at his feet, and the murky dampness seeping slowly into his elderly smoker's lungs. The exit has been suitably shut off with the largest rocks and chunks of material his captors could find, so that there is really only room around head level for passing food or water through.

Or, as had been done at least twice already, possibly three times, to jerk another handkerchief of the wonderfully sweet peppermint stuff out and into his face. He had no room to move and none to lie down, and only the barest to sit to rest his big bottom on the ground, so every time, he has been groggily drugged back to sleep.

But now it is the evening hours of the thirty-first.

He is swimmy-headed. His red vest, green shirt sleeves, and red trousers are all getting horribly dirty and rumpled. His red skull cap is the only thing keeping his head close to warm besides that pillowy white beard of his.

He is, he finds, starting to have a great deal more difficulty breathing than usual. His chest feels heavy, his throat and nose are beginning to clog up with phlegm, he is starting to tremble a little. . . and, to the best of his reckoning, he feels like he's beginning to come down with a fever.

Unknown to him, his disappearance has been noted in town.

His beloved Alice is suitably antsy and restless--and thinking of marching right up to the other council members and giving them a piece of her mind about her missing husband.

Genny, his new employee, is in the middle of talking with Glenn Burnie about the logistics of his disappearance.

And on top of all this, despite his lapsing into illness, Aloisius is, he finally realizes, quite hungry and thirsty. Fishing around in the dark and feeling for a pocket of the bright red vest he wears (though it looks black to his gray-seeing eyes), he finds very little to quell the rumbling ache in his belly--only a half-filled flask of ale left over from his last supper he'd had before all this. He drains the ale thankfully, not thinking about trying to spare any of it for the long term.

That done, he flumps sluggishly a little lower. His head is starting to clear only a little after these repeated peppermint-scented dosings and through whatever illness is slowly falling on him. Clasped around his left ankle, there is a prisoner's manacle with a rusty iron ball about the size of a cabbage, painfully tight and digging harshly into the flesh underneath his pants leg and pajamas.

He remembers the words from an old colleague who sat on Westenford's Parliamentary Council. "Rest assured, Allie Wishums," the right rotund Horace Sourbelly had noted to him one summer morning, "that most of our prisoners aren't so fat as the Council that sentences 'em! They're not meant to be comfy! Our balls and chains in these parts aren't sized for the likes of us, for when would any of us ever get caught doing anything?" Horace had grinned immensely large then, bringing his one good right hand (the other arm and hand withered uselessly on him after a prolonged bit of sickness and despite a doctor's care and bedrest) to scratching furiously at his matchingly large stomach.

So, with those words of a man years gone floating in his ears ("Flu," Aloisius recalls from the fog in his head, "Flu got him. Winter of 194. . . ."), Treadwell doesn't even notice his drowsy, exhausted descent back into dreamland as he slumps fully to the wet, sticky floor.

Early Evening of the 2nd Day of the Eighth Month month, 211

A fae took refuge outside the great building that served as home and place of worship to those that called Tubbius master.

He had spent the better part of the afternoon peering into the minds of any morbidly obese man he could find wondering about town on business. It wasn't a hard place to find, with a little poking and prodding here and there.

After a good deal of rum to calm his nerves and some reassuring words from his dragoness, though he had left out a great deal of details, he found himself at the very door of the church.

The usually extravagantly dressed fae had chosen, of all thing, a loose fitting robe whose colors befit those newly accepted into the fold of the faith. On his forehead he wore a circlet of gleaming gold with the rings of Tubbius interlocking on his forehead, the middle hoop resting perfectly around the gem of his third eye.

He waited until the very last of the portly men found their way inside before he himself strode right up to the door and slipped inside. He looked around at the great feast spread in the hall, his own stomach warring in hungry and disgust.

He waits in silence for them to address his strange appearance here.

Zilliah's visit proves brief though fruitful: his message, supposedly from Tubbius himself, that all would be well is met with acceptance. The fairy fellow even gets to spend a little time sharing a meal with Tubbius Princeps James Wilde, Treadwell's second in command.

However, the truth remains that somewhere out there, an ill Aloisius rests huddled up in a small cave hole, woefully sick and achey and light-headed.

Tready would not be kept in one place long, so long as the band had the energy and manpower to move him. Unfortunately, there had been some disagreements among the ranks making it harder to orchestrate.

Nudging the tubby man awake The Hat sat nearby, out of striking distance, with what to Treadwell may have been a spartan serving of stew, but was anyman's double serving. "I've no intention to kill you, fat man. Eat." He may notice his shackle had been modified to properly contain his leg and while there was no wine, fresh water had been brought up to the blessedly dry cave.

Even in his aching, feverish, fluish condition, the presence of warm stew and cold water in reach, coupled with the nudge, is enough to help Aloisius to consciousness. He at once feels miserable and exhausted and old as he begins to do as instructed.

The stew and water don't get to stick around very long; they're gone, despite Treadwell's illness, in very little time at all. Afterward, he manages a feeble, wavering, "You won't kill me. . . . Mmph! Good! What. . . what is it you want?"

((A Log))

[Tennant]
Good question, what did he want? “Nothing you fool! I can’t have you mucking about before I’m done with the town… though I hear you’re some sort of councilman,” his eyes glinted deviously. From out of no where, or so it would seem, he pulled a large leg of poultry, it was cooked or at least looked and smelled as much. Maybe there was a platter behind him? “I’ve no interest in hurting you or anyone else… just some coin.” The implication was there that if Tready could provide him with a means to get said monies he might partake in this rather delicious morsel.

[Treadwell]
Poultry! The faintest sniff of the flu-battered sniffer can still pick up on the splendid aroma of the cooked meat, and it prompts his ravenous gut to rumblng despite his generally poor condition at the moment. He swallows at some spit, and he winces before letting fly with a thunderous sneeze. 'Can't be serious! I can't just. . . just sell the town coffers for a well-roasted, mmph mmph, fattened hunk of turkey meat!" Another sneeze, followed by mumbling and fishing about for a handkerchief in his vest, comes next, taking breath and voice.

[Tennant]
“Ugh,” there is a disgusted groan at the sneeze and he offers up a hanky with the other hand, sure to keep the bait away from the catch. “I promise… there is no Dream Flower in this one. Honestly, just wipe your nose.” He doesn’t seem to pay mind to the well-meaning fat man’s moral defense. A solid, an most exaggerated bite is taking, it still hot. The steam rises off the meat, perhaps making that savory and pungent smell even stronger.

[Treadwell]
The offered handkerchief is ignored with a snort--or is the snort a mere reflex?--and Aloisius fishes out his own to honnnnnk his shnozz into. But that turkey. . . . Watery eyes squint at it through his glasses. He wheezes a breath, shakes his head, and wipes at his nose again. "Won't do it," comes the elderly, feeble squeak. "You aim to starve me, mmph mmph?"

[Tennant]
He looked at Treadwell and his vast expanse of, himself with a peaked brow and an expression that could only be read as, ‘really?’ “Starve you… We would be in this cave until the end of times you’ve so much reserve.” Truly, why would he have offered stew if his intent was to starve him, if anything a stew diet ought to do the tubby councilman good. “Let’s call it… incentive. Really, you –need- this delicious,” another exaggerated, lip-smacking bite caused his next words to be rudely muffled, “R-earry… you neeb dis, oh gods… its so good.” Chew. Chew. “You need food… I need coin… a few coppers, Mer-ken… Mire-ken… whatever it is… surely is hundreds of gold each collection.” Shrugging he’d take another bite he pockets his hanky and leans back.

[Treadwell]
Tready sits there, staring in frustrated impotence at the dwindling hunk of meat. Lips smack, throat gorges in swallowing, the other man's belly burbles contentedly--these are all signs that the head of the Church of Tubbius is keenly attuned to. Wait--a few blinks, another thunderous splattering of a sneeze--this one toward the floor before Treadwell--and then? A question. "What do you *know* about me, boy, mmph mmph?" Beady, piggish eyes harden and tighten up behind eyeglasses as Aloisius Horatio Treadwell starts wobbling achily to his feet, stooped but stubborn.

[Tennant]
It’s a little intimidating but he doesn’t let it show, “only what one hears… and sees,” he eyes the fat man standing. His belly’s size and constant groaning are enough of a cue, let alone what he may have heard about his ‘divine’ nature. Another bite and he stands too, there is indeed a basket behind him another leg and the rest of the fat bird stuffed in there with fixings of corn, bread, sauce, more than was intended for the slender thief to be sure.

[Treadwell]
For the mortal shape of the gluttonous Tubbius--or so he's reckoned to be by his followers--such a spread out of reach, even to a feverish and sniffly-sneezy body, is a greater torture than any physical beating or mental anguish. However, "You will not keep me here, mmph mmph!" It's meant to sound threatening, intimidating, but with the Councilor's current state. . . . It's more mere frustration than anything else. "Food or not, I'm likely to *die* in here!" Aloisius even makes a stumbled, dizzied advance, but he certainly lacks the strength to move the ball around his leg, and without his walking cane, he quite promptly flaflomps forward, landing on his gut with a breathtaking whuff that leaves him gasping.

[Tennant]
“Well my good, fat man… That is why I have no intention of keeping you here.” He smiles brightly as if he were Father Winter himself, taking another voracious bite, though he had to be near full by now. There is his dizzied attempt to advance and the light-footed Hat daintily steps away to ensure he isn’t caught in the fall. “You very well may if you keep that up…” Setting his meal aside he wipes his hands on a rag and goes about rolling the fat man right side up. “So much trouble…” Huffing a little from the effort he’ll try to set him to his back perhaps even leaned up against some propped up blankets and the wall nearby.

[Treadwell]
Gasping, exhausted, and ill, Aloisius is propped on his back with some blankets and the wall nearby. When he manages enough of his breath, he slowly shuts his spinning, dazed eyes and wheezes once more. He'd spoken with his brother about something like this last year--about his old connections, his once sly nature, his bumbling oaf appearance. . . . Just maybe he can think his way out of this with some of the old Treadwell schemes? "What, ahem, what are your *terms?*"

[Tennant]
“First, get well… “ there was a brief moment before he lost all sanity and passed the entire basket to Treadwell. Setting it delicately at his side and within reach, something he’d notice whenever he opened his eyes. Leaning back and untying his bandana, red locks fell free, a long grown out cut, dusting the tips of his ears it’s a flat and floppy mess of hay. “Promise me there will be no trouble for your pie-maker, she doesn’t know.” There was a desperate sadness, the band; his gang would be ashamed, if any of them had remained in the cave still. But now it was the Tricky Hat, a clear relation, and Tready.

Finally! Ecstacy! Even dreadfully ill, the tax collector starts into the basket of offered food with relish. Between bites and swallows, he huffs out a comment. "Get well? I'm. . . ." He pauses a moment to wiggle fat fingers on his right hand, counting. "sixty-six years old, mmph mmph!"

With that announcement comes another throat- and nose-clearing sneeze that leaves him aching all around.

"Won't get well in a blooming cave," comes the grumbled, gruff rest of his thought as he settles again into eating, but not with his usual zest. Aloisius slumps where he sits, flopping, almost reclining, where he rests, leading to shorter breaths and slower bites. Even his famed gluttony has its limits when he's sore, tired, and sick.

[Tennant]
There is a shrug and he finds himself a comfortable spot across the way from the fat man, settling in against the opposing wall. There isn't much around them, blankets, some loot, the decimated basket. "Well... I can hardly take you with us and you haven't given me any lucrative reason to stay," there is a forced expression of giving up. A sort of 'oh well'. "Not to mention, to keep feeding you alone would take a small fortune..."

Treadwell manages a chuckle, even in his condition. "So. . . You expect, hmm hmm, to let me go. . . to keep the money. . . and to leave town, eh?" Treadwell waggles what's left of the hunk of turkey at Tennant. "You *could* simply--" an explosive coughing shakes the old tub, taking his breath for a few moments. "I have you a plan!" "Return the money. Separate yourself, mmph mmph, from your fellows. . . and work for *me.* I know more than a few fellows back home, hmm hmm, who merit. . ." He pauses here to hock, hork, and huck his way through a spat of snot in his throat, sending phlegm flying funkily into a corner. ". . . shall we say 'special attention?'"

[Tennant]
“A plan for me, eh?” his usual grin is a little more amused. Could Tready, for all the kidnappings he had survived, tell that The Hat was not accustomed to having hostages? As the councilman went on his grin widened, more and more amused. Leaning forward now he seemed to shake his head, “You see… that’s the problem with fellows, government… of it all isn’t it?” Leaning back he watched Treadwell carefully to ensure he’d follow, “all my fellows share the coin too, no matter how large the amount for a single man.” Snatching up a bottle of wine he poured himself a glass and pulled a crate near to host it, “split among at least a dozen it is modest… and they’re not likely to be pleased I leave nor need to return their hard earned coin” With a deep breath between he sighed, “It was no easy feat getting you out of the vault.” Then, finally, a good swig of the cheap wine.

Treadwell frowns, his flushed and ruddy and sweaty face sagging with the effort. "Set them *up*! Don't you know a thing, mmph mmph, about being a good thief? You let them think," out comes the handkerchief to honnnnk his snout, "you're taking them to a job, or their money, or what-not, hmm hmm. . . and *that* is where guards take 'em in "and you are off free and well as you please! Then, you've steady, hmm hmm, 'employment' from there as long as you do as you're *told.*"

[Tennant]
Hah, “you really don’t believe in honor among thieves?” The glass was emptied, “that is a swell trick to be sure, but … you and… everyone else, rather intentionally believe I am the leader.” The glass was set back down, “but you think me far more cleaver than I am… I am just a man.” He could have been bluffing, he’d faked expressions before, the glass filling up with his bottomless depressed stare.

[Treadwell]
"You're a miserable *oaf* who could be more than a man!" There's a growl to the usually weak, feeble, squeaky pitch. Flu or no flu, full belly or no full belly, Treadwell can be roused to words, it seems. "Dear boy," another thunderous sneeze racks Aloisius here, "I've been outwitting councilors and magistrates since before you were sucking a breast!" Treadwell here huffily tries to relax; the sudden rush of frustration has left his vision spinning again and his heart flaflapping. "If you're so tricky as to live up to your name, my boy, hmm hmm, you'll better consider your *options.*" And that is that, for Aloisius Treadwell turns to finish the rest of the basket of food.

[Tennant]
“I should like to hear those stories,” he didn’t seem to phased at being called an oaf. He had listened to Treadwell and for some of it he actually seemed to be considering the options. “I’m so tricky? I’m so tricky because fat, bloated constables can’t be bothered to chase a boy and a loaf of bread down the street… coin is not so different,” except that they might actually get out of their chairs or off their rumps for that.

[Treadwell]
"Nothing wrong with fat or bloated!" Treadwell pats his own fat, bloated middle. "But this fat, bloated old man needs some *sleep.*" He slumps down and flumps onto his back, his head propped up by the stuff behind him. "We'll talk soon, hmm hmm?" With that, Aloisius is already well on his way out, soon to be snoring mightily in his little cave.

Nothing for it, he'd let the fat man sleep and leave the cave. Another would not replace him for some time, it was late, or early, one lost all sense of time in such a place. Regardless, he slipped out, after all he had an important meeting with someone at the lake and he wanted to ensure he was there quite a bit earlier.

Some time between morning and noon of the first day of the eighth month, 211.

The rumbled snores of Aloisius Horatio Treadwell finally come to a stop as the old fellow snorts and snuffs and moans his way to waking. He was hoping to wake without the manacle on his leg, safe and sound and normal in his bed. Of course, this isn't the case. Instead, his head is pounding, he feels like he's burning up quite nicely, and there's a dreadful weakness all the way through his limbs. There Tready rests on the floor, wheezing huffily for breath and frowningly noting the feeling of emptiness in his belly at the moment.

He is, at least, alone for the moment. Beady eyes squint in the darkness; he'd had his one spare pair of eyeglasses tucked safely in his vest earlier, explaining the ones on his face and the ones still on the floor of his office.

His office! Surely someone out there--Genny, or Mister Burnie, or Alice, or someone--would notice he was missing! He's certainly a hard fellow to miss!

But that would have to wait. The achey, groany Treadwell isn't going to get up the strength to fight, run, or do much else for a bit--a week or two, if he's right.

"Allie, old boy," the elderly Treadwell squeaks quietly to himself in the dark, "you're in quite the fix, mmph mmph."

A young man, not The Hat, a mussy brown-haired chap with raggedy coveralls and patches at the knees came in with a basket near half his size. At best we was six or seven, but this was a Treadwell sized basket after all, dwarfing the boy by comparison, it took both his strong arms to carry the thing in. The smell of the cooked meats, fresh rolls, boiled corn smothered in butter-garlic sauce, and a slew of other foods, trailed after him.

Standing still a moment the boy looked flatly at Treadwell, maybe a little in awe at his enormity. "Brother tol' me ta bring ya some lunch," he grinned without a care that his teeth were crooked and his face smudged. He'd set the basket down and nudge it with a tiny kick to just within reaching distance of the prisoner. He'd back away and hunch down, balanced on the pads of his feet with arms hugged tight across his chest. Then just watch.

"You're quite welcome to leave, boy," Aloisius grunts between breaths, reaching wearily for a slab of meat and a hunk of bread. "I'm no animal, mmph mmph, to be gawked at over breakfast! I'm a sick, elderly man, hmm hmm, with a metal ball at his ankle and a fleshy one around his waist. I'm hardly in any shape to waddle out of here."

With that said, Councilor Treadwell snorts and starts his eating. But after a few moments, he brings his squinty, wet, black eyes to narrow at the young lad.

"Can't be over six, seven, eight years old, mmph mmph. Hardly in proper company, robbing an old man and the government, hmm hmm, he works for."

Another sneeze obliterates any sense of hearing Aloisius still has for a moment.

"So, am I your prisoner, your guest, hmm mmph, your storyteller, or your sideshow oddity?"

Letting the fat man prattle on he stays put and rocks back on his feet as he watches, despite being a stick of a boy he doesn't appear to be interested in the food. "Six an' four munts," as a matter of fact.

Cocking his head to the side he either doesn't understand the meaning behind Treadwell's words or fails to grasp what he is eluding to exactly. To his inquiry the boy shrugs, "You're kinda fat." That was a nice way to put it. Grinning again he kept his eyes, big, wide and blue fixed on the man.

You're kinda fat.

Aloisius stops eating for just a moment, blinking once or twice at the peculiar little riff-raff in front of him.

That's hardly the usual summary of his size. It's met with a snuffling chuckle, for that's about all Treadwell can manage at the time.

"Just a touch, mmph mmph. Fattest man in Myrken Wood, at least."

One hand pulls away from the basket of food long enough to pat a couple of times at his voluminous gut. As fat fingers meet the tender, fleshy rings of pouchy flab under his vest--the so-called Rings of Tubbius--Aloisius winces. . . and then gets an idea.

Maybe he can get rid of this boy yet, and maybe he can manage to scare these men from keeping him here much longer. Tready knows from his interactions with crooks and scoundrels over the years that enough of them are devoutly religious. . . or just plain superstitious, especially about anything magical.

Councilor Treadwell takes another bite of a hunk of a roll, taking time to swallow it before he resumes talking.

"You know, hmm hmm, you'd be able to see me better in the light!"

A moment's huffy-breathed reflection allows for enough clarity of thought and meditation for something to happen that this boy of "six years and four munts" probably hasn't seen before.

It's obvious that he's likely never seen a man this fat.

He's surely never seen a man this fat before whose belly started glowing brilliant and bright, with two golden circles of light shining eye-piercingly even through his clothes.

Thus, in his own way, Aloisius lights up the cave with two or three seconds of divine light, allowing the child before him an even better look at the rotund Councilor Treadwell.

So much for getting rid of him. Grinning even wider than before the boy was filled with sheer delight at the sight rather than fear or alarm. Though he had certainly never seen a man so fat or so illuminated ever before. "Fat and bright!". Rocking back on his heels he tries to look at his own belly, arms contorted to roll up his shirt as he peeks. He can't get his belly to glow, there is a puzzled look as he tries to imitate it but can't quite figure out how to make his own belly glow.

Shooting up like a bolt he stood perfectly straight and clapped his hands fiercely together, the release was some strain and he pulled them wide apart. Now his arms straight out at either side and in the space between roared a watermelon-sized fireball, if just for a second before sputtering out with sparkler fireworks that spattered and danced on the floor until they died quite naturally.

Blown back he falls straight onto his bottom, clearly having no mind for the necessary energy or the strain of spells on ones body. His crazy hair now black and brown, eyebrows singed; the smell of burnt hair overtaking that of the succulent meats. He stood back up without much care whether or not he was bruised, to take credit. Quite proud of his trick, he wielded powerful magic for a boy his age but that of a novice without practice, patience, control, or care.

"How do ya put fire in yur belly?" Obviously, he'd got the fire bit down and was not curious how to replicate Tready's trick.