The #Broken_Dagger Forum

It was a night of no particular remark at the teahouse. Most of Myrken had long since gone to bed and the refined underbelly of the community had left their wives, their empty homes or their otherwise lonely lives and had made their way into the teahouse. Girls giggled, teacups clanked and the careful click of doors locking were all part of the usual way of things. There was no reason to think that there would be anything special about tonight. At least not to those inside anyhow.

It hadn't taken the wolf much time to track down the place once Kals had explained what it was to her. The scent of lust and desire was almost as easy to follow as the lone men that wandered out in the night. She was a good hunter and it had been far too long since she had hunted anything sentient. Except for the accident, but that was different than tonight. Tonight Kacela was in control, the wolf's eyes a deep brown as she watched the comings and goings into the building. The idea of all those poor weak females being taken advantage of chilled her to the bones and stirred up the rage that had been waiting inside of her for days, just needing a reason to be released. Someone had to protect the females and if the human men weren't going to do it then she would make sure that there would be no one taking advantage of them.

Of course there was the pesky matter of duty and humanity to deal with. She had rules when it came to humans which was in part why she was still sitting there in the brush, watching the male patrons to the place as she considered the degree of control to which she had, practicing one mental exercise after another to ensure that she wouldn't lose her focus. It would be a bad thing if there were deaths tonight after all. The door opened one last time as the last patron set about to make his way inside when the wolf leapt from the bushes, catching the man with the jacket and the walking stick unaware, her heavy paws landing square on his shoulders, her heavy weight pinning him to the ground. There was no way for her to know that it was Councilor Berdini that she was accosting, the wolf snapping his arm up in her jaws and clamping down before using it to fling him off into the woods. He wouldn't die, that much she could tell by the sound of his quickly beating heart but she had injured him badly enough, the sounds of his arm dislocating from it's socket evident as she flung him about like a rag doll. The Councilor however was just the beginning however. Fueled by such easy success she growled with pleasure, turning to face the masses who had come to crowd around the door of the teahouse with a predatory stare.

The screaming might have woken up the people who lived in the area, the shrill cry of the women at such a pitch that it almost made Kacela want to throw them about a bit too just to shut them up. But she was here to protect the females and that was something she reminded herself of as she lunged for her next victim, falling on him with fangs that skimmed over as much flesh as she could manage without puncturing anything important, leaving dozens of shallow painful wounds while the other "gentleman" tried to come to his rescue.

What came next was a flurry of fur, fangs and steel as the men of the teahouse tried to defend themselves against the wolf, and though blades sunk into her skin none rendered her immobile, the wounds closing almost as quickly as they were formed. The scent of blood filled the air and body after body went flying about the serving area, her victims crashing into tables and through windows. The moans that were heard were certainly no longer those of pleasure as Kacela ran through the teahouse throwing her body into the locked doors to torment and injure any male left hiding inside with his purchased woman.

When she was finished there was not a male left concious in the building and while many bones were broken and there were faces pale from their bloodloss not one man had died in the process. It was something she felt particularly proud of. The women on the other hand had either had the good common sense to flee or had hidden themselves away somewhere, and though Kacela could find them she chose to leave them be. Viewing the wreckage of her effort for a moment she'd feel that sense of calm and reward wash over her. She had done something good for these people, for these weak females. How she had missed being a protector. She'd trot out of the teahouse then, pausing near the door when she noticed one tea service hadn't been damaged in the fight. She'd pause there, consider it a moment and then would continue walking, flicking it over with her tail as she passed by it, the cups smashing on the ground. Her job here was done, it was time to go home.

"They're certain it wasn't a bear? Look at the size of these marks." Shards of crockery grit underfoot as former-Governor Calomel crouched to inspect the gouges in the teahouse's floor; he spread his fingers above the splintered lines, barely able to span them with one hand.

The Constable nearby shook his head, his features making little secret of how unhappy he was to be here. "The witnesses report a wolf, sir." He might not be Governor or even High Constable any more, but the Constable had little doubt that Calomel could still make his career very miserable with a few words to his superiors in the Constabulary. And though his tone was carefully measured, there was a near-palpable sense of anger that surrounded the silver-haired man, uncomfortably intense. "A very big wolf, sir."

"Mm." Cinnabar rose to take another slow stroll around the wrecked tea room, pale gaze drifting across the smashed tables, the shattered porcelain and splashes of blood. "An interesting question, though, is how such a beast got inside the town walls." His glance to the Constable made it clear that he should find it interesting too, interesting enough to make sure that it was asked of the gate guards with considerable force. "And why no one else saw it on its way here, or after the attack. A very big wolf should be quite hard to miss, don't you think?" The Constable considered this for a moment before deciding that it was probably a rhetorical question, best answered with a nod and an intent inspection of his boots.

Calomel's outrage at the attack was quite understandable, of course; his wife had been proprietress of the teahouse - madam, if one was less tactful about it - for a number of years, and so he and Cambree had been woken by a messenger hammering on their door, bringing news from town not long after the attack. Teahouse assailed by a terrible beast; customers attacked and maimed, the girls terrorised. He'd dressed hastily and rushed to town to find an aftermath of smashed crockery and splintered furniture, bloodied men and near-hysterical girls. He'd done what he could, arranged transport to the Rememdium for the injured and alternate accommodation for the girls. Certainly no one had died, but there was a question whether one customer would lose his mangled arm, and plenty more of them would be scarred for life where the beast had raked their flesh with teeth or claws.

By the time dawn was breaking things were at least quiet, only Calomel and a couple of Constables left in the building - the wiser of the pair had gone to "look for clues" upstairs. At some point carpenters would be coming to board up the smashed windows, but until then there wasn't much left to do but start the miserable business of cataloguing the damage and sweeping it up.

The jars of ready-blended teas had been dashed from the brewing counter, dried leaves now mixed with slivers of glass and porcelain across the floor; the metalware had mostly survived, dainty spoons and forks scattered but salvageable; someone had landed on the cake stand, from the look of things, leaving it a half-flattened mess of bent silver and squashed pastries, icing trodden into the floorboards around it; bloodied linen tableclothes and napkins lay crumpled here and there, wadded and discarded where they'd been hastily used to staunch wounds. At least the cabinet behind the brewing counter seemed to have escaped, neatly-labelled drawers of imported spices, herbs and teas mercifully unscathed. A small mercy.

Cambree had built up the establishment's reputation carefully over time since her arrival in Myrken Wood. During the daytime it was a popular meeting-place, where Myrkentown's well-to-do might relax and gossip over a pot of exquisitely-blended tea and dainty cakes, waited on by impeccably-trained young ladies with charming smiles and graceful manners; the after-dark activities were kept carefully discreet, only admitting gentleman customers of a certain quality, the rougher elements firmly rebuffed with directions to the bawdy houses in the more raucous part of town. There were murmurs and whispers, of course, but this had barely touched the teahouse's trade - indeed, some daytime customers seemed to relish the faintly risque reputation of the place, thrilled that they were flirting with Myrkentown's scandalous underbelly by taking tea and cakes of an afternoon. It was exciting, but never vulgar.

She had poured so much time and effort into her business, in the face of all Myrken Wood could throw at her; riots and fiends and fires and plagues had touched the place and yet it had always recovered and reopened. An island of graceful good manners and refinement in the day, a subtle and sultry pleasures at night. It was where he'd got to know her while he was a Constable, visiting on his lunch breaks to pass the time over cups of aromatic tea; where he'd grown to love her, returning time and again for slices of zesty lemon cake and increasingly intimate conversation. There were treasured memories in the place, and to see it in a disarray of shards and splinters was nothing less than repugnant. Heartbreaking, even.

"Have you got everything you need, Constable?" A question that was more like a hint, and one which the officer was more than happy to take.

"Yes, thank you sir. We'll be on our way." He called his colleague down from the upstairs and, with nervous deference, they made their farewells and departed in a bustle of grey tunics and heavy-soled boots.

Calomel was left alone in the teahouse, scowling at the mess and finally unleashing a few choice curses he'd been biting back since his arrival hours before. A moment's further thought and he headed for the kitchen, hoping there was a usable broom in there somewhere.

Cinnabar worked and while few would come to assist him, after a time, a letter would arrive. The timing was not coincidental. Obviously, the news of his arrival on the heels of the incident had spread quickly. Still, there was an element of haste evident in the letter's penmanship.

Cinnabar,

My apologies for not being bodily present for this. As you assuredly learned, it is nigh impossible to be both Governor and High Constable at the same time, and that was for you, the man who created the latter job. Therefore, I must delegate. Thankfully you have built a machine to survive the test of time, and I hope it serves you well now.

From what I have heard, it sounds as if there is a large animal behind this, likely a wolf. We have discussed Kacela before and she would be the likely culprit (see attached), though I could hardly see her motivation for such an act, save for base savage impulses. The teahouse was always a bastion of civility in a sea of barbarism, and that would grate against her more bestial nature. Still, it could well be someone trying to frame her as she has showed admirable control in the past for a frothing mystical monster.

All reports, including those of a personal sort, have her engaged in relationship with Kals Olwak, whom I see as something of a brother through Rhaena, though his unfortunate anarchist tendencies cloud his ability to return my affection. Given your obvious personal stake in this fair, I give you full leave to look into this matter as far as the law allows. Call upon what reasonable resources you need with my blessing. If you need to go further than that, I do ask that you please come and speak with me first.

Good luck and Once Again, my Deepest Apologies,
Glenn

Perhaps the letter was a tad confusing in one element. They had discussed Kacela but not certain specifics. Attached to the letter, then, was a small file. Three pages. A description, in Glenn's hand, of how Kacela responded to silver, a drawing of what seemed to be her in wolf form done based on descriptions of others, and the third page just had in quickly scribbled text the words "Yes, I'm sure. - Glenn."

By the time the Governor's letter arrived Cinnabar had spent an industrious morning with broom and dustpan, methodically removing evidence of the previous night's incursion. Furniture was inspected and sorted into that which could be repaired, and that which was good only as firewood; a survey was made of the teahouse's remaining crockery to see how much remained respectable, how much chipped-but-usable, with the rest relegated to a washtub of shards and fragments; table linens were sorted into heaps, to be laundered or burned as appropriate. Steady and systematic, there was balm in the business of returning order to things, distraction in the series of small decisions to be made - keep this, discard that, keep this, discard that.

As Cinnabar accepted the letter, were one not familiar with the teahouse one might even be able to imagine it was as it should be - stand in the right spot, overlook a few details. The furniture more widely-spaced than usual; a shortage of cups and teapots upon the shelves or cloths upon the tables; darker stains on the woodwork, not yet been scrubbed clean. But overall there was order here, effort made to restore the place to some semblance of normality. He was even able to offer the courier a cup of tea, a dented copper kettle singing merrily above a blazing hearth. No shortage of firewood, at least.

Calomel read the letter while the messenger sipped one of Cambree's best blends from a chipped cup; a frown creased his brow as he leafed through the accompanying document, sketchy as it was; then another read-through, glaring at the page as if it might burst into flames if he willed it enough. Beneath the suddenly-wary gaze of the courier he picked through the detritus on the brewing counter to find a pencil and a scrap of paper; a long, deep breath and then a few brief sentences hastily scrawled, the paper briskly folded once, twice, and held out for the messenger to take back to his master.

Glenn

Thank you for your sympathies.

It would have been good to know this sooner.

I met the woman recently. I shall find her again and have her explanation.

Sincerely

Cinnabar

Glenn was in the process of moving, finally, to the meeting house. It meant the letter back was delayed a little bit. He hadn't been able to contact or convince Farsiris to be his personal secretary and that was a point of some annoyance, just like he couldn't contact Bloodmoon to fill in as his bodyguard for a time. Truly, what was the point of fostering such friendships if you couldn't call upon them in a time of need. Ah, well. He looked down at Cinnabar's paper and laughed a bit.

"Dearest Cinnabar," he spoke out loud. "If I went around telling people what each other truly was, then where would any of us be?" Still, he did not write that down. No need for a letter. Calomel understood well enough, him better than most.

Teahouse Girls. "Pfft." What a stuck up and haughty lot. Oh yes, it was a point of some pride to be the best in your chosen field, but that was a chosen field two steps down from fish mongers. That's not to say Glenn Burnie didn't have a first name relationship with many of the whores in town, but that was Sarayn's fault of years ago and it was always a purely platonic thing. One that had long lapsed when he was no longer ensorcled. Salt of the earth though, lovely girls, hearts of gold, not like the ones at the teahouse who were gilded at best.

And to think, once upon the time he had hoped to magically addict Kacela into becoming a teahouse girl. "Small world. Ah well." With a little shrug he got back to the work of the day.