Business is Slow

Business is Slow

Postby Treadwell » Thu Jul 09, 2015 6:41 am

After two o'clock on the ninth day of the seventh month, A. R. 215.

Tready's Toys, Myrken Wood.


A lazy afternoon rolls into Myrken Wood accompanied by ongoing rains. Tready started out his day at the Broken Dagger, having slept there through the night. However, he left a little after what most would call breakfast (and he would call his first of such) when his butler, carriage, and horse arrived for him, soon to make his way to his toy shop, there to be dropped off as the coach would continue homeward for the day. "But it's starting to flood in spots, Counc'lor Tread'ell!" and "We can't do much because of the mud, Lord Steward!" and "Could your Tubbius make all this rain stop, Tready?"

The answers, in turn, from Aloisius as he has rocked (and continues to rock) gently in his chair at his toy shop today have been, "I am certainly aware, mmph mmph, so, Jack, mmph, do give that report from your post in town so folks know not to go those ways, hm?" and "I can't either, my dear Agnes! None of us here in the square have aught of business these last few days, I fear, hm hm! Do join me for some buttered biscuits and cheese and bacon, since you came all this way?" and "My Tubbius, Constable, governs the land and harvest and growth, mmph mmph, not the rain from the skies. In truth, he rather likes all of this, I think, though it makes life on us a bit worse for wear, hm hm?"

Thus having passed his second breakfast and his lunch--he hasn't enough food stored at the toy shop to merit two of those today--Aloisius Treadwell foregoes the joy of plumping into his couch at the Dagger, instead opting to smoke his pipe and rub his digestively gurgly tum-tum in the comfort--though not privacy, it seems!--of Tready's Toys at the market square.

Rocking must stop, though, for another log is needed on the fire to keep the toy shop warm and glowing, and candle wicks need trimming.

"Why--"

creeeeeaking of rocking chair and joints as Aloisius rises

"must keeping a place lit--"

immediate and desperate sucking in of breath around the pipe; a steadying of body and chair alike with hand being put to rocker arm

"be so much trouble?"

The toymaker stops. Fairly rhythmic lapping of flames on wood--flames dipping a little lower and cooler with time--offers softening noise and fading warmth and dimming light as he unsheathes the knife that hangs on his toasty, leather, toymaker's belt with its multitude of bulging pouches. Here is a candle within easy reach, dripping wax slowly onto a wooden candlestick and its plate-like base. That one's wick must be carefully trimmed first to allow proper burning; then, on to the next one between the two rocking chairs, to Treadwell's right. And then? Knife is sheathed. There is a fireplace within a few feet from that point, and there is stored up wood next to it for moments like this one. A light grate before the hearth is lifted and set aside, and--

Harrummph!

Tears come to the eyes, beady and blue and squinty, as Aloisius bends to take up log. Belly gets in the way, of course, but he has a mouth with a pipe in it, and he has smoked for most of his years. His lungs now remind him of this, offering a warm burning of agony as they try to take in sufficient breath for the effort. Back trembles, offering a rippling spasm through the center of its broad self as fingers close around wood. "Dear Tubbius!" comes a breathless hiss. Straightening himself is not to happen now. Side stepping, crab-like, follows, and then a desperate heft and huff sees arms tossing fuel into flame with a clatter and a clump; the grate is replaced.

"My chair. Mercy, Tubbius, mercy!" Hand goes to back, and pipe barely fizzles out smoke, and steps are shuffled attempts to carry the baggy body forward. Sinking back into the rocking chair offers beautiful, lovely, warm comfort and a cushion between aching back and backside and the sturdy wood of the seat. Eyes turn again to the front door, some few yards distant, as a frown dips the pipe between fleshy lips.

"No business today, mmph, or this whole week. At this point, Aloisius. . . . Even someone else complaining would be welcome!"
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Treadwell
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