Of a Tready Laid Low

[Treadwell]

It wasn't often that Aloisius Treadwell found himself terrified. Usually the only times that he ended up truly being afraid of his circumstances were the ones when he was sorely reminded of his own mortality. A tightening up in the chest and arm earlier tonight was a suitable reminder.

Others had rushed to his defense--Altias, Ariane, that Sawyer lass, and maybe one or two others he'd forgotten about already. There was some business about his pipe accidentally being broken in the chaos. Accidentally. Hmph. It was safe and sound in his pocket the whole time, and to his knowledge, he hadn't been moved. Hmph.

In the long run, he'd managed to wobble painfully over to his usual couch and flump down on his back, barely covered up by a blanket, for the night. That done, he snored the night away, missing breakfast and probably worrying his darling Raylan half to death.

Now, what would it mean for him in the days to come? He certainly had to stay out of this heat. That much was clear. Maybe some time spent in the Rememdium would be best? Or, if he had to go anywhere, a carriage? He could always just not take up taxes for a few days, of course, and he doesn't have to work at the toy shop for a little bit, either.

Either way, Councilor Treadwell would find himself suitably pushed off the front lines and into the reserves, so to speak. He's been looking for a way to nudge Altias about from behind the scenes. Well, maybe, just maybe, he's been given the perfect opportunity. Who in Myrken Wood would suspect anything from a kind-hearted, fat, old bumbler who was suddenly taken with a heart attack and left weak and--awww, poor Tready--seemingly useless?

Evil, nasty, slimy Tready. Who else could put a dreadful thing like a heart attack to terribly wicked use?

[Jirai]

Jirai could. And would.

The rumors began circulating swiftly, as rumors had a tendancy to do. "Councillor Treadwell is sick..." "Councillor Treadwell is dying..." "He's already dead..." And the rumors did not stop with Treadwell either. Altias had been sick quite often enough to provide plenty of fodder for rumors. Then there were even darker rumors about Giscard, locked away in his estate. Perhaps he was dead, too. Or perhaps he had abandoned the Myrken folk. Or maybe, even, he was helping those that were causing this. Perhaps he was causing it! Then there was Kerrak - vanished, for so long. What did that mean? Nothing good, the rumors had.

[channe]

Those rumors, of course, had been heard by Charlotte Arryngton, one of Myrken Wood's most cunning and sartorially perfect socialites. Nothing pleased her more than the thought of Aloisius Treadwell suffering.

She would use this to her advantage. The question was -- how?

[Treadwell]

It's happened again, apparently. Last night, the 19th of June, the fat fellow supposedly got himself worked up a bit too much once more, falling out briefly before someone managed to jolt him back to consciousness with a bit of magic.

Now, everyone in Myrken Wood, Treadwell included, should know that he can't keep having something like this happen monthly. So why is he pushing himself to do everything Altias is asking him to do about taking care of crops and people and water? Of course, he's doing it all slowly, very slowly, but he is trying to do it all.

The soft-gutted man is just that hard-headed. For extra proof of that, note that he's taken back to smoking cigars again, despite Altias's insistence (and brief success in doing so) that he stop smoking at all. Poor Tready.

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OOC: This references posts 19-21 of "Twelve o'clock and all is Treadwell," under the Foreign Lands section.