The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Sometime during the night, there would be two corpses deposited on the steps of the Meeting House. These were not animal corpses. Nor, however, were they precisely human. What they were was quite unclear, but those two things were certain. At any rate, they were ugly. And quite dead, from what appeared to be dagger wounds.

And, scribed on the door, in a black liquid that one might conclude once flowed in the veins of these creatures, was a single word.

Believe.

Of course, there was a catch to all of this. By morning, it would be gone.

"Governor, sir. There was something written on the door. Seems to have been washed off during the night."

Bran's voice was muffled through the door, the sharp knock having rousted the governor enough to hear him.

"Very good, Bran. If you could have the guard write a report of the incident, that would be wonderful. You can go."

How did someone get past the guard posted outside to do such a thing? That was, of course, the governor's first thought. Ah, well, seems it was time to make sure the guard did not move from their post at all. One could patrol the perimeter while the other remained at the door. Whoever had done this must have been very quick, as the guard was never away from the door for more than five minutes at a time. And usually they were just inside.

With a groan, the coverlet was thrown up over his head, prompting a muffled protest from the body beside him. Arm would curl around a slim waist, drawing her near, as he drifted back to sleep for just a little while longer.

She sleeps soundly, under the right circumstances: it's a barracks habit, to steal what brief naps are possible. She stores up sleep when it's available, just as she does meals, with the knowledge that the future might hold a scarcity of both. However... a knocking upon doors, a to-and-fro of voices, both familiar and not. Talk of vandalism, of Straka itself. The daily shock of such close confines, the startlement of heavy velvet dropped over her head...

Such circumstances are not ideal. So there passes a time of silent stillness, a time of aquiescence to the surrounds -- which, while doing little to promote actual rest, are certainly not unpleasant. And, when the opportunity presents itself, she extricates herself with some delicacy, her exit quiet and hasty -- and not without some tiny smugness.

So much work to do. It is the mantra of recent days, recent weeks. There is Mikhail's plight to consider, on which matter Ser Helstone must be consulted. There is the imminent trial, for which she must prepare herself -- if only in readiness to keep her mouth closed before it can condemn her. And there yet remains the matter of several thousand shillings to consider.

It's a sizable sum. It's the sort of coin that buys a great many things. Loyalties, for instance.

And what of the abovesaid Ser Helstone, who has spent so many mind-numbing months dealing with the particulars of town disputes, farm-border squabbles, and the drawing-up of wills for men who have little more than dirt and tears to leave their progeny?

It is Monday morning, and the fastidious lawyer is pacing the floor of his sweltering office; Anne brings cold water instead of hot tea (it is far too hot, in the barrister's estimation).

Much rides on the outcome of the trial tonight: a man's life, for one. A precedent to be set, surely, both for Miss Carnath-Emory's upcoming trial and the far future -- the outcome would have repercussions for the Order of Straka, surely. And if he failed, he had no doubt that his very forward (and very open-mouthed, he bemoaned) clients would take matters into their own hands to ensure Mikhail's freedom.

Which, in turn, would screw up any chance he had to exonerate any of them legally. More vigilante justice would see them hanged, especially in the current climate.

It was vitally important he succeed tonight -- if he is to help retain any sense of law and order in this town at all.

Coriolanus Helstone, barrister and attorney-at-law, was handsome, somewhat mild in the public square, and spoke with a tongue that could be both polite and scathing at the same time. By nature, a barrister is a mercenary, his services hired out to someone who pays dearly for them; but a mercenary will never take on a job that means suicide or is doomed to fail, no matter what the cost.

Both Ariane Carnath-Emory and Altias Bromn are paying him handsomely -- that was, of course, a dear consideration. And the case is hardly suicide, things being how they are (the only thing to thank the cult for, he's sure).

But Cory's loyalties, in general, are to law and order, to peace and civil resolution of problems. Tonight, he assists in defending a man who, in committing his crime, did none of those things. But the alternative, he muses, is worse: the alternative is much worse, in many ways. He lives in Myrken Wood as well, and has a vested interest in making sure things come out for the best.

Of course, doing what he intended to do would --

-- he stops in mid-stride, and shakes his head.

Oh, dear.

He idly wonders if his old position in Bestalport would be open, if all goes to hell in a handbasket over the next few weeks.