Continuing to Work: Resting after Scrambling

Continuing to Work: Resting after Scrambling

Postby Treadwell » Tue Dec 30, 2014 1:15 pm

Evening of the thirtieth of the twelfth month, 214.

Treadwell's office at the Meetinghouse.


The Lord Steward's office at the Meetinghouse is nothing at the moment if not clouded in a gray haze of pipe smoke. The Lord Steward in question has spent two days on the move throughout Myrkentown, with stops made in all of the local inns other than the Broken Dagger. His objective was to see that there would be sufficient housing for any Councilors looking to spend any reasonable amount of time in town, especially if this upcoming meeting were to go longer than a single day. Places were found for most of the crowd that should gather; the rest, he figures, can easily be shown proper quarters in the former Church of Tubbius, an empty building now simply under Treadwell's private ownership, waiting to be turned into a proper orphanage by Sascha. It still has appropriate facilities for a noteworthy number of folks, and it's not too far distant, at the least.

As for other matters of importance, there is plenty of food set aside in the Meetinghouse kitchen, simply awaiting preparation in the morning by some of Treadwell's own staff from home. There are enough seats already set out in the meeting hall for all Councilors and a few more, as well as a suitable lectern at the front for the Lord Steward to begin the meeting and then to oversee the election of a proper Governor to facilitate the rest.

A fwuff of smoke escapes the pipe.

"A proper Governor, Aloisius," is all the squeaky-voiced elder speaks into the candlelit, gray haze.

In truth, the position is thought by most to be cursed or something close to it. The Governors of Myrken Wood, barring the fabled and legendary Maxwell Beauregard, have largely been considered madmen, scoundrels, or incompetents. However, isn't that what Aloisius is supposed to be fixing as Lord Steward? Isn't part of his role meant to establish a Governor who can, one way or another, please the King?

A smile creeps around the pipe. Who else would be silly enough to want to deal with the responsibility of overseeing a Council of just over sixty people drawn from all over this bothersome stretch of land? What man in his right mind would want to have to handle all of the matters from all over this accursed blight of a dozen miles or so from tip to tip?

Part of the previously existing Council had merit: the boundaries created by establishing the handling of taxation and land, artistic endeavors, trade and commerce, agriculture, and defense. Setting up such delineations with rotating committee members inside the Council holds promise; it prevents there being sixty-odd people arguing over concerns, it allows fresh ideas in areas every few months or a year, and it keeps things easily controlled.

But there has to be one person in control--not as a commanding voice overruling all others, but as a guide, a figurehead, a leader, a role model. At best, it must be someone used to such a position, particularly with a large group of colleagues.

The smile only grows, nearly causing the pipe to drop from the old man's mouth.

"There aren't too many out there, mmph, with that manner of experience, Aloisius. Not too many at all. Perhaps spending your youth in the company of backstabbing, conniving sycophants was, hrm hrm, fitting preparation for your golden years?"

A jolly chuckle shakes the fellow, and up goes a black sleeve and white glove, fanning and waving to clear out a bit of the smoke, feebly ushering it toward the door. Then, up Treadwell goes, hefting himself from his chair before gathering his belongings, extinguishing the candle on his desk, tucking his hat atop his head, and ambling outside to lock the Meetinghouse and make slowly for his carriage.
"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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