Myrken Wood: A Troubling Month.

[Carnath-Emory]

Things being what they are, the inhabitants of Myrken Wood are a hardy lot, slow to startle, quick to gossip, and fonder of the pitchfork than the pike. Which shouldn't suggest that they're useless with the latter: evolution has necessitated a certain handiness with the tools of war. But despite all of this -- and one must remember that these are the men and women who'd survived the Fivefold Blight, just months ago -- there's a troubled air in the township, this week. Voices have only two volumes: whispers and outright shouts, as good an indication as any that even these resilient souls have become a little... unnerved.

"... and it was our Colin's, just the week afore last, hadn't y'heard? Aye, tore his prize ox clear in two, gobbled it down as if it were a bite o'bread afore dinner. Came clear out o'the woods, so our Colin did say, much like all the rest. Just you wait: they'll be eating the young'uns next, for variety." Dragons! They'd been the talk of the town for weeks: dragons in the woods, dragons poaching the livestock, dragons on the lawns, dragons chasing children, dragons sitting on people's houses. It had been viewed as a plague, and still is -- one rivalled only by the sheer number of monkey-cats that have overrun the town in recent weeks.

Of course, the lemur infestation hasn't proven to be too burdensome. A few enterprising souls have made a fine business of trapping and cooking the little beasts, which have sold well to tourists and townsfolk alike: with enough spice, it's been discovered, lemur fillets can pass for a good cut of lamb. But then, so will just about anything.

Perhaps this explains the recent rash of injuries suffered about the place: perhaps, it's been whispered here and there, those horrid little steaks have some dire effect on the wits, with its end result being all of these terrible accidents. After all, consider the illustrious list! The Lady Khalika, co-proprietor of the Waystation and Livery, currently laid up at the Broken Dagger, an establishment whose reputation is as dubious as her own. Good Governor Bromn, whose return was hailed with nothing but joy, seems to have joined her there; the assumption is, again, personal injury. Possibly by reason of monkey-cat steak. Councilor Roschen, seen fleeing a flame-lit building! Really, it's said, there's no surprise that the Judiciary still can't find a scribe for its meetings.

"That poor, wee girl: it was everything she loved in her life, that child was, and Straka should be seeing about that roof. Couldn't have been no ordinary accident, falling clear atop that wee babe's head as it did. Weren't no thing ordinary about it at all. And then! And then, you know what she did? Aye! An' they let her..." This is the odd thing about Sophie's grief -- and the suicide which had followed it: while the incident hardly goes unmentioned, and while the details are explored in full, even down to the very colour of the tile that'd crushed the child's head, there's never any mention of what had followed. Not a whisper of the crowd's stunned silence. No hint of their screaming, broken hysteria, just moments later. Sometimes, a town simply chooses to... forget.

For such time as it can.

[Carnath-Emory]

But still, that town is not devoid of hope and wonders. Consider the fact that Straka hadn't turned an entirely blind eye to the dragon menace. "On the very pastures themselves! Oh, no, I didn't see it, not I, but Loric of Matting Way, and several of his friends besides -- oh, but that doesn't matter, pet. There they were, 'pon horseback and not, but either way the beast fair towered over them, or so Loric tells it. Brave and true, they rushed at its belly, and it took to the skies, pained and a-feared, and bleeding its blood over the lot o'them as it fled!" This being the Order's first public victory against one of the great beasts, the news has rushed from lips to ears, has raced like lightning about the township; it bolsters spirits, even in times as puzzling as these.

And then there's the strange case of Mathiu, who's returned from Faith-knows-where, bearing Faith-knows-what. That the coin (the term is used reluctantly) has value, is beyond doubt, but those who've glimpsed it have been so struck by the sight that not a one has yet suggested melting it down for the silver. It bears a skull, strange patterns and unfamiliar runes ('unfamiliar'? When they're out of his hearing, the word they use is 'arcane'), and while it's certainly quite the odd artifact, its appearance is a pleasant novelty to a town recently walled away from many imports. Over the last day or two, the purveyors of Sacred Pritchard's Artifacts have begun incorporating bits of its designs into their own creations, with great success.

So Myrken is not quite without its wonders, even now, and truth be told, it may well be the insects that are to blame for the recent rash of short tempers. They're not plentiful, oh no, but they've a powerful sting and no qualms about using it, and since yesterday, more than a few townsfolk have been sent to Rememdum beds as a result of it.

It's really a terrible shame that Cheswick Valladay, once a fine Straka guard and, sadly, best known for his spectacular death, isn't about any longer to tell people about the sting he'd gotten...

[Tyralor]

There were two events, that made this particular day an unusual event in Myrken. The scent of ashes permeated the air as once again the Order maintained a pyre. The other gift was likely to stir more curiousity however, displayed as it was prominently in the town square.

It had taken a full day and a half to work out the logistics of how to properly move the creature and draw it out of where its otherwise final resting place would've been. Originally, the Lieutenant had been satisfied with the fact the 'dragon' had been slain at all. Adjunct Lannew however, had brought up a certain detail that had plagued the Order entirely too often. The constant accusations by the council of their lack of effort. Of course, they tended to overlook the fact that the peasantry hadn't all run off, or formed a mob and strung anyone up in a while. That was the council of course. At least in Kilborn's opinion.

Now the Council could figure out what to do with the dragon-lizard corpse that rested next to the Meeting house. A pair of banners prounouncing the Order's involvement was marred only by the collection of plaques that announced those who had lost their lives in bringing the monster down. Residents would be able to measure themselves up against the beasts teeth, or marvel at the overall size of the creature and how it must've towered over any rider on its two huge hind legs. The lack of wings was the only reason to question whether it was some dragon or some other creature.

It was Straka's display of their prowess and dedication. Hopefully it would mute certain individuals for an hour or two at least.

Of course, Kilborn also had a side bet with Otis as to which would smell worse in a week. The corpse or the council.