The #Broken_Dagger Forum

...that the Wall is cursed. So says Goodwoman Driscol, weaver by trade, gossip by nature. There's a back room to her small store; if a person's willing to chat for a little, perhaps purchase a half-used skein of wool, a bolt of patchy cotton, he might find himself inducted into that little shrine, where a collection of knotted-twine... things...are set upon every available surface in that tiny space.

"Oh, they's awful ominous, don't y'think? Cunning little things. You'd almost mistake them for my gran'daughter's poppets -- bless 'er heart. Ah, but if'n y'look a little more closely, y'll see the bits o'bone an' whatsit all tangled up inside 'em, aye, and a spot o'leaf, too, they's all got that. What, i'looks more like tree bark t'you? Well, aye, an' that's the magic at work, fer all men see diff'rent things when they gaze int' the heart of --

Why, I never! O'course I didn' make 'em meself! An' this is the Faith's own truth, son, so y'be listenin' full close, now. Every one o'these was gathered from that cursed Wall -- aye, cursed I say, fer that's what it be, and these are the marks of it. My gran Eleanor, who was a wise and learned woman, she told tales o'such things, and un'erstand well, son: these weren't made by no human hands. They's a curse, that's what they are, and make me well, the Church will 'ave their say on it. Now come on out here, I got a lov'ly bit o'yellow linen for you, be a right treat on yer little girl, whazzername?"

No-one pays much attention to rambling old women, of course, particularly not the ones with something to sell -- but there are a great many of those trinkets in that room, endless variations on a single theme, and Myrken has not in recent years seen their like. Word travels, and swiftly; by the week's end, her shop is crowded, and not only with customers.


Rumour has it... that the Broken Dagger tavern is once again a haven for the supernatural. Its patrons aren't the only ones mourning the loss of Dear Ole Pritchard (occasionally That Right Bastard Pritchard, to those whose tab is rivalled only by their appetite for drink -- but even they don't dare whisper those words, not these days). He'd been known well to the township, wicked with a crossbow, canny with the shillings, and any man who'd tend the bar in That Place for so long a stretch of time inevitably earned a quite genuine respect from the townsfolk. That he'd perished there, on the tavern's very floorboards, had come as a blow to this populace; that the very next day he'd been Sainted by the Church itself had been cause for celebration -- and industry.

"But this is no ordinary reliquary, lass! For this one, you'll see, opens to reveal a splinter of Blessed Pritchard's own bar, cunningly preserved behind a pane of real glass -- "

"And wound about the medal is a thread from the very tapestry the Blessed Keep himself had annointed!"

"A bone from 'is very hand, as authent'cated by Brother Cythwyllthfyr 'imself! No, now, don't ask 'ow I got it, the miracles o'the One Faith work in mysteri'us ways, we all know that -- "

There have been tears in the streets; there has also been some good coin earned, for Myrken's innovators. However, amongst the customary trade of talismans, medals, keepsakes, there are items with more arcane purposes. Hadn't it been Brother Cythwyllthfyr himself, after all, who attributed Blessed Pritchard's demise not to a drunken mob, but to the works of the Demon Kamageroff? But this, too, is just gossip...for now.


Rumour has it... that the drunken brawl at the Dagger was a thing of truly epic proportions. Worthy of songs, they say, and urge their friends to pen some; worthy of legend, they insist, and spread the word, each re-telling exaggerating on the one before it. Eight men become ten; ten become fourteen; fourteen become twenty, and on, and on. That some were members of the Myrken Militia is beyond doubt; that neither Councilor Kerrak nor his men had been present is well-established. That a number of Councilor Guillaume's *were* is undisputed, but as little more than a token presence; they'd dragged out some of the more-bloodied drunks, it's agreed, but those men have yet to be found for further questioning. That women of the town were manhandled in the crudest manners known is well-grounded in fact, but the nature of that handling -- and the number of women -- varies with each telling.

But on one matter, there is little argument and no embellishment: that the Order of Straka had made no appearance when the brawl was at its height, that the Captain himself had made a visit near its end, well after the troublemaker's eviction from the place by Blessed Pritchard himself, and that not a single arrest had been made during the subsequent days. The people of Myrken Wood are accustomed to horrors beyond mortal imagining, to supernatural threats the likes of which an ordinary man cannot hope to challenge and survive, but this -- oh, this was the work of their own, of men they'd worked beside at the Wall, fought beside at the time of the Blight. This time, they are quite capable of meting out justice themselves. More than a few members of the Militia, then, have suffered a good beating for the trouble they'd made -- including a man or two who'd been far from town at the time of the incident. Mob rule is a faulty one at best...

Its was two morns later when the Gypsy finally arrived at the steps of the broken dagger. She was in Derry on business when the incenident occured with the mob, and only heard about the Death of Pritchard but an hour or two earlier...the outside of the building look the same..its harden exterior didn't show the mourning that resonated from the passing of such an Icon.

It took her a moment, as she looked upon the porch..Then slowly she took the steps and moved through the door. The inside looked no different then any other, in the aftermath of what has become an norm in this land...Save one striking and overwhelming difference. There was no Pritchard scurrying about. In all her years he was there, He had a way about him, a kinship to this building, no matter what befell it...Demons, Vampires, Werewolves, Gypsy, everything and anything has passed through these doors...bringing more untold horrors then any bard could imagine...Yet he had this uncanny knack of getting things back to normal without much difficulty. If there were rumors of magical beings hiding within the knooks and crannys of this land..Then perhaps he was one of them....not so flashy as a mage...or beholding the childhood dreams of Father winter...But perhaps a more simply magic..resting in his heart..A love for his home and his occupation. And for the building he protected...

If the outside hide its sorrow, the inside weeped freely....a dim sorrow hung off the tables, chairs, hearth...The bar..seemed less sturdy...the fire's spark somewhat faded. There was no one tending at the moment, the few that were about sat in close circles. Friends, well wishers, whispering over drinks and memories...She knew a few faces...nodded as she passed....her hands soon resting upon the bar. feeling the texture that has become so comfortable to her...but there was no fatman behind it to shout an order to..or to quip and toss back the latest news....She laughed...soft and short..it almost choked in her throat...was she about to cry?..

A sniffled cough from her right stroked her out of her own thoughts, to see one of the barmaids weeping being led up the stairs by another, by the looks of the red and puffiness of their eyes..it seems they have been trading off which one cries and which one comforts...a swallow..

Her throat was dry and without thought she heaved herself up onto the bar, and then over it....looking about the back...its weird usually the only time she was back here was when she was runing from flying projectiles...this morn was different...there was still some broken glass on the floor..most likly from the brawl. without thinking she grabbed a cloth and tray, and scooped up the glass tossing it into the bucket that was already half full of broken glass...
Wiping her hands on her pants she notices a shipment had arrived must have been this morning or the last...but in the aftermath it has sat there untouched...moving towards it she looks over the contents.... Then up at the shelves behind the bar....

Hell how hard can it be?..Its not like he had a system right?...

By mid afternoon the tavern was once again put back together....and not just by the Gypsy's hands...but by any and all who remember how many times he did all alone...and slowly the sorrow would pass and the fire would spark once again....for though his body finally got to rest...there are a few who think he will forever haunt and protect the Dagger....

Ah, the building weeped. It was a resonance of sorrow that swept freely thoughout the tavern itself, no doubt bringing pause to the normal cheerful laughter that would come to patrons drinking.

A moment of silence, unintended, but one none the less.

But there were some who did not find overwhelming grief to the situation. Some knew of Pritchard's honor. Some remembered him as a warrior who found a more peaceful life than killing.

He died honorably. That was all that mattered to some. With that thought in mind, it was much easier to smile when thinking of Pritchard than feel sad for the loss.

Elil tilted her chin as she peered through the door of the empty tavern. It was well past the normal drinking time for most..as the sun had been set for many hours now.

Empty. She'd never seen it that way.

A hand slid against the wooden door-jam..feeling the grain of wood, and giving the weeping building a gentle caress.

"Shh. Quiet now, you can't hear the laughter anymore..." Words flowed from her lips in Japanese, a soothing coo of a mother calming a crying child.

When she felt the pain of loss lift from her own heart, that was when she felt it apropriate to step from the door and let the Broken Dagger be alone with itself.

"The demon -- Kamageroff?" Agnieszka squealed to Mrs. Brown, a stout woman of thirty-five (with a peasant's eyes, skin, and teeth of sixty). "Was a demon, right -- but not 'un that kilt Pritchard -- all 'e did was paint daisies in m'head an' -- some kinda magic, can't explain it -- an' -- an' his name weren't Kamageroff, tha's what I said when --"

Mrs. Brown waved a crone's finger warningly in Agnie's direction, effectively cutting off her tide of words. "Ye'd best be careful, Agnie dear," she warned, handing the girl a basketful of rough linen. "Some people there 'ave you pegged as bein' wi' the demon, now, take this t' yer --"

"With? I was fightin' it!" she said.

The older woman shook her head. "It ain't my tale, missie. Take these to yer mother, they're for yer father's sickbed. Now, gerron there -- I’ve a lady that kin get me a viewin’ of the bone-relics!"

It just didn’t make sense to Agnie -- and only because she’d been in the right place at the right time. She'd been there when the good Brother had ‘sainted’ the bartender; and hadn't she seen that it had been paint, not blood, on the bartop? Hadn't she seen the 'Demon Kamageroff' paint a pink mustache on the brother's face? Hadn't she blasphemed to the Brother's face, to no ill effect?

Agnie wasn’t a particularly suspicious girl, for the most part; if she were still brawling with the boys at Danny’s public house down by the farm and spending most of her days working on the farm, she’d be -- like every pious Churchwoman in Myrken, it seemed -- off to press her lips to one of the reliquaries making the circuits, or poking the poppets at Goodwoman Driscol’s, surely.

But she’d started drinking at the Broken Dagger weeks ago.

And she’d been there when the ‘demon’ who was no demon came. No. Pritchard died tragically, but it had nothing to do with God or the Church or a demon whose name was not Kamageroff.

Who knew which stories were true, and which were false?

It was a new thought for the girl, who had for so long labored under a notion that certain things were true, had always been true, and would always be true.

A wrong notion.