The #Broken_Dagger Forum

The recent weeks have been quiet ones, and that is the second-best news to hit the streets of Myrkentown in a long, long time. The best, of course, was the coming of rain, and the cynics amongst Myrken's population found it telling indeed that there was no greater cause for celebration than these two occurences.

Everyone else, however, was too busy celebrating on the streets to pay them much attention.

The coming of rain -- drenching rain, torrential rain, rain by the bucket and keg and gallon -- had inspired a small frenzy in the region. Commoners danced in the streets, when the first fat droplets fell from the gathering clouds; nobility joined them, heedless this once of such details as dignity, decorum, etiquette. The downpour made equals of them all, washing grime from the faces of sweeps and char-women, slathering mud over the boots of dignitaries and tax-collectors. They embraced beneath this cooling, saturating miracle; they laughed and shouted, and pulled neighbours from their homes to see that Myken Wood was not entirely cursed.

And farmers, a dour, grim-faced lot of late, made haste to their savaged fields, to see if a little of the harvest could yet be salvaged.

In the aftermath of Straka's brief madness (foul magicks were to blame, agrees the general consensus) and the horror of koltists (there was no longer a child left in Myrkentown who couldn't read the word Believe), this proved to be a much-needed time for rest, in its early days, and one taken advantage of by those who were yet able. Not all were. Straka kept to its patrols, after all, and the farmers cleaved to their ravaged fields; a few hardy souls kept at their work upon the Rememdium, beneath the cover of cunning pavillions -- and that is an improvisation that will spread across some portions of the town, in coming days: the nailing and propping of sturdy sheets over what work will not weather the rain well.

Politicians eventually returned to their work as well, and dignitaries to their luxuries. Well. Not all of their luxuries. Within days, the rains had found their first casualty, the unfortunate Master Fournier, whose carriage had the poor luck to locate a sinkhole with its wheel. The result was a crippled horse, a ruined conveyance, two drivers flogged for their oversight, and a lengthy stay in the refurbished Rememdium for Fournier himself, victim of two bruised ribs, a thoroughly sprained ankle, and a mild case of the screaming hysterics.

Members of the ruling class took note. Travel upon horseback will soon become fashionable once again.

But surely not for long. Like all such miracles, this sudden deluge can hardly be likely to last. Barrels are filled while the opportunity yet lingers, great kegs and casks left out overnight to be found overflowing come morning. Children in the streets tilt their heads back to drink their fill of the sky's bounty. Farmers salvage what they can from their fields, and pray by the One God that this fortune will repeat itself in future months. Haste is made, in short, to enjoy it while the chance still remains.

Because it surely won't for much longer. Surely.

The militia stood down, at least for the time being. After nearly two months of continuous work, it was time to release the men to salvage what they could of hearth, homes and livelihoods. What little of it remained, anyways. At least, after the leadership was decided and some sense of direction given, the men and women of Myrkenwood knew they had a set emergency force prepared for contingencies where manpower was unavoidably necessary.

While they'd spent more time learning to build structures than drilling with weapons, there was a certain new focus that pervaded the organization. As farmers laid down their weapons with a sigh of relief, they at least knew that next time they assembled, it would not be without a certain amount of leadership to point the way.

There wasn't much left of the crops or the cattle, but there was water. It was a blessing, at least for now.

But even if all seemed sedate, the militia knew if the horns sounded, they had their places to assemble, units they belonged to and men to hand them the orders. It made a difference, as farmers became familiar with pike and blade, order and drill. They weren't professionals, but they weren't entirely a mob either. One and a half months wasn't much in the way of training, but it at least had men marching in the same direction.

That was something.

Oddly enough, it appeared that while most of the folk enjoyed the respite from the heat, and frolicked, the Order began to make more frequent appearances. Patrols comprised of fewer men, but more frequent presence, although most seemed to disappear into the thick of the forest.

The Order had endured the heat with a minimal amount of griping and groaning. With the arrival of the rain, the mutterings of the patrolmen increased. Few individuals enjoyed slogging through mud, let alone the pleasures of being drenched as well. Still, they tended to make the best of a bad situation. And the Lieutenant seemed to have the expectation of another bad situation.

The Order could be found on a regular basis, working on building up barriers in preparation of a forthcoming flood. Sloppy and distasteful work, though the ORder was motivated by the sight of the Lieutenant half naked and dripping mud as he slogged along with the rest of the Order.

A request for Sawyer's attention was made once more. Patrols were already moving along creek shores and river tributaries throughout the province, maintaining an eye on any stream or brook that might crest its shores. Forewarned was forearmed.

The words the massive sword once harvested were being brought forth again, oddly enough. This time with a minor addition. "Peace is not the absence of War, but the presence of Justice." Now couldn't that carry some interesting connotations?

This was unheard of. For Babajide and his men, the statement rung far too true as they mostly gazed in wonder at the constant pouring of rain. This was a phenomenon they had never experienced. If it rained in the desert it was usually the omen of some cataclysm that was approaching. This was all very new to the men of the desert who had ventured so far.

At first it had been a good sign to the men of the desert. Then it quickly became an annoyance as they scarcely ever had to deal with being 'too wet'. Five of the fifteen guards had already deserted as a result of the conditions. The rest were far too greedy, considering the reward, and afraid, considering the consequences, to leave their quarry. The stifling heat suited them more and they all grumbled quietly as they roamed the region with difficulty. They needed to find their quarry and fast, but the rain was impeding their progress.

Babajide also had difficulty locating the 'medicine' he required at the Remedium. The doctor had been too busy with patients from the heat to aid him completely, and Babajide could not fault him for that. He had to seek alternative means...so he began to hang up posters in shops and taverns that would let him. Each poster was the same and were full of sayings that were either absurd or just plain idiotic.

Swords End Everything, Knowledge Is No Guard.
People Of Idle States Own Nothing.
To Rule All Defeat Every Right.
Cry Over No Thief And Control Truth.
Beer Ages Bellowing Aunts Jeering In Death's Eyes.
Bottles Roll Over Knitted Eel Nets.
Dragons Are Gods Greet Every Rule.

Babajide hoped he would be able to end this soon and trundled off with his men towards the Broken Dagger.

The notes posted across town had caught the attention of one -- A foreign woman newly arrived. It was an odd message indeed, a puzzled collection of words that would make little sense.

Still, the words were committed to memory before she would turn to seek shelter from the rain --tall geta sandles saving the hem of black kimono from the mud, waxed rice paper umbrella providing a bit of a shield in this weather.

It was only her first morning in Myrken, but there was to be no time lost in setting up the family business here.

A new note posted below the one nearest the Broken Dagger:

Curious oratories riddle normal ears regularly,
Terrible answers belittle loose enquirers.