Sun Dec 11, 2005 8:04 am
This has been a strange stretch of months for those hardy souls that call Myrken Wood their home -- and one of its more unusual mercies is that most of them haven't the slightest notion of why.
Perhaps that's the source of Myrken's troubles this month: that winter has come full upon the township, and that even if it is of the surprisingly mild sort, it tends to leave a body with little to do but run freely at the mouth. The pigeons in their dovecotes have had their last grain, for the time of their slaughter is swiftly arriving; even most of the wealthier holdings have finished butchering their hogs, leaving little to do but the salting of pork and the thickening of thatch upon homestead roofs. What else is there to do then, but sit at the fire and prod at its coals, and muse over the oddities that have plagued the town lately?
The Burning Witch, for instance. She'd leapt into the Hallow's Eve bonfires, they say, square in the middle of town, and sulphur fair poured from her lips as she roared her ill-tidings! Hogswash, say a scattering of others, but still the legend grows, and by mid-December has begun to spread past Myrken borders, where it's become particularly popular in the way that such horrifying tales generally are, when they've happened somewhere else.
That the Witch hasn't attracted more of the personal sort of ire -- attacks on her person, say -- is that this time, she seems simply to have been mistaken. Oh, there's been a bit of the bloodshed she'd mentioned, but isn't there always? And none of those worrisome bugs at all; why, the closest thing to such a nightmare as that had been the Horrible Death of Rhianna-or-Raelene, the details of which were never intended to be disclosed -- but even the Straka lads have mothers with a love for gossip. The story spreads: that pretty lass, they say, that pretty thing with the bones all filleted from her body. And drink their broth a little gingerly, that night.
Such is also the case with the desecration of O'Cynen's grave. Few indeed were the landowners who did not know that name, and hold it in reverence. Good Man O'Cynen, they'd called him upon a time, the common man's Councilor, and many were the youths who'd turned to him come harvest, new to their wife and their land, and in need of some reliable advice. Who would commit such an atrocity upon his grave, and what possible purpose could it serve? This, too, became a topic of many fireside discussions, and those farms past which the corpse had been dragged would be shunned over the coming weeks.
In particular, the matter of Straka -- ordinarily a favourite topic of discussion -- is less gruesome, but no less enthusiastically discussed. While the Lieutenants of the Order are notoriously tight-lipped, such is not the case of all its members, who've recently found themselves at the epicenter of a great deal of strife indeed. Under such circumstances, it's surely inevitable -- and forgivable! -- that they share some of their views on the matter with their wives, their mothers, their lads down at the tavern. Consider this latest bit of trouble in the marketplace, for instance. Some fop, the story goes, nails a bit of official-looking paper to the toyshop -- that new storefront by Baker Rolfe's -- and the Sergeant takes offense to it; why, the Lieutenant even tears the thing down, seals and all! A Crown decree, some say, which means Kilborn's for the block come weekday. A Council decree, say others, which might once have meant the same, but -- and here is where voices tend to lower -- you have heard about that feud, haven't you? No? Well, consider this:
Good Governor Bromn, holed up in the Rememdium for over a week with wounds that even the staff aren't willing to describe in any detail.
Sergeant Hickensen, abducted from the woods and abused to the point of death. Left to die at the Barracks, his blood had spread so far upon the cobblestones that it had been two full days in the clearing.
Captain Daniels himself, heard arguing down at that tavern not long before -- and spat at, too, so the story goes.
Couriers running themselves bloody, and most of them visiting the business of that clever Hellstown fellow -- who remains best-known for his trumping of Straka in that trial a while back, still, you can't hold that against a man. Much.
The hideous ensorceling of the Fat Councilor! The inexplicable assault upon the Order's system of wages! Which meant men left jobless and unpaid, and during the winter, Faith curse it. Councilor Roschen was not spoken of kindly, when such matters as these were discussed -- but then, neither was anyone else, hunger and fear having that effect upon many men. That Captain Daniels had turned some of his wages over to the remaining guards was a kind gesture, for certain, but a gesture nonetheless. A man can't feed his family with kindness or fill his belly with good-will, and blame is laid liberally at the feet of Captains and Lieutenants and Councilors and One God alike, when it's turnips for dinner -- or not even so much as that.
A long winter, for Myrken, and a strange one, for a people who are learning once again to be grateful for such small things as the pleasantness of the weather, and the abundance of pork to salt.