The #Broken_Dagger Forum

It had been fairly common knowledge, at least by those that frequent the right proprietors, that the Black Market had shown a significant disinterest in the recent turmoil of the land they dwelled within. After all, they regularly did business with the sorts causing problems, including drow of one fashion or another.

But no longer, it seemed. Something that begun to burn in their ranks, a smoke to cascade through the nest and stir up the pests. A few had made themselves known in the recent hours, donning their dark clothes marked with of all things pins of the symbol of the Brotherhood to hold their cloaks in place. Unusual, but they had done so for a reason no doubt.

Whoever guided their actions had seemingly made their decision on the way things would advance. Eight men of significant interest appeared this night, armed to the teeth with items both curious and practical. They faded into the shadows. It would be hours later, possibly not till the dawn, depending on the presence of of mind the various guards had about them, that four gifts to the people of Myrkenwood would be left around the town.

One. Outside the office of the newest Councilman, the Barrister Helstone, was a jolly present, a black mass hanging from the roof of the building opposite his bakery loft. A fine hemp rope slinked down the side of the building to hold what would slowly become the corpse of a drow in the rising sun. Bruised, broken, and bloody, the creature hadn't died easily. In the end it was likely a snapped neck or the crushing force of hitting that wall which had done it in. The letters B.M. had been burned into its chest.

Two. Kerrak's Barracks would have a pleasant gift he could likely assume the source of. The style of box left outside would be remarkably similar to the last one he'd received, even appearing without anyone noticing just outside the gates. The last one had contained very practical, very useful weapons. But the new deliver was a bit different. Inside sat another, small box of quite a hefty weight for its size. Within this second box they would find a blackened, burned mass of flesh bent impossibly for a living creature to fit the confines it was in. The ears had been removed and set atop, they were clearly drow, and each was pierced with an earning. Next to each other the silver beauties read, B.M.

Three Lothbury, such a secluded place where people felt safe. It probably wouldn't comfort them any to find the front gate jammed from the outside. Those who were at the entrance to the property, or exited to come around and see for themselves, would find a drow drawn across the doorway with rope taught as steel. Shoulders and hips had been dislocated, and the throat slit cleanly from ear to ear. There was no tongue, not initially. It would later be found on Giscard's nightstand with B.M. carved into the rotting flesh.

Four. And finally outside the tailor's shop. This one was little more than a collection of flesh. The hand that had seen to it had been rather steady in carving away bits until little remained but bone and intestine. This would be there for dogs and vultures to peck at as they will. The rest? Why some silly man had decided to grill it and leave the sizzling, tasty meat out for anyone that wish to sample the deliciousness of drow meet. Courtesy of the Black Market, of course.

There would be something else resting in the doorway of the tailor's shop come morning. It was a simple thing, a small thing, something that might be overlooked - by someone less keen of eye. A small thing, but a clear warning, nonetheless.

A child's toy.

The barrister Helstone is a notorious ascetic when it comes to sleep -- he works late and rises early, prompting his maid to rise at an obscene hour to light the fires and prepare the breakfast, and, oh, she can never keep enough candles in the drawer --

-- but, look now, what is this?

The arrival of the impressive Miss Ramirez had made Mary quite bold, and she was of the intent to slip down to the bakery below to pick up some of the earliest muffins -- instead, however, the maid finds herself face-to-face with the drow-corpse, and after she realizes what exactly she's looking at, she flees upstairs, screaming a blue streak.

It's enough to make Helstone rise from his back room, and perhaps Rosamaria from her separate set. Look out, Myrkentown, for this will be the first (and, hopefully, last!) time the barrister appears at his front door in his expensive dressing-gown.

Years of courtroom practice have given Helstone the ability to cultivate a remarkable poker-face, so, as he examines the grotesque sight, there's little outward sign of his violently churning stomach except for a twist of disgust in his eyes. There is no pleasure on seeing death on his doorstep; despite what Suede may believe, Helstone is no racist; simply a pragmatist who sometimes takes his pragmatism to extremes.

"B.M.," he says to himself, and shakes his head, turning to the two guards nearby. "Take the body to Kerrak, with a note I shall write right now; no doubt, he'll be interested, and I don't want the populace to see such things directly outside my home."

The accompanying letter will read:

Captain Kerrak,

This body was found just a few footsteps away from my door; obviously a message, and as it is a drow-corpse and not a human one, I take it to be a rather grotesque offer of assistance. At any rate: burn it like the others.

Offers like these are rarely without price. I suggest we tread carefully.

And as for the incompetent nancies you left at my door -- you shall send capable men or none at all. After a display like this, I'd prefer the competency of my own guard in the future.

I don't know what, exactly, your men were doing while this little message was being left at my lintel, but they obviously weren't at their posts: my maid found the body, sir, and the poor thing is upstairs sobbing into her pillow. Women, as a general rule, are not as composed as men: such things should never be seen by those of delicate tendencies.

Sincerely,
Coriolanus Helstone.

A boy would also be sent to Suede's shop, with instructions to deliver another letter personally.

Councilor Roschen,

A mutilated drow-corpse was found at my door this morning, with the initials 'B.M.' burned into its chest in a rather grotesque fashion. My first thought, in all honesty, was of your former associates -- of a sort. Am I correct?

I'll be at the Meetinghouse this evening, going through Treadwell's dreadful files; we got off on the wrong foot at the meeting, and should talk candidly. We never got a chance to do that when I served as your counsel.

Sincerely,

Coriolanus Helstone.

For the toy? As night came again it would like as not still be there. It seemed the house wasn't being given the love and attention it deserved today. Perhaps because Kerrak's men were still in the area, or perhaps because the tailor was busy.

Helstone's boy? Perhaps on finding the house in a like state, would head to the meetinghouse. Well guarded, yes, but the messenger was on official business. Suede would be there, at least for a short while, to take his lunch.

If the letter would be found in his office he'd take the time to peruse it before heading off to continue whatever it was he was exactly up to.

The response had been near as anticipated, though several unexpected bonuses did emerge. Said and done, they were all quite pleased. It can't be denied that several of their own dead wasn’t a positive, but the numbers could have been worse.

A new day brought new activity most hadn't been too keen on. Thus it was that Jerkin and Slouch had been left with the unsavory task which had led them on one of the roads of the farmland, each with a backpack filled to the brim..

"How did we get talked into this again? I'd sooner play with the cinderleaf." Slouch was short, mostly because he did as the name suggest, slouched terribly, and did little to keep himself clean. He itched helplessly at the scarf that covered his face, and prayed he could get beneath to his beard.

"Simple, we were offered money." Jerkin was a youth, green of cloth, and likewise covered in scarf and cloak as his companion. Both, oddly, reeked of lemons and alcohol, but the insects seemed to hold little interest in them for it.

They stopped outside one of the fields with a greater collection of the varmints and set their packs down, each drawing out several small pouches of thin fabric. As they worked the conversation continued. The primary topic was general complaint for working, mixed in with annoyance at their employer.

At a distance it might appear they were chucking rocks at bugs, and kicking up dirt. But anyone that came closer, or bothered to ask would learn that each pouch contained a different mixture of herbs, given to them by a 'tarty elf.' The idea was, one of these mixes was bound to kill of the bugs, and when it did they could get more and have a hay day.

After about an hour of attempts, without much success, it became clear this may take a while.

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One part of the forests surrounding Myrken Town would prove highly inaccessible. Anyone attempting to enter it would either shortly find themselves leaving from a different side, or simply going back the way they had arrived. Clearly something intended to keep people away, but the motivation was a mystery.

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The Councilor of Agriculture was in and out of the Meetinghouse all day, at one point seen mulling over a terribly written report on how effective certain powders had been. So far the experiment was proving so effective. At another he'd been departing Councilor Helstone's office shortly before the Barrister left himself.

And yet later still he'd entered the meeting chambers for several minutes before departing the building altogether. This last exit had taken him to a group of three nondescript gentleman near one of the less common taverns of the town. They had mounted to ride east to Derry. Fifteen minutes later another group had left for Amasynia. And finally, a last group departed south for Heath.

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Flashes of light would be seen amidst the darkness where the guard's torches could not reach several times this coming night. And sounds of fighting would ensue with each. Investigations by civilian or soldier alike would more often than not find nothing. But several occasions either left a dead drow, or a man wearing deep grays and black dead at the scene, cut down in the violence..