The #Broken_Dagger Forum

And so here it was, on this particular day, that many a working man would get upset, as many, but not all vendors suddenly raised their asking prices on food. This was not any normal upturn in prices, either, but a sudden rise in the asking price for grain to the unprecedented asking price of 70 shillings per pound on resale to the general public.

It is this asking price that a particular provisioner, Nicholas Farthing asks for at the market. He has precious few customers. Hardly anyone asking or this much has customers. What is special about Nicholas, though, is that he has raised the prices on -all- his products.

The Lady Juniper, of some high standing in Myrken Wood, panicked when she heard that the prices for food had taken a sharp incline. The Baking Contest that she held at her estate every year had been put off due to some distress in her family - but even family distress did not disturb her proficiency in meddling and over-thinking.

She took her carriage into town on that same day with two of her man-servants, and there she went from vendor to vendor, stocking up on all the cheaper foodstuffs. Only when her carriage was too burdened to buy anymore did she turn back home, briskly fanning her sour face the entire way.

This could not have improved the working man's plight.

Normally he walked about these days looking for a new job to concern himself with. While currently not being under the employ of Lady Cassiel, he tended to wander aimlessly, however today was a day for brandy.

He paused and considered the vendors for a moment, pouring his thoughts into a bottle laid there. He read the label and the tag, "Excuse me... is there something special about this bottle?"

"No, why do you ask stranger?", The vendor replied in his own suit. "Then why are you asking for so much?." The vendor looked at the messenger again, "'Cause we can mate, there's a shortage on fine bottles about this time o' year. We can't be shelling out bottles for every conk with a few coins in his purse, we have ta keep stock you know..."

"I don't see how you plan to sell them at prices like this..."

"Oy... they'll sell mate, they'll sell."

Another compromising buyer came buy and took the bottle that the messenger had been inquiring about, no questions, no comments, just bottle and coin, and then he left.

"See mate... I told you... better luck next time eh?" The vendor turned back to his other wares and the messenger went about his own way... "What a crock... I'll bet he's marked them up and has full stock anyways... I can't stand merchants around here, always looking for another way to cop one over on the working types..." With a huff and a grumble he went back to wait at the tavern.

Adam Boarmont grumbled as he stuck himself with a sharp hook while trying to guide the metal point through a joint of shoulder. He strung the pink chunk of meat up along with the others and wiped bloodied hands off on an apron that, while once white, resembled an artist's palette - an artist who only painted in shades of red.

A customer, a regular, slapped down a few coins and began to walk away with a chicken. Adam counted the change quickly and tore a butcher knife free from the barrel beneath his ill-favored wooden stand.

"'Ey!" he bellowed, sinking the blade into the countertop. "You've cheated me!"

"What?" came the shocked response as the customer stopped. "I paid you what I always pay!"

"That's assumin' the price is the same. I'm chargin' half again the price now." Adam scowled at the customer who had almost succeeded in theft.

The customer returned to the stand, shock and mild horror running amuck upon his countenance as he rummaged for the coins in a dusty pouch. "But... but I don't have any more money."

"No money," Adam growled, seizing back the chicken with broad, calloused hands. He leaned forward and shouted, "No meat!"

"Seventy shillings for a pound of grain! What? Most folks around here hardly pay that in a year's rent on their cottages! Good heavens!" Thus, furious at this sudden upswing in prices to nearly half again what they were, Aloisius Treadwell puts quill and ink to page, scrawling out a letter with many a blot from snapped quill.

= = = = =

To: Rondeau Spier, Councilor of Trade and Commerce, Myrken Wood

Councilor Spier,

It is merely the second of June, sir, though I see we need to do something about prices in the marketplace. A pound of grain is up to seventy shillings, and word has it that some merchants are selling chicken and beef alike for nearly double what they're worth to a sensible man.

I don't think I need to say that, unlike taxes, foodstuffs simply don't double their price in a day. If people can't eat, sir, people get irritable. If people get irritable, then they get angry. If people get angry about their food, Councilor, then they take it out on the merchants, the fat, or the Council! Now, as I fit all of these three labels (admittedly, not a merchant of food, per sé, although I could certainly use this as an excuse to raise my own prices at the toy shop were I less than decent fellow!), I do wholeheartedly feel that we must do something about this!

I recommend a public announcement within the next few days setting prices to a reasonable amount--something perhaps a smidgeon higher than what they were, but not something outright excessive as this! In addition, any merchant found exceeding these reasonable prices--whatever we decide upon together and can put forth to the Council in short order--should be fined accordingly. Both of these duties are well within our powers--though leaning slightly more toward yours, sir.

From my toy store in the middle of town,
This second of June, A. R. 207,
Aloisius Horatio Treadwell, Councilor of Administrative Sanctions

= = = = =

The man scanned over the letter, muttering softly to himself - it had become more frequent, this talking to one's self, since he had become Councilor. Unsurprising, perhaps, considering the place he was Councilor of.

Pulling out a different piece of parchment, he rapidly began penning letters.

= = = = =

To: Aloisius Horatio Treadwell, Councilor of Administrative Sanctions, Myrken Wood

Greetings, Councilor Treadwell.

Indeed, sir, this raise in prices is quite concerning and utterly unreasonable.

I believe you have a fine suggestion and shall implement it tomorrow, should nothing interfer. I believe that limiting price increase to no more than 10% above the average should fix things. To use the grain example, this would bring the price back down to about 52 shillings per pound instead of the ridiculous 70 shillings.

This fourth of June, A. R. 207,
Rondeau Spier, Councilor of Trade and Commerce

= = = = =

It was only with the best of intentions that Malaroth of Zachea had set about looking for a small group of farmhands permanent employment at a Myrken Wood farmstead-turning-knightly headquarters for assistance with maintaining the fields, occasional smithing work and general hard labor. The pay was rather meager.

It was, however, a job on a farm. Which meant first access to food and a means of short cutting the rising prices. Given the small size of the farm, however, only a few workers were sought after. Many more than a mere few wished to accept.

It was with some grumbling and complaining that several citizens competed for the few posiitons available and, as these quickly filled, their ire grew and spread from one person to the next. They were dry, hungry kindling ready for a small spark. The fire was small but, alas, the people burned inside all the same.

To such an extent that a brawl had broken out in a tavern between two men lucky to be hired and the six who wished they had been.

Adam stood amongst the small group of vendors, grocers, butchers and the like who had recently come under attack, as some had so eloquently described it, from the councilors. They grumbled and complained, swore and mumbles. Many threw their hands up in disgust or anger. Some complied regardless of how vehement their verbal disapproval.

Some had attempted to write a letter but they could not agree on how it should be written.

With a loud grumble, Adam stalked back off to his butcher's stand. With a knife in hand he prepared a small gift for the councilors allegedly involved: Treadwell and Spier.

Each would receive, in the matter of another day, a severed boar's head as a sign of the people's displeasure to be left on their doorsteps. If there was anything the recent riot had proven, at least to many of the people, it was that enough noise might actually bring about some sort of change.

"My meat," he grumbled. "My money!"