The #Broken_Dagger Forum

A note went out from Aloisius Treadwell's house yesterday morning to a few parties in Myrken Wood--namely, the people he can stand to see for more than a few moments. That means a great many folks, especially when food and ego are involved. Thus, to all current Council members and a number of the wealthier folks in town--quite near all of them, to be honest--a note has gone out. Its text is the same across the board. It is, for once, not in the Councilor's sloppy script.

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You are cordially invited to attend the sixty-second birthday party of Aloisius Horatio Treadwell this upcoming Friday evening, the eighth, at supper, at his house outside of Myrken Wood. It celebrates his having survived another year in Myrken Wood as of this past Friday, the first. Your appreciation for the Councilor can best be shown by bringing either a suitable dish or an appropriate gift.

Do respond quickly so the Councilor and his kitchen staff know how much to prepare.
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OOC note: if you feel your character is suitably upper-classed and well-to-do, and you want in on this, or you're a friend of Treadwell, or you're on the Council, or any such, feel free to show! I'm looking to start up around 7 or 8 Eastern, depending on attendance, if anyone's interested! If not. . . there will be a grumpy Tready. :O

The letter came from the estate of Councilor Vanidor Goldenhair, a man who was rarely seen within the environs of the township that he held office in. For it was rumoured that the Councilor was more often seen out in the fields and farms of the Province of Myrken. Most missives that came to his static estate had a flavour that was... lacking of the Elf Lord's usual grace. Yet this one. This one, it was sure, was written with a script that was flowing, graceful and ancient. Even the ink used seem to cry of untold years having passed in their making. It gave the letter an air of nostalgia, perhaps. It was one of Vanidor's touches.

Yet here it came, bound by a cord of gold and silver threading, and sealed with crimson wax. And bourn, no less, by one of Vanidor's kindred. A tall smiling elfess with lustrious dark hair and bouyant energy. She would be certain it was delivered into Treadwell's hand directly, before spinning on a toe and basically -flouncing- out.

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Cianin taegi, Councilor Treadwell!

Well am I glad to hear that thou hast come full circle another year upon this world we do all call home. As well I do call down many wishes upon thine brow, and a hope thy health fully returns unto thee.

Yet, sadly, I cannot come to this most auspicious gathering, though I would wish it otherwise. The coming weeks are a special time for my folk, and there is much we must prepare for the coming of the Solstice. To make up for this absence of mine, I shall verily be sending Dara Felwyn (the lady who did bear this message unto thee) with a gift for thee upon thy day of birth. I understand that this is a custom of thy people, and it is one that I shall greatly honour.

Fian nath dairia!

Vanidor Goldenhair, Lord of Myrkenwold

Like its predecessor, this letter was sealed by dark red wax and bore the imprinted sigil of House Aldred. Its message was simple:

[indent]To Aloisius Treadwell, Councilor of Administrative Sanctions:

Salve, Councilor Treadwell. Good health and fortune to you, particularly as it is to be your sixty-second birthday. My own birthday -- the forty-third; I can hardly believe it -- passed this March without event or incident, a fact I lament but not often or loudly. I would dislike to see another man suffer the same. Therefore, my duties and personal life permitting, I will attend your party, and will be accompanied by some of my family and household, no more than twenty in total.

I appreciate the invitation, Councilor, and I have no doubt I will appreciate even more the quality of your table.

Sincerely,
Aston Jylan Aldred
Lord of Aldred
Councilor of Defence & Civil Security[/indent]

Mr. Treadwell,

If you think for one moment that I am going to attend a party in your honor, or allow my cooks to sweat over a dish that will increase your disgusting and already considerable girth, you are sorely mistaken.

You have never once attended a party at the Arryngton manor, not in our long years of acquaintance; to expect me to pay homage to another year of your disservice to our fair province is unfair, sir. Stop sweating like a pig and maybe I'll consider it.

Yours,
Charlotte, Lady Arryngton.

The letter smells faintly of roses.

There would come another letter in a neat and yet almost childlike hand, for Sam had not often pracised writting

Mr Treadwell I would be most honoured to attend your celebration, and his health permitting I shall be bringing my bethrothed

It would be signed with her name and then the scroll would be rolled up and handed to a messanger for delivery

Being of the Council in a small way, the governor's secretary was aware of the party prior to the invitations getting sent. Still, she made herself a note to be sure that the old Councilor knew that she'd accepted his kind offer.

A couple of refusals, a handful of well-wishes and promises to show. . . . In short, Treadwell is frazzled this fine day, shuffling about madly 'round his house and grounds, being a rather bossy and grumpy fellow in his giving orders to see food brought in and prepared and rooms cleaned to sparkling spotlessness. Plenty of room has been set out in and around the stables in the back--as his dear old Arnold only takes up a single stall of several available--and the front gate at the edge of his property is open already, waiting for people to arrive. . . .

OOC Note: #BD_Myrkentown for the fun, starting at/around 8 depending on people!

A note had been received from Helstone some time recently, promising Treadwell the return of rights and lands. So, silently, another note had been sent out to someone else--a note brief and direct--to one Jon Lincoln of Westenford, Amasynia. Its contents were merely, "Jon, I do thank you for holding onto everything of mine in my absence. However, the time has come that I can safely reclaim my goods, properties, money, valuables, payments, and titles. Do send all appropriate deeds and documents to Tready's and Drivel's Toys, Myrkentown, Myrken Wood, as soon as is humanly possible. Aloisius H. Treadwell. P.S.: By the time you have this message, I'm quite sure that my birthday would have passed. If you were meaning to give your dear old friend anything, send that, too."

This morning, an older, portly fellow rides into Myrken Wood in a carriage baking nicely under the sun. Like his good friend Al, Jonathan Lincoln finds himself sweating horribly in such heat, a condition he's trying to remedy by fanning and wiping his face constantly. It isn't helping, much. The toy shop, though, is not his destination. He knows well enough where Treadwell lives, and that is where his carriage rolls and horses clip-clop toward. Thus, as he reaches the mansion estate on the outside of the town. . . .

"Good merciful heavens, that's *Jon's* coach!" Treadwell's beady eyes squint from his bedroom window, blinking down at the great gray blur riding up to his house. Downstairs he shuffles with his cane in hand and his burgundy velvet robe fluffily whispering-flowing around. He's barely into the dining room when the words "Magistrate Lincoln of Westenford 'ere t'see ye, sir!" ring out from the squeaky voiced lad hired to serve as such.

In a few moments, two great-bellied, bald-headed men dressed in identical fashions stare at each other face to face. A plump finger comes out to jab into the toymaker's middle, nearly disappearing there as the finger's owner chuckles. "I think you've been eating a bit, eh, Allie?" The finger is withdrawn from the flab, and two pairs of heavy, pudgy arms throw themselves out, not nearly reaching around either of the two men they're meaning to hug.

"Hullo, Jon! What brings you here, mmph mmph?"

"Well, chum, you did, or is all that fat between your ears getting to your memory?"

"Oh, shush! It's wonderfully good to see you! Come come! There's still some food left from lunch that can be warmed, if you've not eaten, mmph mmph, and we can talk about business!"

"The same as old times, eh, Allie? Going to Babette's after our morning council meetings and working her poor staff to *death* trying to feed all twenty-seven of us? Oh! One thing, one thing, one thing! Our Council is up to twenty-eight, plus the Chief Magistrate to make twenty-nine for breaking ties and overseeing things. It leads to much less wrangling about and butting our heads for hours and hours on end. Old man Frothenlip passed on about two months ago, and his sons were added to the Council in his stead."

"Then they're going to have to learn a thing or two about eating, mmph mmph! They're too. . . too average to properly fit in with everyone else!" With that, Aloisius Treadwell sinks into his chair at the end of the dining room table, waving his companion into a seat beside. Meanwhile, a young man all in red comes in, arms full with scrolls, books, a couple of boxes, and a leather pouch on top of it all.

"Ooooooh, don't you worry. The townsfolk have joined in calling them 'Bellies' just like they have the rest of us. The two of them have proven to have their father's love of good foods and ale, and it's long since started showing. Do remember you've been away for some time, eh, Allie?" A pause, a look at the entering lad, and then, "Marcus! Put all of that at this empty spot here at the table! Then--" A look at Treadwell. "I'm sure Mr. Treadwell can find you somewhere to rest?"

A finger points suddenly to a door on the left. "Guest room, over there. Use it all you need!" So, with that said, gifts are set down carefully, and the two men, neither admitting to already having had lunch, settle in to resume eating the leftovers at Treadwell's table as they talk.

"Allie, everything you requested is right there. Register of expenses, register of profits--those I'm sure you know well--the deed to your house and grounds, a Council statement acknowledging your return--again!--to your post, which is something you'll need to see to reasonably often, such as every couple of weeks or so. . . . There are also the keys to your house, storage buildings, lockboxes, doors--everything--in those boxes! And that pouch there? Open it. Go on!"

Aloisius Treadwell pauses, a mouthful of roast beef being chewed sloooowly before he swallows. He reaches to pick up and open the pouch, easing the contents out. In his palm land eyeglasses similar to those that were broken a number of months ago--golden, with thick, typically frosted lenses. As his jaw drops and he sliiiiides them up onto his plump shnozz and tucks the arms in at his ears, Jon Lincoln takes to nearly bursting with merry giggles and laughs.

"I thought, I knew you would end up breaking or losing yours eventually! I knew it! Hee hee! Don't worry about price; Tom Glazen owed me a very, very big favor, you see, so--" shoving himself to his feet and toddling over to again hug his astounded friend--"happy late birthday, Allie!"