The #Broken_Dagger Forum

It has been some while since the siege on Main Street was ended; some few weeks since the renegade Conrad Mazian and those few of his men who survive were brought into custody of the Constabulary, since his surviving hostages were released from their ordeal. Witnesses have been interviewed, the prisoners questioned, and matters are ready to proceed.

The trial is to be a simple affair: the accused are to appear before the Judiciar and the Grand Court of Myrken Wood to face charges; the evidence weighed, the judgement made, and the sentence delivered. Given the lack of ambiguity or uncertainty in this case, it is not anticipated to be long in reaching a verdict.

The venue chosen is the as-yet-incomplete Meetinghouse; the Council Chamber, the heart of the new Meetinghouse, stands structurally complete for the most part, although wreathed in scaffolding in the upper reaches; a broad, circular space remeniscent of an amphitheatre or arena, ringed about with stone steps that will eventually serve as public seating, with the Council conducting their duties from a wide platform in the centre. Certainly spacious enough to contain those members of the public interested in watching Myrken justice in action, although most will have to stand. The upper gallery remains incomplete and thus out of bounds, and a system of taut ropes and canvas sheeting has been rigged overhead to protect the proceedings from the elements. The message is clear enough: reconstruction proceeds apace, and meanwhile the wheels of government and justice continue to turn, even in the middle of that rebirth.

The stonemasons and carpenters are given instructions to clear space for the duration, and podiums are brought in for the Judiciary, the accused, and the witnesses. Security is set to be tight, with a heavy presence of Constables and several troops of the Myrkentown's Militia on stand-by. It is clear that the forces of law and order are intent on this trial passing smoothly and without unwelcome interruptions.

[OOC: The Grand Court is the Judiciar (ie the Governor) plus as many Councillors as wish to attend. Any other characters who wish to stand as witnesses and present testimony are welcome to do so, as are onlookers and suchlike members of the public. Feel free to post IC arrivals, and after a while the trial proper will kick off.]

Throughout the entirety of the proceedings, she remained in the back of the unfinished Meeting House, silent and observant. Her face had been hidden by the black-laced veil hat she wore, attire the pinnacle of latest fashion--a lady's walking dress in earthly browns and other hues that would not draw attention.

As soon as the proceedings ended, what was once there, was no more.

The girl was there.

She sat quietly, garbed in a finely made dress, heavy with embroidery. As ever, her face was veiled, her hands gloved.

She sat quietly, with her attention - and more than just her attention, for those sensitive to such things - focused on the accused. She was ready to react, if she needed to.

One could never be too safe, after all.

And, of course, in attendance -- but not seated, no, instead, she's wandering about the perimeter as if on patrol, checking and re-checking the security arrangements with Constables and Militia -- is Agnieszka Kaczmarek, looking quite serious and dour in dark hues, save for the one bright spot of the Militia armband.

The barmaid would arrive with a nervous expression on her face, having to ask some of those already present where she was supposed to be go, prepared to answer the questions about those horrible days that she had been held hostage.

Of course, having arrived with quiet huffiness of breaths and that cane-aided limp to his waddle, Aloisius Treadwell makes his way to a chair broad enough for his ever-growing rump, there to settle while in wait for the proceedings to begin. For once, the Councilor is all seriousness and good taste in clothes, wearing a black suit and top hat, somber and sober save the bright red vest visible at his middle.

Those entering next would not wish to draw attention to themselves, but it is possible that the people already seated may turn and look, and may consequently begin to talk to one another. Their covert actions toward two females, made in order to point them out, will be ignored by at least one of those women as they progress.

Cambree Calomel is smartly dressed for this court appearance in dark colors. A plait of twisted auburn rests at her back. Her hand is joined with the courtesan's as she finds them a place to sit. It is best if they remain close to the exit.

Perhaps his first official act since being elected councilor, the Grand Master knight makes it a point to be present here given that he watched the conflict unravel and, at times, veer towards a wholesale slaughter. A lingering glance for the choice in Judiciar before he claims a seat for himself.

Trials are not a place for noisome armor and clattering weapons. He has opted for his own blacks, rarely worn beyond the Chapter House walls: a long-sleeved, black tunic with short, mandarin-style collar, belted by stout dark leather and similarly dark slacks and polished, leg-climbing boots. A grim cloak, worn over one shoulder and a subdued burgundy, offers some color to a man whose complexion is often ashen.

Narrowed eyes wander across those gathered as he awaits the brief trial's commencement.

in has walked the portrait of severity, garbed in the caliginous silks of a mournful frock which offers no promising glimpse of decolletage--instead, the high neckline is buttoned fast beneath the jut of an angled chin which yet bears a scar, the fabric secured further by the addition of an heirloomed brooch, the sole decoration worn this day. no beaded hairpins glitter within curls which have been shorn at a length somewhere between empty earlobes and the bony jut of narrow shoulders. blue eyes are narrowed, are willfully focussed upon some neutral point straight ahead, while daveney sauveterre holds fast to lady calomel's hand.

Lady Calomel offers acknowledgment to the gentlemen councilors and the ladies present - including the captain of Myrken's militia - by way of polite nods and cordial smiles. She then leans to whisper comforting words to the girl that keeps her hand when they sit.

Graves Wheeler would enter the hall, as quietly as the rest. A well groomed man, tall and athletic. He'd survey the room, in hopes of identifying those who'd suggested he attend. It's a very serious thing, this. The stress shows in his eyes, that.. And the anxiety over the things he's to repeat in testimony, on behalf of his sister. One of the girls held in the siege. Working his way to the front, he'd take a seat- first smoothing his simple white shirt.. Then straightening his brown slacks. Some might hear him sigh, as he worked a hand through his flat black hair. This is an uncomfortable position, he finds. Appointed to protect his sister, yet.. He's to go infront of these people, and admit what harm'd come to her.. If given the chance, he'd level a hard gaze at the defendants. Eyes so brown, they're almost black. In such a cool stare, that promises justice, regardless of the trial's outcome.

It was a very rare moment that brought the enigmatic Elf Lord out of his hidden refuge in the forest. This was reason enough, that much was certain. And so here he was, gliding almost gracefully across the recently prepared Council Chamber. He was joined by his ever present companion the short and slender elfess that had often joined him as a sort of scribe or secretary at other meetings. They certainly were a pair, were they not? The elf with the golden locks and kind eyes of azure, and the lady elf with a slightly crazed look to her violet eyes and ropes of silvery braided hair. She was clad simply in an almost gauze-like dress that any who had visited an Enclave would recognize. Vanidor, himself, was in a uniform that had lain dormant for a span of seven years.

It was an old coat of blue, with threading of gold upon the shoulders and at the cuffs. The symbol of Straka was embossed upon his left breast, and the blazon of Myrken were sewn into the high collars of the coat. Old, before the later indigo was added to the colours of Straka. This was from when Vanidor himself had worn the insignia of Captain in that oft maligned but very honourable order. Completing his ensemble was a short bladed sword in an leather scabbard covered in an ornate working of cord and ribbon. Surely it meant something amoungst his people. Vanidor simply kept his ever amused smile upon his face.

A glance sideways towards the others assembled, his eyes flashing with amusement as he would settle down and his companion would come 'round to stand behind him. He would settle into the seat and lean back slightly to hear a whispered comment from the woman with him. The smile again, slight as ever, and then the two would wait.

It was a rare occasion indeed that brought the Abbot of St. Thecla's
Monastery into MyrkenTown, but this was too good an opportunity
to size up certain newcomers to Myrken and observe how they
and the Governor interacted. So Fidelius sat in the back of the
room accompanied by two novices, one of whom was still stubbornly
silent.