Big News in Myrken Wood

[Treadwell]

The scene: one of the local town crier hangouts.

"Whassat, Jack?"
"I done tol' ye! Word's out from the fat fella 'imself that Missus Tread'ell has the Counc'lor on a diet! Says he's gettin' a lil' too big fer his britches!"
"Ye don' say?"
"Errr. . . . Anyway, the Counc'lor's a-started on it 'is mornin'. Was supposed to start next week, 'e said, but he figured he might as well get it over with, y'know. Says she'll 'ave him down from ten biscuits to four, and a lot less o' other stuff, too! Poor fella's gonna starve!"
"'ow long's he gonna be on it?"
"Ha! 'e's prob'ly done off it already! Now, get out there an' start tellin' folks! This 'ere's not natural! It just ain't somethin' that's supposed to 'appen! It's BIG NEWS!"

[Thall]

It seemed Tready had more than his work cut out for him. While the old man was writhing in starving misery on the couch, his lemur -- long leash in mouth, padded up to Treadwell and hopped in his lap. It was obvious the little critter wanted to go for a walk -- and being a primate, would be surprisingly strong. Odds were good, Tready was the one who was going to be walked...

[Treadwell]

Poor Tready would indeed be walked--no, dragged--through Myrken Wood, ending up out of air and dripping sweat. It's a hot, steamy day in Myrken, and being Tready's size while being led through town by a hyper lemur doesn't help matters one bit.

Needless to say, he'd be hiding the leash when getting home.

[Treadwell]

Two days of this diet have been two days too many, and going into day number three is simply torturing the poor man. So, after putting up with his reduced breakfast this morning, Tready goes off to work at the meetinghouse, as usual. Once there, Aloisius Treadwell magically summons up a couple of good, steaming, tasty pumpkin pies and some ale. So far so good, eh? Easy to keep it a secret?

Not at all.

It's the middle of a sweltering summer, so Myrken Wood's dear old secretive Father Winter is left flushed and dripping from trying to use any of his wintry magics. His bright yellow suit takes on tell-tale golden brown sweat stains that come from his working too hard. So much for keeping this secret. Rest assured the now exhausted old man--exhausted just minutes before nine in the morning, and he's done no real work at all yet today!--more than enjoys the precious, tangy sweets before him as he completely ruins the work of the last two days in a frenzied, sloppy gorging at his office desk.

The rest of his morning sees very little accomplished. He drifts off into a nap with both hands wrapped around his happily gurgling and burbling middle, snoring in his rocking chair at the Myrken Wood Meetinghouse.

[Treadwell]

It's happened again.

Another morning of waking up and suffering through a breakfast that's just too small.

Another morning of showing up at a place of work--this time his toy shop--and magically fabricating a lot more to eat; this time, Tready glutted himself on sweet breads and cakes, more ale, and a big mound of cookies.

And his belly stretches a little more, and his clothes slowly tighten more. His breath comes in more puffs and huffs that are a little more labored after a good walk. None of this can be very good.

[Treadwell]

Back to the town criers.

"John! John Alldale! JACK! What's the latest on the big man?"
"The lates', Jim, is 'at he swears up an' down 'e's off 'is diet! Says it's doin' him more harm 'an good because he keeps a-feedin' himself 'til he durn near busts! 's what he gets fer eatin' in secret an' all wi'out his wife watchin'!"
"Oh. Did he actually lose anything?"
"Jus' a bunch o' shillin's fer food an' fer gettin' his clothes let out! Since he's done give up on gettin' any skinnier for a few months, 'e figured he might as well take the burden o' sewin' off her an' suck it up an' go to the tailor."
"Suck it up? There's too much for him to suck up! What do you think he's up to, now, Jack? Care to guess?"
"Mmph. Can't really say. I'd reckon 'e's up 'ere able to match up wi' my big sow, Missy."
"Missy's got an excuse! She's a fat old hog who's just had a mess of piglets!"
"Well, maybe 'is means the counc'lor's about t'birth 'imself some more youngin's? Maybe 'e's foun' a way to take *that* burden off 'is wife, too! That's the *last* thing Myrken Wood needs is an Alleywishus Tread'ell sprawled out on a bed a-gruntin' an' a-puffin' an' a-pushin' out a buncha babies!"
"Oh, you just shut on up, Jack. Can't you see I'm trying to eat m'lunch?"

[Thall]

Treadwell's lemur would be having none of this! When Treadwell would arrive home that evening -- there would be the lemur, perched on the couch, leash in mouth after Raylan had found it. Oh boy... Tready would be in for a marathon when he got home.

[Treadwell]

"I can't believe it!"
"Believe *what*?"
"Counc'lor Tready's actually doin' it!"
"Doing *what*, John?"
"He--'e's a-gettin' a lil' thinner, 'e is! Can't tell it by lookin' at 'is face none, but 'is clothes are a lil' looser on 'im!"
"Hmph! I'd reckon he's just trying to cover up even more, so he got the things made a little bigger again."
"No, no, no, no, Nick! 'e really is losing a lil' of his belly! Not the whole darn thing by any stretch, but it looks like 'e's slowly gettin' back to his, umm, normal self."
"Now you know there ain't nothin' *normal* about--oh! Morning, Councilor!"
"Mmph mmph!"

[Thall]

The vorpal lemurs were loose in the wood again and soon they would give Tready's diet the ultimate test!

[Treadwell]

It's a year after Treadwell's last attempt at dieting. That attempt ended up a failure in the long run; yes, he had lost some of his extra weight, but that had merely gotten him to his usual exorbitant self from something even greater.

Now Haar has come up to Treadwell with a complaint and a command, ordering Treadwell off a great many of his precious sweets with a note that Tready would be down to a dreadful three meals a day.

Right now, the tubby tax collector sits in his toy shop, munching lazily on an orange left for him by the oddly accented, oddly concerned warrior. Haar had said something about Tready losing about a hundred pounds--a feat that, while something to see, won't leave Tready skinny by a long shot. At his five and a half feet, losing a hundred pounds from his current weight would only drop him from being immensely round to just very round. Who knows? He might be able to do so, now that he doesn't have the wintry magics of one Father Winter keeping him this heavy. It's now all a matter of willpower and some cooperation from his body.

But, even Tready has to start somewhere! Rest assured the town criers will get news of this within a day or two. After all, with Tready missing his afternoon trip to the bakery, Old Man Werther will be concerned and will come asking Aloisius Treadwell for the story!

And then the baker will lament the sudden unwanted loss of a great deal of his business.

[Treadwell]

One.
Whole.
Day.

That's all it's lasted.

Thrown to the winds.

Abandoned.

Cast aside.

Treadwell simply can't stand this any more, so on his way home from the Dagger tonight, he stops off at Mr. Werther's Bakery, wakes the old fool up, pays him a very hearty sum, and completely stuffs himself.

So it is when Town Crier Jack Alldale sees Tready tottering outside with swollen belly and deliriously happy smile that he knows the truth. Word gets out very, very quickly.

"Twelve o'clock and Counc'lor Tread'ell's off another diiiiiiet! 'e made it a day, an' that's a new reeeeecoooooord!"

[Treadwell]

Although. . . there's more to Treadwell than his size. He's also getting tired of the rain, pure and simple. It's holding him up from his job as tax collector. It's keeping him from going anywhere away from this flooded, muddy hole. So, come morning, Treadwell will be up and about in Myrken Wood, riding his faithful old Arnold through the town to collect taxes for the month. The half-elf he's just spoken to in the inn reminded him of a particular fee that he'd not repealed. That needs to be taken care of, and besides, why shouldn't Tready get out some?

[Treadwell]

Why shouldn't Tready get out some?

There really is a simple reason. It's not that he's grown too large so that he's stuck in his bedroom or his bed. It's not that he's suddenly taken to disliking working at his toy shop or collecting taxes. No! He does enjoy doing things that bring him in a good deal of money, of course, and, in all honesty, it's about time for him to return home to Westenford to check in on problems and court cases there.

The reason is that poor Tready has come down with a very dreadful cold. All manner of snorts and snuffles and wheezes and sneezes and gurgles and burbles erupt and squish and blast and honk their way out of the poor fellow who's lying in bed, doubly covered up and sweating up a storm in his orange pajama jumper. Awww.