Stir of Discontent.

[Carnath-Emory]

Like any fierce storm, it begins quietly...


The aftermath of the previous night's fury is a muted affair, a matter of tiny and marked changes. An army had walked the streets that night some say -- and are frequently scoffed at by their neighbours, if not with too much laughter; the sense of something gone horribly wrong lingers over Myrkentown like a toxic heatwave. A gang of brutes, say others, although they cannot explain why no persons were harmed and no houses ransacked. Thessilane has been blamed, and New Dauntless as well, and even Myrken's own Order of Straka -- gone mad, some have said, but very quietly, and only in the company of blood family. And in the meantime, things continue to be quietly, subtley...wrong. Worth noting:

The market has been closed, not by proclamation but by what seems to be group consent; no-one, if asked, could possibly point out the man or woman who'd suggested that they keep to their homes this fine day.

The graveyard has been desecrated, and this unpleasant fact is ignored by all save for those who tend to their own acestors' ruptured grave. Neighbours passing them by do not so much as glance in their direction, nor ask after their tears.

The small cluster of persons lingering outside the Myrkentown Meeting House has been slowly, steadily growing for the last few hours; some have been seated there throughout the night.

Several churches might have reported an increased rate of donations this morning, if polled; indeed, some clergy would display astonishment that there were any donations at all. Each faith represented amongst this number hold, as part of their creed, that Sunday is a day of great holiness -- or, in one case, unholiness...

[Lucian]

(This takes place as Crucifixio...)

Thoughts raced through his head as he inhaled slowly from the last remnants of a hand-rolled cigarette while he sat upon the roof of the Broken Dagger. Looking up towards the big, bright moon overhead, he exhaled the smoke out through his nostrils before quietly shaking his head.

From behind the tinted lenses of his spectacles did the stranger look forth towards the remnants of the battle that previously took place a few miles down the road, while he shifted his weight, trying to gain comfort on the rudimentary shingles on the tavern's roof.

Kanashia was injured, and of course, Crucifixio used this as his chance to introduce himself. The Captain's reputation preceeded him, and that was perhaps the only reason why the Crusader decided to help out ... that, and he wanted something more from the man.

Flicking the cigarette away, and down to the ground below, Crucifixio Garramonde, a stranger within the land of Myrken Wood, who's alliance had still not been known, and his reasoning for helping still obscure, perhaps even in his own mind had helped the Captain of the Guard last evening... and soon, he would ask for payment for his courage.

Walking quietly down towards the end of the roof, the man took one more step and fell with a dull thud, in a crouched position, on the side of the tavern. Rising quietly, his knee joints popping in unison as they straightened, making the blonde-headed man rise to his full height of 6'1". A smile came to his lips, and then he turned, and moved towards the Woods, away from the Dagger....

[Carnath-Emory]

vac·u·um n. pl. vac·u·ums or vac·u·a (-y-)

1. A space in which the pressure is significantly lower than atmospheric pressure.
2. A state of being sealed off from external or environmental influences; isolation.


The people of Myrken Wood are, in general, a relatively peaceful folk; they weather change well, and if things had continued undisturbed, the quiet furor -- the storm in a teacup -- would likely have diminished into nothing. But Myrken Wood is seldom quiet, and its more exotic denizens are rarely still; the mage who tampered with the area's weather could surely not have forseen what would come of his generous whim, but then, isn't that always the way?

Pluck a blade of grass, and no-one much cares; after all, that's part of its purpose. Slay a man, and maybe you'll get away with it; in part, that's what men are for, as well. But the weather -- much like the tide -- exists to build and vent, a perpetual cycle that leaves nothing in its path entirely untouched. Bringing a halt to that cycle is not nearly so simple an act as killing a man (although -- one more coincidence in a stream of many -- ait may lead to that). He had driven the clouds from the sky, that mage; he had banished the rain, had let the sunlight flow freely to dry the damp earth. He had emptied the skies, and nature, in abhorrence of what was so very unnatural, has finally rallied to fill that void.

The result has been, of course, disastrous. A blasted oak makes for talk of omens and doom and prophecy; a blasted house prompts mourning; four buildings ruined during the very same night spark an uproar. The lightning storm has been raging for a night and a morning, horrifying in its fury and showing no signs of soon relenting; there was talk of burying the dead, but after the graveyard's desecration, this has become an impossibility -- and in any case, a good portion of the town is fearful that there'll be another uprising of the undead in the shape of their very own ancestors. What's happened once can, after all, happen again.

The town, then, is left in a state of dilemma, one which would be far more pronounced if more people dared to leave their houses; the market is closed for the fourth time in two weeks, and several merchants have left Myrken Wood entirely. Here and there, though, brave souls have dared to gather, and there is talk of petition, of pleading, of fleeing what some have claimed to be cursed ground. There is also talk -- quietly, at first, but becoming louder with each passing hour (perhaps simply to be heard over the storm) of outright insurrection.


Violence begets violence, and this has been a furious storm indeed. Of course, it has only just begun.

[Carnath-Emory]

"Synchronicity: The unifying principle behind meaningful coincidences. An acausal connecting principle that links seemingly unrelated and unconnected events."



'The Merrie Dancers', they ordinarily call it: the filling of the skies with dancing, crimson light, ever-shifting, ever-fluctuating as if eager to break from this constricting spectrum. But this is not the time for such things; the Dancers have ever paid their visit during the longer winter nights, and this is just one more unnatural thing among many.

Here is another: the Tolmers. The very dead Tolmers, as it happens, and some said a fallen lantern had burned down their house and them in it, and others had sworn that canny Cass Tolmer was never the sort of fool to permit such an accident. And others still had made mention, more quietly, of Vin Tolmer's axe, and the gaping crevice it had left in his chest; here and there it had even been whispered that the eyes had been scooped from Cass' eyes, and no-one had cared much about any of this before now.

Now, however, it matters. There have been several fires, this week, lightning striking one home, and flames leaping from its roof to a neighbour's, and so on, and on again, until some seven homes had been left in ruins, several others badly scorched, and now there were five fresh bodies that no-one dared buried, for fear they'd get up out of their graves like the last lot had a week before. Now it matters, because one fire is hardly a concern, but it's been five in as many weeks, and the sturdy people of Myrkentown are no strangers to death but have learned to fear for their property. They had almost forgotten the Baie, that dreadful creature of which O'Cynen -- the farmers' councillor, easy favourite amongst the lot -- had warned them an exact month before. But while logic dictates that the man-beast he'd described could not possibly have called such wild storms upon them, and certainly not summoned the dead from their very graves, still it has become the latest curse in a stream of many, the latest fear in a multitude of the same.

Fires, monsters, desecration, all beneath a bloodied sky, and it has become too much for a town accustomed to one or another, but never such a horde of disasters at once. They've taken to patrolling the streets with their axes and scythes, perhaps in memory of Vin Tolmer's valiant last stand (folklore, the legends of a century from now, are being written this very moment; Vin is already exaggerated to a deific stature); they have closed their children behind locked doors, guarded by those too old to walk the streets in any safety -- but seldom by their mothers, for this is a town nearing panic, and every able body is needed. Posters dot walls and posts telling of a meeting this evening to which neither Guard nor Councilors have been invited: another symptom of too much gone wrong, and the papers are replaced as swiftly as guards tear them down, for here and there they've chosen to do just that.


There is talk of a march upon the Governor's own home, a demand for justice -- which is just another word for 'an end to our fear'. There is talk of a militia -- now, before things can grow even worse! -- and too many men remember how to use their swords. It has grown hot, the patrols have grown thirsty for ale, and this is a combination so deadly as to rival the Baie for threat.