Tue Jul 01, 2003 11:06 am
They had seen him walk upon their streets, slip through their crowds -- and ever untouched, although some had dared draw near. 'Duvall', they whisper; it's said that long ago he had gone deep into the woods, where no other man dares intrude, and they wonder even now what he might have found there...
Myrkentown has, for a month and more now, been a town in a state of perpetual flux. The Fivefold Blight had crippled trade and families alike; the flood had not fully reached a town already punished by lightning, but it had swamped farmland and stolen livestock nonetheless, and some swear still that the stench of countless funeral pyres linger in the air. The trouble had not been content with simple holdings; the Estate of Lord Tivalti had been levelled this very week, the beloved healer Aeri had been savaged -- oh, a hundred and fifty dead in but a month now, if one doesn't count the stillborns. And everyone does.
Guards gather outside the Meetinghouse, now, at every gathering of the Judiciary; not all of them wear Straka's familiar colours. It was never thus before...
Myrkentown has suffered, and none have been left untouched by this. Upon its outskirts, there are farmers who struggle to coax a harvest from land still sluggish with mud, and others who curse the absence of rains; still others, spared the worst of a bad month, thank the One God for His blessings and sell their crop for all that it will fetch, which is invariably a great deal. It is a boon, similarly, for merchanters who bring produce from outlying villages...and further yet; those who dare -- for word is spreading to Amasynia's furthest reaches of Myrkenwood's spate of disasters -- spend heavily to commission extra carts, second and third carriages, pack-mules: anything that will transport their goods into a township in dire need of them. It is a gamble, and a profitable one, for men who've found that all supplies are needed, and that they can charge what they will.
A saviour walks amongst them, now and again, he with hair like living flame, and eyes not nearly so cold as their icy colour. Sometimes, they reach towards D'zir as if to pluck a blessing from his sleeves; sometimes children dash at him with a whispered question on their lips, but always fleeing back into the crowd before it can be spoken in full...
It has been a month of great change...but, the people of Myrken Wood are learning, not all change is bad. An imposter has been ousted from Governorship, and Good Councilor Bromn installed in his place; with him, the Marquis Al-D'arcu, the one who'd gifted precious food and clean water upon the populace, and the townsfolk are uncommonly united in hope for this new blood. 'The Heretic', they dub Lieutenant Kilborn here and there, and only ever in whispers, but he has proven a sensible man nonetheless; there are few who regret his expanding of the town's patrols. Indeed, a good number ascribe the recent quietness of the Baie to his good work -- and that of the Captain, of course. There has come optimism, then, from the midst of turmoil, hard-earned but growing nonetheless...
There's been movement in the woods, these last nights; there has been tell of clashing steel and poorly-hidden campfires; of monstrosities and armies. Few dare go there now, and some that have are yet to return...
Or, at least, such had been the case. They'd been rumours at first, and of the sort easily dismissed as the panicked imaginings of a mind too worn by the horrors of this last month. They'd swiftly become far more than that: smoke had been seen rising from the woods, a harried Duke Burel had been seen with ever greater numbers of his men. 'Dragons and barbarians," had come the word from the Meetinghouse's guards, and they'd barely had time to disbelieve such nonsense, for scant minutes later the skies were blackened with the silhouettes of great wings, and the air filled with the monsters' stench. Dragons indeed, and the Guard had been a frenzy of activity, Councilors seen fleeing the building -- why, even good Governor Bromn. The great bells -- Iona, Oban -- had rung out in alarm and summons, their twin clamour bidding the townsfolk to seek shelter in their churches... and they had, clustered within the old, stone buildings, the priests offering what comfort they could to commonfolk gathered in fear.
But not of the undying sort. For in the days to follow, explanation of this new terror spread its way amongst the townsfolk: 'the Horde', it was said, and 'an army come to take what's ours', as well. It was speculated that a great deal had already been stolen from Myrkentown, both in terms of livelihood and lives. It was suggested that any Horde that sought to take what was left should be made to work for its thieving -- and to bleed for it, as well. And when Lieutenant Kilborn came to wooden doors to seek men for his Militia, he found more than those chosen for it long ago: he found volunteers not just willing, but eager, and by the fires sat old men teaching the children to sharpen wood into spears.