Sat Jun 14, 2003 8:06 am
"Who is in control? Who is in charge? Who is the center of this storm, the cornerstone of this foundation?"
So went the question posed by one Gad Phuri, previously Alosius Treadwell, and although he'd almost certainly intended it to be rhetorical, the town as a whole has embraced it -- for he'd done a fine job indeed of echoing their sentiments, of speaking them with greater eloquence than most had been capable of. There are no ready answers.
Here is the procession of nobles (and others); it had begun late the previous evening and continues even now, and surely this election is a portion of what's inspired the day's festivities. There has been dancing on the village green, there have been bonfires and feasting, and the air is rich with the scent of pheasant and pastry, of charred wood and cinnamon-laced beef. There has even been talk of erecting an unseasonal maypole, but that's likely to prove to be too much effort for a town very much enjoying its ale and sweetmeats.
A sea of colour, is Myrkentown today, for the nobles walk amongst the commoners (although not too closely, mind); they make a stately procession, resplendant in velvets and fine linens of rusty brown and deep red, vivid pinks and blues and greens, and here and there even the yellows and deep purples that commoners could never afford. Today, from the tip of wire-lofted headdresses to the elongated and curled toes of quite ridiculous boots, Myrken wears its wealth. And in the meantime, votes are cast -- in Myrkentown's own Meetinghouse, to no-one's surprise -- and are sorted and counted by one Gawyn D'Ivrie, hailed not as Myrkentown's most honest man, but surely one of its wealthiest, which is important only in that it makes him unlikely to accept bribes from any of the hopefuls.
One might pity the old fellow a little. There he sits at the heart of a paper storm, which is surely more benign than those which have visited Myrken Wood in past weeks, but still no less irritating to a gentleman who's eyes are already watering at all the ornate lettering. He sits, and accepts folded bits of parchment -- and the occasional scroll -- and he reads, and writes, and tallies. He also, frequently, grumbles. To himself, mind, for today Gawyn D'Ivrie enjoys a most splendid isolation indeed, various personages visiting him only briefly, and leaving with haste and swaying skirts. For feasting, after all, awaits.
He does, at least, have consideration of the candidates to occupy his weary mind, and there'd been some surprises in the bunch already. Dhugal, for instance: the foul-mouthed upstart has moved from treason into politics, and while that's a traditional enough succession, it's still a certain bet that he'd had gold on merchant's tables two notes ago, and a lot of it. The nobility wouldn't have touched him. Used to be a priest, the word was here and there, but no-one was drunk enough yet to believe it. And that Badger fellow was just as bad, of course -- a Guard, a veritable Guard, playing at politics! Although of course, given the recent spate of disasters, it was entirely likely that they'd vote him in. Hah! The way this was proceeding, he'd be Governor within a week.
Or maybe Mandlor would: the Bloody-Handed Maiden herself, and doing better than he'd expected she might -- better than anyone might have expected, except that it was the commoners who were terrified of the woman, and the merchanters whose heads were turned by thought of her wealth, and here and there a man even remembered the favour she'd once done Councilor Bromn. She might yet rule the Judiciary with that sword. Her very antithesis, of course, was Coran D'zir, of whom only the merchanters had really heard until several days before -- and now? Hailed as Hero on one hand, as Saviour on the other and, here and there, as Heretic. A mixed bag, that one; he'd saved the town with one miracle, and now it remained to be seen whether he'd win this with another one.
The others, at least, were a little more mundane. The Marquis had done far better, so far, than any could possibly have expected; D'Ivrie was inclined to think that he'd bought more than just the commoner's hearts - and perhaps worked a more base appeal amongst the few voting womenfolk. Still, newcomers always have their appeal, unlike that Lady Gortsman; well, no-one likes a widow, it's true. She was a good, solid choice, to be certain, and this might well have been why she'd thus far done so poorly -- well, and wouldn't the Councilmen be fearing a woman who'd whip them into actual work? Hah! Now that would be a sight to see. So, however, would that of Lady Mouth herself sat upon a Council seat. Why, the meetings would never finish, and the children would never starve again, and it was a lod of hogswash in any case, as far as he was concerned, this thought of women running the town. Why, next they'd be having one of those pretty-faced boys with the silly long hair for their Governor!
Ahh.. but there was the question at the heart of it all. How does a town exist with none to govern? How does it thrive? As well that they hold elections so swiftly, if only for a thing so small as a Council seat, else that imposter Phuri might have taken true hold of things. Or the Marquis. Or even D'zir, although if that one was a Prophet, as some had begun to say, one had to wonder...for whom? Or what?
Ahh, but a man could reassure himself, at least, with the fact that there'd be a new voice at the pupit, come morning: The Lord High Inquisitor himself, come to bless them with his words, and one didn't have to be a particularly Godfearing man to appreciate that. There is something reliable in the solid fact of Church; old, venerable, reliable in the fact that it does not change. It was something to smile upon, while counting pages and pages, and yet more of the same.
Who is in control? Who is in charge? Myrken Wood, in this moment, exists in a state of ceaseless flux, awaiting the hand that will seize hold and command.