The #Broken_Dagger Forum

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Continued from "The Library of Mudd"
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The gallows scaffold in the middle of town is something of a permanent fixture. It was used as a makeshift stage during a recent celebration that recognized a good number of favorite people in Myrken Wood--Pritchard included--but it's also been used for more traditional uses.

Myrken Wood has seen its share of hangings in its time, as well as attempted hangings. Last night, one Reynard Volpone, visiting thief, mused on one Councilor Treadwell's most recent observations about the scaffold in question.

"Mmph. Darn thing ought to be taken down. It *ruins* the view of things, and I'm sure we could erect something temporary if we ever need to hang someone. . . or, I guess, we could manage the same with a rope and a good tall tree. Why do we have to have such a visible, open reminder of *death* in the heart of town, hmm hmm?"

So he had said. So the thief had heard from under said stage when Treadwell had walked by.

"Ruins the view?" Volpone wondered. "A visible, open reminder of death?" Hardly visible enough, in the rogue's opinion. What could be done to add to the view?

The answer proved more than visible this morning, Friday the 20th. A grossly overstuffed scarecrow--complete with one of Treadwell's stolen bright red top hats and robes and a bushy white cottony "beard"--swings by its "neck" from said scaffold; its robes, beard, and loose bits of straw bulge and flap in the breeze. A simple note is pinned to the scarecrow's breast:

"To Tready. From Fox."

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To be continued. . . .
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Early Sunday morning. . . the twenty-second of the month.

It's not quite light, yet, when Aloisius Treadwell makes his way for the toy shop that is his home away from home in Myrken Wood. Thus, the red-robed gent shuffles his way up to the store, pipe smoking in his mouth and a crumbling, half-remaining cookie held firmly in hand. He stops when he gets to the shop. Something's caught his eye.

It's nearing dawn, still, when Treadwell notices the note nailed to his front door--a note written in the same hand as the one left on the scarecrow that's since been removed from the town gallows.

"The front door? Shouldn't you be trying the other entrance?"

Down comes the note with a rip from its nail. Treadwell gives a snort and shakes his head. He finishes off his cookie, then stares at the front door. Out come his keys with a jerk from his pocket. . . and the door key barely goes in, hitting against something metal jammed into the lock from the other side. Rather than raise a ruckus by breaking into his own shop, the toymaker here backs up, studying his situation.

That's when he sees the "other entrance." It's the only other entrance to the shop, short of breaking in the windows.

It's the chimney, and there are a few things up there--things he can't quite make out from where he is on the ground.

"Merciful heavens. He can't be serious. How would he *know?*"

All the same, Aloisius Treadwell gives a look around and hastily makes his way around the shop. It's just now approaching dawn; doors are creeeeaking open up the street, and folks are just now waking. He'll need to make this brief.

Once around the back of the shop, hidden reasonably well from peeking eyes and such, Treadwell starts, once again, calling on a bit of the magic now inborn to his round, mystical self. Sparkly white lights and snowflakes gleam and glisten from him, and up the red-robed gent floats, landing on the roof with a gasp, an exhausted huff of smoke from his pipe, and a stumbling forward against the chimney. "It's not quite time for this, Aloisius!" gets hissed out through teeth clenched to hold in his pipe, and he is indeed right. While it's not summer still, it's not quite fall either, and it's still a long shot from the winter months. Using magic right now is still tiresome enough, but if he has to jump through a hoop or two to make this crook happy. . . .

Another note, this one sewn hastily into the edge of a big burlap bag, stuffed with--of course--toys from the shop below. This note?

"You know the routine, Father."

Treadwell grimaces, jerking the sack from the roof and hastily huffing for the chimney. There he stops. Another note, another hoop. This time, it's one of his heavy, white, fur-lined robes, this one tacked neatly to the inside of the chimney itself.

"Shame, shame, shame! Thinking of going down there without proper attire? Tsk, tsk, Treadwell! Get dressed. What about the children?"

"What about the children? Hmph!" A glance off the roof reveals folks starting to make their way up the streets as normal. Scurrying around the chimney so as to minimize being seen--or try to--Treadwell hastily removes the tacks from the shoulders of the robe, then realizes something. He can't carry his robe, this bag, and these notes and still go down the chimney as directed. So it is with brief grumbling that Treadwell throws the robe on over his other, ties the sash, grabs the bag of toys, and, with a snort and a snuff and a wiggle of a pudgy finger against his nose, starts to magically sparkle and shine again as he steps up and into the chimney itself. Down he goes, and in the fireplace he lands! Stepping out, Treadwell freezes as his beady eyes lock on two small, young figures tied into his two rocking chairs and pointed toward the hearth.

A boy and a girl.

What about the children, indeed?

Beady, sleepy little eyes go wide as Treadwell steps out of the chimney looking like the mythical figure that Jack and Jill Alldale have heard about every winter for most of their young years.

Oh, and the children look astonished at the big man, too. At least the thief who had tied them there had gagged them before he left. Why should he risk ruining a perfectly good experience?

Treadwell sets the bag of toys down and, grabbing a knife from his tool belt hanging over the fireplace, goes about cutting the two children loose. That's when he gets the usual questions. How did he get up on the roof? How did he get down the chimney? Is he really Father Winter like that red-headed man said he was? Can they go out and tell folks? What's Mr. Tready going to do about that red-headed man?

It's overwhelming enough. After freeing them, Treadwell takes his seat in one of the now vacant rocking chairs, and, giving a huff from his still smoking pipe, he just shakes his head. He really shouldn't go telling them the truth of the matter. Jack Alldale has a big enough mouth on him, and, well, if word of the truth got to his father, the town crier. . . . Treadwell would be ruined. So, thinking as quickly as possible, the toymaker tries to come up with a reasonably plausible story of how he got into the shop and such, ending with, "Believe me, children, when I say that it wasn't very comfortable at *all!* Now, don't you worry about that red-headed man. Old Tready will take care of him soon enough!" It gets a few nods from the boy and girl. Do they believe him? Definitely not, but they put on a good show.

Thus, Treadwell's soon wiggling out of his white outer robe, hanging it up on a peg before unlocking the front door and leaving to take the two children back to their grateful, loudmouthed father. Treadwell stays nervous, silent, and isolated for the rest of the day, not leaving his store again until early Monday morning.

Morning of the twenty-fourth.

Aloisius Treadwell makes a horrendous discovery: the hundred or so shillings that he had in his store "cash register" of sorts are missing.

Oh, he suspects that the Old Fox--the thief behind all this wonderful fun--lifted them.

What he doesn't know is that said Fox is using them currently as a nice, fat bribe.

Town crier John Alldale now has only one day to make a very important decision.

"I'm tellin' ye, sir, that I won't do it! Now, I might not like the fat ol' belly one bit, but iffen 'e's got a secret *this* big to keep, I won't be the one to go about ruinin' it fer him!"

At that, the slim, red-headed scoundrel just nodded; John Alldale would turn to go back to his post, satisfied with his answer, when a *whump* from a blackjack would send him dropping to the floor. So, with another note being left--this time for John's friends at work--the Fox goes about to hide the now-kidnapped Mr. Alldale.

"To the other town criers here in Myrken Wood,
I'm sorry, but John here won't be coming back to work for a few days. Old Treadwell knows why.
Fox"

Treadwell has some chores.

Foremost among these, other than getting used to taking things very slowly on a crutch for a few days thanks to some serious bruising on his right arm, side, and leg, is overseeing repairs of the stables at the Dagger.

Well, when you're flying around in the air late at night simply glad to be back in the swing of magical things, and your body and magics give out on you prematurely, you end up crashing belly-first into such a place.

He's not told anyone that yet. He's just making sure the roof gets fixed right. In fact, he's not given any explanations for much of anything yet. . . including the missing John Alldale.

Maybe that's because Mr. Alldale was released the same day he was kidnapped, and no one has tried asking Tready why all that's going on, yet.

In short, Treadwell's lucky. Very lucky.