The #Broken_Dagger Forum

The lad will come to him shortly after dawn -- a terrible imposition, and one that may well sour him on the idea of reading what the courier has brought for his inspection. But this would be a shame, for an attorney of his enthusiasm, his daring, may well find something of interest in the letter the lad bears.

Or the small pouch of coin which accompanies it.


Ser Hellstone,

Greetings. I wish to speak with you at the neerest avaleable oportunity, almost sertinly with intent of imediately securing your servises. Please aksept this small kumpensation for your troubles. I may be found in the Remumdieium.


Ariane Emory.

This parchment has been foleded and carefully sealed so that you may know if it has been tampured with before reaching your hands.

The last time a letter from Ariane Emory arrived at his office -- a misspelled, chickenscratch-cute affair, delivered at a disgustingly early hour, clutched by a pink-cheeked, breathless boy whose hand thrust cheekily outward for a tip seconds after delivering it -- it landed Helstone in the midst of the case of the year.

The case of the year, yes, and a rain of arrows, and a storm of swords, and a frightening finale that involved being stuffed in a runway carriage with Giscard Guillaime, driven away like a bat out of Hades by the strangely competent madwoman Quincy at the helm, and (and, yes, he can't forget this) nearly losing his valuable head to a ravenous beast from his worst nightmares.

His eyes wander to his ledger, sitting innocently in the corner.

"Anna, I'll be going out earlier than expected this morning," he calls to his maid, sliding the coin-bag in his pocket.

---

He'll show up at the Rememdium later in the morning but well before lunch, a striking figure bundled up quite well in a wool coat, knit scarf, and top hat whose hunter-green accents all seem to match the lovely Yuletide decorations in Myrkentown Square.

"If you'd be so kind to point me towards where Miss Emory is, I would be grateful," he'll ask the first person that crosses his path.

And intercepted he'll be, at some point or another; they keep a brisk business going, in the Rememdium -- all the moreso now that Doctor D'Rael has made his departure -- but of the vigilant sort. Handily, for his purposes, there is not a body working there that has not by now learned Ariane's name, however reluctantly. They've memorised her much like one does the location of a squeak in the floor.

Directed without hesitation to the Governor's room, he will find seated there a woman quite as dishevelled as her ink-splattered missive had been. Evidently his isn't the only to be sent this morning: she's bent over another page by the time that he arrives, and balls of crumpled paper are scattered about her ankles in mute testament to the excess of time she's spent working on this one. Still, she is not occupied to the point of real obsession, and eventually lays down the quill to face her visitor.

Poor Helstone. She is a sight, but not a pleasant one, bruised across half the face and swollen with it; bandaged about the throat, and the shoulder as well, if one is to guess from the slight bulges beneath her garments. Here and there, blood stiffens her hair, which is in any case the stuff of nightmares. He, on the other hand...

Is Helstone willing to believe that it's delight which has just lit those grey eyes? Perhaps, there being no need for false modesty here. But whatever the case, it's unmistakably a smile which twitches at her lips, albeit a brief one, and some edge of relief to her tone as she welcomes him.

"Ser Helstone. I am glad, very glad, of your visit here. Straka is gone mad once more, they will see the Governor jai -- No. You must close the door behind you, yes? Then we may speak."

Well. In some circles that's considered a welcome.

Fastidiousness and formality is as ingrained and essential to Coriolanus Helstone as silver armor is to Ariane Carnath-Emory. The Rememdium is a place of blood and dirt, of disease and death. It requires that the finicky young lawyer be graceful with his steps, refuse to remove leather gloves from the hands that are now closing the door quietly behind him, and set a guard against uncomfortable rooms such as these with a breastplate of courtesy.

“Good morning, Miss Carnath-Emory,â€

The Rememdium is also a place of healing and near-miracles, but it's easy to forget that at times like these; the woman who'd summoned him here has had time for only the briefest bathing, and the room has been made uncommonly messy. Uncomfortable for the elegant lawyer indeed! And at first, their conversation seems to offer little compensation: why, her first act is to lift an ink-stained palm as if to forestall further comments on the matter of madmen and prison cells.

"I assume nothing, Ser. I hope, yes. And reckon that I'm not alone in wishing to purchase your services. So," with a tilt of bruised chin towards the offending coin-purse, "I make clear that my wish is in earnest."

He may well think nothing of the pause that follows this statement, or the scrutiny which fills it. After all, who is more accustomed to being a focus of interest --and ire -- and frustration -- than a lawyer? There's none of that in her gaze now, but scrutiny... yes. That of a woman who wonders how many have come to his door recently. And how many have worn Straka black.

"But if advice is all that I require, then I am glad of the fact," she continues finally, "and will explain what I can. I confess I do not understand Straka's reasoning: on that matter, I would be glad of counsul. I am told only this, and by the Captain himself: that the Governor has become the target of too many assailants. Of too much trouble, you see? That the Captain wonders if this befalls him for that he is Governor -- or for some other reason. The Captain reckons it to be Altias Bromn that these calamities rise against, not Myrkentown's Governor, and that by this reason he is unsuited for the position.

And ought be removed from it with haste."

Evenly-spoken, the whole speech -- which taxes her a little, evidently, for there is a pause here to pour water from a pitcher and sip of it liberally. Perhaps the young lawyer will find comfort in the fact that hysteria plays no part in this explanation. And perhaps what follows will change that, for:

"He wonders if the same ought be done with the rest of them."

'Kidnapped,' 'madmen' -- has the vernacular of Myrkentown's well-greased gossip machine found its way into Cory's wide vocabulary? Either way, the man listens without an interruption and in intent examination, and pauses in a polite fashion to let her finish before speaking himself. His voice, as always, is neutral and measured.

"The Council is more than the men who serve on it, and the Governorship is more than Mr. Bromn, and the Council is ill, no one can deny that. One has become a pinkish fairy lord. One has left the province with no known trajectory to pursue unknown ends. One has served himself a promotion without conciliar consent, and the man who is left cannot be expected to serve for five. That is why we have a council in the first place."

He'll cough politely and excuse himself before going on.

"These efforts may be simply Captain Daniels’ attempts, misguided as they may be, to keep the government from falling into disarray. After all, the council hasn't met in weeks. Keeping order -- enforcing justice and the law -- is certainly within his realm of responsibility.â€

Perhaps it's not so much a matter of slang-by-osmosis, as the lawyer's willingness to phrase concepts in a manner that the swordswoman can readily comprehend. There's no denying the fact that Helstone is a man quite capable of choosing his words for effect, as much as accuracy. Hah, and in a courtroom sometimes those two considerations are one and the same! But whatever the case, he has succeeded in the most important thing: making himself understood. She has now and then frowned during the lawyer's explanations, has shifted in her seat as if to speak, only to close her lips over words as yet left unvoiced. Has, at the end of it all, raised that stained palm a second time -- to allow an interval for thought, evidently, and another sip of the cooling water, before:

"Then you understand why I have called on you, Ser; this is a matter of politics, and it is beyond me. I do not know what I may safely say, when the Captain bids me to speak on matters such as these. As the Governor's health. I do not wish to cause harm, where there need have been none. But so it is between us, now, as well. If I were to tell you what I fear, what I believe -- and those beliefs proved to be mistaken, what then? Surely no good would co -- "

A swift tap-tap of knuckles upon the door puts a premature end to this, and that door opens directly after to admit a tousle-haired lad with a long sheet of parchment folded in his grimy hand. The letter is exchanged for coin and gratitude, the youth swiftly vanishes back into the corridor from which he'd sprung, and after a small interlude of breaking wax and quiet reading (it's with careful effort that she does not mouth the words silently as she labours through them), the swordswoman lifts her head.

"Ser Kerrak is returned," she offers in explanation -- and as counter to the portion of Helstone's speech that had referred to him. And continues directly after:

"Shall I simply tell you that the Captain wishes Myrkentown to have a 'clean slate'," a phrase so unusual as to stick in her memory, "even if it means that he, too, must be struck from duty? He feels he cannot adequately see to the town's security if the Council is in disarray, and surely this is reasonable. But he lays the fault for that upon the Governor, claims that he 'cannot keep his post', for that he has spent so much time ill or injured instead. He said, Ser, that the Governor has failed in his responsibility to the position -- and perhaps knowingly.

And this after moving against Councilor Roschen."

That evidently being what clinches the whole matter for her, for here the woman's head lifts, to allow Helstone full view of her unsavoury features -- and frowning eyes.

"Ser, it did not seem right to me. And I knew not what to say to it."

It doesn't seem necessary to add that, instead of saying anything, she'd aimed a slap for the Captain's face, and her spittle for his boots.

Cory smiles, clasps his hands, and shakes his head. By now he's standing solidly in the room, having cottoned to the situation; he does this chameleon act quite well, actually, but stops short of taking a seat -- if there was a seat to be taken in the spare hospital room.

"Madam," he begins lightly, but seriously, "I am -- forced to disagree with you ever so slightly, and wish to make sure your coin is spent in the most prudent ways. It does not seem right to you, yes. It does not seem right to me. But I cannot help but wonder if gathering the Council together to clear the air, so to speak --" he pauses, and smiles, as if he's just latched onto a funny joke -- "or create more hot air, hot air being the Council's well-established product -- will not answer the questions you have by underlining matters you and your Governor may not even be aware of, thanks to his absence and your devotion to him. I firmly believe, madam, that the Council's illness will cease the moment they gather and clear the rumors from the air. I intend to write a letter to that effect, urging a meeting and urging accountability for that meeting."

Ah, faith.

"And," he continues, after a pause, "if that does not happen, I intend to move, and will work on behalf of the lawful governor and appointed Council of Myrken Wood."

Faith -- with a sword behind it. A sword that, purely coincidentially, would do just as Ariane wishes to ask. Just in case.

Whenever Helstone returns to his office, he'll find a note folded up and slid under the front door. The note, despite being written by a certain fairy king, is bigling-sized, so it should be easy enough to read once one gets past the abyssmal heavy-handed handwriting.

= = = = =
His Royal Highness of Hibera,
Richard Aengus
to
C. Helstone
Myrken Wood, Myrken Wood Province
This tenth day of December, 737 Aengus Reckoning

Mr. Helstone,

I'm assuming that you know of the wonderfully mixed up mess that is the Myrken Wood Council's current condition. I've discussed it at length with Capt. Thom. Daniels, but I've not had a chance to speak with any of the others. Governor Bromn is incapacitated as so often is the unhappy case with him; rest assured I wish him a fast recovery from whatever ailment or injury he's afflicted with. I've heard nothing from any of the others except the occasional notes from Suede Roschen that, in all honesty, have not been terribly hopeful or helpful. I understand he's taken my old post as Councilor of Administrative Sanctions and, quite possibly, without Council approval of such. Speaking from past experiences involving the Gaol and a loss of public respect and credibility when trying to take another man's post by clever designs, I must say he needs to be quite cautious. If he can handle the responsibility of this post, then I certainly wish him the best. Long may he serve Myrken Wood if he is certainly the fellow for the job.

I would suppose that you, being the one lawyer anyone hears anything of in Myrken Wood, are being pestered by people from all sides. That aside, I merely wish to state that I will cooperate in seeing this to a pleasant end for the lot of us. Should any discrepancies or questions arise--particularly concerning my former position as tax collector, the record-keeping involved in such position, my current position of ruler of my kingdom that is as of yet not officially accepted by this current council (despite such being taken care of quite reasonably a number of decades past; we've a few dozen yards of land in a region unaccessible to big people deep in Myrken Wood's caves by the lake), or any of a number of other issues--do take time to contact me by leaving a note under the door of my old toy store in the middle of town.

With all respect,
Written by my hand in my palace in New Hibera,
Richard Aengus
= = = = =

It is a busy day for our Mr. Helstone. After his visit with Ariane in the Rememdium, he will, of course, stop back at his office for a luncheon of beef stew, prepared by one of the shops down the street and retrieved by his busy and punctual maid, before seating himself at his desk to pen a few letters. They read thusly, and are sent to their proper recipients:

---

To His Royal Highness King Richard Aengus of Hibera, New Hibera (c/o Treadwell's Toy Shop):

Greetings! It was good to recieve your letter after our chance meeting in the Broken Dagger tavern last week.

Unfortunately, the permanent dissappearance of Aloisius Treadwell will definitely cause a furor. Mister Treadwell was a man of means, and owned quite a bit of property: land, a house, monies, private possessions, and his toyshop building, to begin with. The problem is this, sir: if Mister Treadwell had *died*, the property would be passed on to his family as per his will.

However, Mister Treadwell has not passed away, per se, as much as never really existed at all, as set forth in your letter, so any will he had was a fiction and does not apply. But his properties are not fiction. Therefore, the current question is: who is the owner? It is King Richard of Hibera? Is it no-one at all? Does the property pass to Mister Treadwell's family, or is it rightfully the property of Myrken Wood? These are the issues currently surrounding the former estate of Aloisius Treadwell, and issues that you may be called upon to witness.

As for your position as tax collector and discussing things with Captain Daniels and other councilmembers, I have no doubt that someone will be appointed to fill it posthaste, as per law. You needn't worry about that, although you should probably keep your distance from matters regarding the government of Myrken Wood proper as you are now, sir, a foreigner and such things could be seen as improper, if not illegal.

I do hope we can meet again; if you need any assistance sorting this out, be assured that I am at your service.

Sincerely,

Coriolanus Helstone

(note: to be continued, pending conclusion of thread )