The #Broken_Dagger Forum

The trousers were just a little short, the shirt a little tight, and the coat a little cramped. About all that fit properly was the navy scarf that went so well with the clothes of the same shade. The rest was made for a man of a slightly different size (a little shorter, yes, but a little heavier), and it was with a few quiet grunts that Treadwell worked himself into them on the morning of April second. Adjustments, he decided, would have to be made--either to the clothes or to his own waistline. Changes to the latter, except for the worse, were unlikely.

In spite of the public declaration last night, Gad was quite dead, his body and that of his wife disposed of quietly. In time, those corpses would rot and disintegrate and stink--and be unrecognizable. It was all kept quite secret, quite hush-hush, of course. No known witnesses, no loose tongues, no grasping fingers or peeping eyes. Of course, Aloisius H. Treadwell, apparently very successful stand-in for the governor (what with the now bald head with patches of dyed, almost rusty brown and shiny silver hair remaining!), had nothing to do with the murders whatsoever.

Other adjustments were being made all the while, on the fly, on the move. Handwriting was slowly being altered to match that of the deceased governor--letters reformed, spacing slooooowly adjusted. The signature--a mere eight letters and a title--wasn't terribly hard to master. All in all, the writing would take time to perfect; as long as no official documents needed drawing up for a bit, everything should be fine. A brilliant man, Treadwell, and observant, but human.

Handwriting was one thing. Voice was another. He'd known Phuri for all of a couple weeks or so, and it would be impossible to mimic the man precisely by any means--even with an old background in the theatre as a youth. All he could hope to manage would be to cover the Amasynian-bred accent and remember not to grunt every few words, things he hasn't seemed to have many troubles with yet. He was, after all, able to fool those at the Council meeting last night. All rumors have been squelched (he hopes), and no questions have been raised (he thinks). Poor, nervous fellow.

But the meeting! Horrendous! It was his first night in public, his first night governing court proceedings in Myrken, and his first ever experience with two representatives declaring that their armies wanted to move through *his* space! Why couldn't his first night on the job have comprised of. . . well. . . shutting down some horrid flophouse for criminals (wait! there was that orphanage!) or giving some sort of public, motivational speech? In beginning his tenure as the Governor of Myrken Wood, "Phuri" was finding himself just a little taken aback. A stomach-churning cart of limbs and bodies, a young woman on a rampage for a totally irrelevant social concern for the rabble, and oncoming legions of dead things--completely abnormal things for a council meeting, yes yes? Surely tonight's meeting with the other councilors would be something much safer, much calmer, and a great deal cooler and less cramped! Treadwell, with that wish in mind, gives a snort and goes about fixing his shirt, giving it a tug down over a nearly escaped roll of flesh as he makes his way through his new house in Myrken Wood.

Day five.

Aloisius Treadwell sat at home in his study, drowsily staring at what he had handy of Myrken Wood law codes. Needless to say, his attention was elsewhere.

Further adjustments had to be made--not to clothing, although he could swear that he was putting on a little extra weight with all this inactivity for the past month or so. Maybe it's just the ill-fitting clothes. The man's handwriting, too, was all right, already a good copy of that of the deceased Gad Phuri.

Adjustments had to be made to his presentation. He had successfully fooled the other councilors, it seems, as well as a hearty portion of folks in Myrken Wood--various rumors being ignored, of course. However, Gad had been a man of steel under all of that flab. Treadwell was quickly finding this out, mostly in his interactions with Ariane. She was the one who would possibly be the ultimate test of his deception; she was the one who would know Gad the best, having spent hours with him as his bodyguard.

Gad was, as his last name seemed to imply, a man of *fury.* So, with frustrations mounting from all sides--Ariane, Madam Mouth, two armies, *plus* his own battle with Gad's clothes--Treadwell was quickly finding himself thrust into such a state. It was a cold, hard sort of fury, though--not utter madness raging all the time but a calculating sort of evil and overblown self-importance, much as Treadwell would usually be were he at home in Westenford. Such had not entirely been the case for these first few days; however, such was going to be the case from here out.

Treadwell knew what his next adjustments would be.

It's good to be Gad.

Treadwell was quickly finding this out, having managed this charade for. . . what? Ten days? Either way, he was learning quite a bit about everything already, worming his way into the dead Governor's place with what seemed a little too much ease.

First, everyone expected Governor Phuri to be a boisterous, short-tempered braggart--a role that Treadwell was very much accustomed to playing at home, and a role that he certainly found enjoyable. He'd been working to live up to this expectation first and foremost, and what with the outburst in the inn about the vampire child--mmph mmph!--it seemed like he had finally gotten everyone (or at least everyone *important*) convinced!

Second, no one really cared just how fat or how tall the Governor was, for no one really seemed to know for sure. Granted, Treadwell was finally accepting that this easy life for the past month was leading to a bigger waistline, something that fit in the dead Phuri's clothes quite well. Apparently, Phuri had been just a little heavier and just a little shorter; for example, his pants had originally been a teensy bit wide in the waist and an equally small bit short in the legs. Lately, the pants were fitting the now slightly heavier Treadwell very well about the middle, and the smidgen of difference in the legs had been easily fixed with a dreary day-long trip to a tailor and some minor alterations to all his clothing after a somewhat humiliating series of measurements. His excuse? Honestly enough, he'd put on weight! What reason would the tailor have had to argue? Now, with everything fixed (and at quite an expense, too! He'd probably fed that fellow's family for a week or more!), the Governor could actually enjoy his waddling about.

Third, Treadwell found himself liking this role of being Gad Phuri far, far too much. Before now, he'd never given any thought to wearing suits and top hats, going without his gold-plated cane, just giving up on his hair altogether and shaving it bald (another couple rounds with the razor over the following weeks should completely do the trick! his hair was thinning quite nicely anyway before all this), or publicly being a blustery old coot who wouldn't hesitate to rule with an iron fist when needed. Now, though, Aloisius was seriously doing all of this and loving it. Life as the Governor of Myrken Wood would, from here out, come much, much easier.

Now, if only Gad had smoked cigars. . . .

Joseph didn't know.
Tetsi didn't know.
Giscard knew. Oh, he knew. He'd planned the whole mess.
After Phuri had the chance to pin down Councilor Bromn, Altias knew that Giscard knew. Altias also knew that Gad certainly didn't trust Giscard.

Four council members. Two for him--albeit for slightly different reasons--and two indifferent, clueless.

Ariane didn't know yet, he thought. He was sure she had to have picked up on a few things by now, but she hadn't said anything yet.

The rest of Myrken Wood simply didn't seem to know or to care, caught up in reports of war and The Baie (whatever *that* really was) and Alexi Rose's orphanage and Phlynn the boy vampire and a nonexistent Blood Plague.

Giscard was the only one he had to worry about. Giscard was the only true threat in all of the town, and he would have to be silenced at some point.

For the time being, though, Gad--for he was getting used to going by such; it certainly rolled off the tongue more easily than "Aloisius"--was starting to finally relax into his role. It had been nearly three weeks. No one had said anything; no one had apparently suspected anything. He felt that he had finally adjusted to the late governor's personality and habits, as well as he knew them from experience or could gather from the man's notes: a little squeamish at blood (as he'd seen back in the fighting pits--which he might have to look back into!), completely muleheaded and stubborn, boisterous, blustery, and, most importantly, quite selfish and not terribly talkative. Short, concise, pointed statements were proving best, most effective, and most expected. Now, he could finally be the slimy, icky, oily type of person he *should* be instead of someone who was slightly nervous and caught up in second-guessing his own actions.

Finally, the false Gad had slowly started drawing himself out of the inn, spending more time at home or at the meetinghouse. It was a bit of a walk to the Broken Dagger anyway, and he certainly was getting tired of people brawling or otherwise being quite unruly patrons. That was all very fine; it meant more time for him to eat, sleep, or read--his three favorite activities no matter who or where he was, and in that order!

He'd thought about it for the whole three weeks or so since he'd taken on the late Gad Phuri's identity.

That scar on his throat. A pinkish, fleshy line across his neck, above the Adam's apple.

It was the result of someone back home in Westenford deciding that fat old Treadwell was more than ready for a good slicing open. He'd been left incapacitated and weak for nearly a month after that attack, an attack that had given him (even after a hasty healing) a considerably nasty scar running lengthwise across the flabby folds lining the front of his throat.

It was the one thing that was readily and easily noteworthy as a difference between Misters Phuri and Treadwell. It was something that had to be dealt with, and soon.

All it took was a trip to the hospital, where he was treated (after a considerable wait) by Aeri. Magical healing usually worked wonders, and all for a measly seventeen shillings! Now, with that out of the way, Governor Phuri could concentrate on things a bit more important--like these armies of undead and barbarians marching on Myrken, and these fellows wanting to buy land and offer their services. . . .

It wasn't quite what he'd expected.

The governor had been given a choice of rewards from Sarah Willowbend, the elf whom he taken care of in the week of his imprisonment under the thing called Memories. It was a choice of gifts in the form of four doors: one that led to gold and gems, one to magical items, one to a library, and one--as Sarah had put it--to "an evolution."

He had initially accepted the gold, coming out of the doorway with a bag simply bulging at the sides, much like his own gut.

Treadwell had wanted more.

"Evolution?" He was unfamiliar with the term, of course. It had no place in modern-day Myrken lore. It represented something unknown, something unusual--something unique. He had to have it, whatever it was.

The gold was reluctantly exchanged. Treadwell had stood, straightened his clothes, and, shaking in his boots, wobbled through the last of the doors.

It was a painful experience, one that nearly jerked all of the sweat out of his fat body all at once and that left him quite exhausted. What had happened?

The first little suspicion came when his fingers wrapped over a handkerchief he was drying himself with. His goal was simple: to give his nose a honnnnnk. Gad's eyes opened wide before the honnnnk was over. Things didn't feel right. The nose was different--a slightly more pointed tip and a gentle hook downward under the flab. The hanky was hastily shoved in a pocket, and. . . .

Gad was racing through his house in search of the frosty, foggy living room mirror. It was there that he had finally gotten a good look at himself. There were a number of minimal, subtle changes to his appearance: the nose was as mentioned, the jowls were (mercifully) a little less full, the hair at his ears was a bit thicker and fluffier with its gray-brown coloration more evenly distributed.

He was finding it impossible to stand without a general stiffness all over and a slight slouch--slight? There were about a couple inches of difference in height. The telling point was in the clothes: the pants, shirt sleeves, and coat sleeves were just a teensy bit longer than they should have been.

The clothes could be fixed (again). The rest?

The fact was simple. Gad's adjustments had been magically completed. His own desires had been tapped, his greed and nervousness both fed. Gad Phuri was, at the moment, a shaken, uncertain man--but, by the heavens, he was Gad Phuri!

Gad's adjustments had been magically completed. So he thought.

It had been nearly a month since Gad's lovely little trip through Ms. Willowbend's magical portal that had completely altered the fat man's heavyset self. Gad had, in that month's time, adjusted to it all. All it meant was a shortening of a couple of inches, a stiffening of joints and the back, and another series of alterations to his clothing. Right?

Move to the present. It's the late afternoon, and Gad Phuri stands in his kitchen wearing his purple silk suit with its matching hat. He's tired, and for good reason. Last night had been spent sleeping in the upstairs hall; Violet had locked him out of the bedroom for coming home reeking of cigar smoke, and he had flopped to the floor there in exhaustion after arguing with her through the closed bedroom door. Things had certainly been stressful recently, what with last night's fight and the news of Violet's pregnancy and his expulsion from the governorship and his brief time in jail. Right now, he's tired, he's worried, he's drained. . .

And he's craving a banana. A month ago, he wouldn't have dared touch the horrid things, but now he's raiding the kitchen in search of one of the mushy, chewy yellow fruits. Granted, the things are hard to come by at decent prices in Myrken Wood, and they're not exactly in season at the moment, but. . .

"Ahhhhh!" He's found two that are still edible! A sweaty-palmed Gad hastily peels one and, without a moment's hesitation, starts munching down on its pulpy self--and, amazingly, finds it delightful. The former governor soon has it devoured just like anything else he would eat, and he's soon patting his tummy with an admittedly puzzled look on his face. He's actually taking this small amount of time to think about what he eats.

Something was wrong here. He had, in the course of the past month, started being repulsed by ale and beer--formerly his two favorite drinks--and, as of last night, smoking was making him violently ill. Now he finds himself craving a dad-blasted banana? Gad slumps nervously onto a stool and starts looking around the room. "This last month," he nods while reaching to thoughtlessly peel the second of the two bananas left in the kitchen, his mouth watering at the mere thought of eating the thing, "has been downright odd! I've started devouring stuff I normally can't stand to look at, and I can't even smoke a cigar without making myself sick! The next thing I know, I'll not be sneezing when I'm around vanilla!" He then gives a snort and goes about enjoying the rest of his meager little before-supper snack in spite of his general nervousness.

Of course, these little oddities go back to that trip through Ms. Willowbend's little magical doorway. His round old body--now a copy of that once belonging to one particularly dead Gad Phuri--is finally over its initial shock from being changed and is rebelliously fixing details about itself as only magic can make it do, forcing Aloisius Treadwell into having new likes, dislikes, allergies, and cravings. Oh, he should be over this within a few more troublesome days, but for now. . . Gad's in a mess.