The #Broken_Dagger Forum

Referencing Stir of Discontent and Aftermath.


Dear Governor and Mrs. Phuri.
Tensions are rising in town. I would advise that you both seek refuge somewhere safe. Please do not return home, and do not go to the Meeting House. There are whispers of citizens moving toward your home.


By the most recent count, there were some fifty-seven corpses, although no-one was really sure whether to trust that count; they'd only just happened upon the idea of counting heads, rather than whole bodies, and who knew how many of those had simply been lost in the scuffle?

Not, of course, that 'scuffle' was even an appropriate word for it. 'Brawl' would fall far short, 'clash' was a little closer to the spirit of things, but really, when they looked back at the occurence the next day -- those who'd survived it, that is -- it really fell under the heading of 'slaughter'. After all, they hadn't stood a fighting chance.

It had begun very, very simply: word had spread between the families, had scattered like electricity through the town, connecting one to the other, and to the other after that, until the entire populace had heard. "Forget tonight," the word had been. And forget the Judiciary, too, for a few had run to the Meetinghouse with their petition, and had found none there at all, and really...that had been the end of it. "Forget tonight," it had become. "Bring the meeting to the Governor himself. Confront him with our terror.. now."


"I have orders.. please Councilor Bromn.. follow me!"


They'd taken to the streets, here and there armed with axes and scythes, but the most of them too laden down with torches to trouble with it, and really, who'd need such things? The Governor's home was lightly guarded, this was common knowledge, and the guards were men of Myrkentown itself. Surely they wouldn't take up arms against their own furious bretheren. In all, it might have come to nothing, for they had ale in their hands as well, here and there, and a bit of shouting and waving of torches might have satisfied the mob -- save that they'd seen their Governor, oh yes; had seen him fleeing, and the enormity of this had been far, far too much.

"The Governor flees Myrkentown! What does he know that we do not? There was fear in his eyes! It is not safe in Myrkentown.. and he left us here to die!"

Much later, they might think to wonder at the voice in their midst -- but then, so many others had taken up its cry; men, women and children bound into a unified purpose that had them running at the wagon upon which the Governor and his entourage had fled the town.

"Follow the Governor! He knows of a safehaven and leaves us here to die!"

Oh, they had followed, alright -- and had been met with the magicking they are coming slowly to fear: three portals had been torn into empty air, each vomiting forth a handful of guards, and Duke Burel may have reason to mourn in the future, for a portion of them wore crimson armour that was too easily mistaken for Thessilane's. They had parted to permit the wagon passage through their number -- and closed once more, effectively blocking the mob's chase. There came through the midst of them the Captain, noble upon his ebon steed, but too late; too late, for all that he maneuvered himself between mob and guards, the Governor's wagon long-since fled.

"The stone of the earth do not keep the dead down! It is too late for Myrkentown!"

"Save yourselves!" had indeed become the mob's cry, and some had begun to reach for that horse, and others still had rushed the guards who'd stood firm with shields locked and eyes grim. The horse had kicked, a girl had been trampled, the mob had roared its outrage, and then...

Well, then everything had gone to hell.


Many, many hours later, these things would be remembered; scattered and conflicting stories, uncertain in the aftermath of confusion and hysteria, and already assuming the majesty of folklore:

Captain Kanashia had grappled with a townsperson as if meaning to strangle the life from his throat; only the intervention of Good Councilor Bromn had saved them from the madman, for he'd rode to the mob and dragged the Captain onto horseback from their very midst.

Thessilane soldiers had worked magic against the mob, who should surely have broken through that line of locked shields with ease; their numbers were more than sufficient.

There had been a crush against those shields, and a shriek in their midst -- but then, there had been many others as well; this had been louder though, and then...why, then people had begun to die. The Baie, it had been, taller than any man and stronger as well, for bodies had flown from its hands as it made from nothing more than cotton and ply.

Noble Captain Kanashia had rescued them from Thessilane magic, from his own guards, from even the very Baie; he had leapt at the crowd, had danced across their very shoulders as if he weighed nothing at all. And it had been he who drove the monstrous Baie from their midst, he with twin longswords that shone like the sun and moon.

A woman, bright with blood and faceless as the night, had wielded her weapons upon the townsfolk. She had also saved Good Bromn from the Baie, but none were certain if he'd found his death at her gruesome hands instead.

And one last note, upon which all survivors, without reservation, are agreed: the Baie had fled, and its parting cry had been the name of Councilor O'Cynen.


In all, it has been a tragedy: on this, none disagree. What will come of it remains to be seen; at present, the townsfolk are concerned with whether they dare bury their dead -- and, in many cases, how they are to recognise them, for there are as many crushed heads as whole. Myrken Wood has been enveloped by the quiet at the heart of the storm.

Noble? The term fit him because of his wealth; not his behavior, nor his judgment.

It was a Monday morning, and the Captain was fast at work, filling out an oddly-written paper. Scribbled quickly, but precise; there would not misunderstanding the words there. He could not leave his men empty-handed. They were fine soldiers, with trusty spirits.

Three thousand gold. It was theirs to take; given to the Order to supply them well with what they need.

A goodbye to his Lieutenants and Corporals, and a thank you for their service that could not have been better. And, Tuesday evening, there would be a public announcement around the easternly time of eight, so that he might address the people of Myrken and the Order to their faces, and explain his actions.

For now, he would leave Lieutenant Duvall and Thomas, the Corporal, in charge. These would also be the two men that would be given excellent word about to the Governor. Fine men.

Without a word, just a salute to the man at the door, Alexander was leaving. No indigo tunic, no need.

He saved Myrken, he saved the council, with this decision. He saved... the Governor.

rumour mills were spreading news and events like wildfire. Some said one thing, some said another. The fact there was any agreement on any of them at all was at least a minor miracle, as far as Joshua was concerned.

One rumour that he had heard was of course, of the mob scene that had disintergrated into absolute chaos. Another was that Kanashia was leaving. The Captain had not made the announcement public yet. Heavens no, and perhaps it wouldn't come. However some inkling had gotten out and some of the guards could be heard muttering.

Rumours, however, were not his chief concern at the moment. Instead, he was doing what he could to take charge of the situation.

Presently, he was pacing the hall with a small retinue of soldiers he knew were dependable and trustworthy. Soldiers who were veterans that'd stuck around through the turmoil of the order. Veterans that could motivate other men to follow them. Thank the fates that there were still a few of those left.

"Remming, I need you to seek out Duke Burel, and investigate if those men that appeared were actually -his- men or not. Inform Duke Burel in either case, that I would enjoy a meeting with him as soon as it is convienent. Exactly those words."

A solitary nod was the response from the grizzled hair man pacing three steps behind the Lieutenant. It was all the confirmation that was truly needed. This task on its own was hardly dangerous.

"Jinks, I want you to take a squadron of men into town. At least fifteen to twenty well armed men. I don't particularly care what the popular opinion is, but the bodies have got to be dealt with. Bring along Pope for a last rites service, and then. Burn them." A mental sigh. That would not necessarily be a popular decision, but something had to be done. The townsfolk couldn't rightly continue leaving them in the street, or worse, storing them in their own home, just because they refused to bury the bodies.

That was another thing that he would have to discuss with Duvall. Finding either some sort of priest that was capable, or some sort of hedgewitch to look into the graveyard. Possibly bless it anew, and send a dispatch of men to set things aright there.

That was another portion of the problem. There were just not enough men to go around. Already, so many were out on patrol, that if the townsfolk wanted to riot again and storm the gaol or the headquarters, there were good odds that they would be overrun. Patrols had to be increase in size, doubling up the number of men simply so that they would feel safe. Vampires. Baie. And now townsfolk. At least the Governor had the good sense to flee. Hopefully he would stay fled. The last thing Kilborn needed right now was arranging for twenty odd guards or more surrounding and protecting that man's home.

Fingers ran through his hair as he considered all the possible solutions. There was one or two things that he could be thankful for. Martial law needn't be declared. There were so few folks venturing out after dark, it would seem ridiculous to imopse a curfew. The councillors and governing body of Myrken Wood weren't typivally viewed as despots or authoritarians. Typically. Now if only he had a few hundred more men.

The corridor itself was beginning to blur. Had he gone in a circle? He wasn't certain anymore. The stress of the tasks were frankly, overwhelming, and the support he was receiving so far, seemed relatively minimal.

"Alicia, go see if you can round up the Corporals Thomas and Robert. Have them meet me after supper at Duvall's office." Now he would only need to find Duvall. That man, despite their typical partnership, had been as overwhelmed as he of late. A brief hello at breakfast, simply because it occured at about the same time. A few horus before sunup, and then they were off for the day. Running their individual tasks.

"Someone find out the locations of the councillors, and ensure that there's at least a pair of guards with them at all times. Suspend the training schedule as well. There is frankly, just not enough time, and we need both Toril and Carnath in the field. And please, by the gods, don't tell me either one of -them- has quit."

Ariane Carnath-Emory. She'd been hired by the governor at one point in time, to act as a bodyguard. She'd left him, by all accounts, and signed up with the Order instead. That was an oddity. He had to admit some curiousity on that account. Right now though, short of pounding on Kanashia's door, or attempting to track down Gad Phuri, there weren't very many people that had a great deal of knowledge. Perhaps she could be helpful in that regard?

"Alicia. See if you can't arrange a meeting time with Carnath-Emory as well. Everyone else? You know what I want you to do. Thank you."

Finally solitude. A moment to relax and remember that he did require breath. And to stare at the door that he found himself in front of. Duvall's office.

Why was he not surprised?

Lieutenant Kilborn has worked a mixed blessing upon the town. Oh, they remain quite unaware of most of what he's done, but then they're not exactly privy to Council business, either; there's more to ignorance than a lack of literacy, and authority, as ever, wields it as a most effective tool.

But still, this blessing: the squadron of guards sent to the graveyard have been met with no resistance at all, but this is mostly because none dare to go near it -- save for the few jackals in human skin who've been snatching what they could from the unearthed graves; it was not commoners alone who'd been buried here over the decades. Those had, thank goodness, fled at the sight of insignia, leaving the guards with a desecrated heap of earth and relief, perhaps, that the stench is not a too overwhelming. Some of those corpses had been dessicated.

It's easy enough to round up the rest of the corpses, however -- those that had been crushed by the Baie, as well as the lesser number which had met with more...accidental deaths; here and there they have been left upon the streets, bound in various fabrics, at least, but set upon the doorsteps of the families who'd claimed them. Other houses yet have kept their loved ones inside, and it's these ones who'll pose a problem; now there is a stench, and a man could guess that the filial devotion in these houses is profound indeed, given that these folks are the ones living with it. They will encounter difficulty, here; they will encounter resentment, certainly -- but it is an imposing number of guards, and in time those corpses, too, shall be relinquished. Most of them.

The guards, however, will have been given a closer look at the Baei's work in the process; these are not men and women -- and, in some cases, children -- fall victim of natural death, or even ordinary accident. Torn limb from limb, are some of them; in some cases, the guard may have difficulty locating all those limbs, let alone the heads. In some cases, there remains little but mishapen pulp.

Another difficulty for the guards: the families they will encounter are not in the slightest mute; in fact, a good portion of them are vocal in the extreme, if not eloquent with it. There are numerous complaints, many focussing upon the unnatural weather which lingers even now, and far more involve the matter of Thessilane, of guards, of fleeing Governors. Here and there, intimations are made that something ought to be done, really ought; they may take comfort at least in the fact that no rocks are thrown. Yet.

The day after, the private town meeting, there were once again masses of black smoke rolling up from the grounds within Myrken Wood. A minor haze taken to the air, simply by so many funeral pyres that needed attending to. Lt. Kilborn had excelled himself again perhaps, or at the very least, had made a number of decisions in lack of any other leadership in the guard.

Coin had been paid to the local lumber mills, permitting a large haul of wood to be bought, and draining in part, the supply of coin left at the headquarters for various affairs. Admittedly, the entire showing was a little bit poorer than he had anticipated. Lumberjacks were not fond of running off into the woods in small pairs to cut down trees. Not with the recent incidents and all. The guard's purchase however, might serve to put food on an extra table or two, while work was otherwise slow. Kilborn could hope.

The purpose of the wood was instantly clear. Despite the number of bodies and portions thereof, those that could be identified, the guards weer treating as individual citizens. Solitary funeral pyres, rather than mass attempts to burn bodies.

Of course, this practice couldn't reasonably be applied to the various limbs of people unknown, or bodies crumbled beyond recognition. Where it could be, it was done. Where it couldn't, they were burnt anyways.

"Mr. O'Hallaran." The old cout was being particularly unpleasant, and weilding an old pitchfork, at the front of the door, blocking the entrance of the guards.

"Ye ain't taking 'er. Ain't none getting in ta take 'er away from me."

The scent of Mrs. O'Hallaran was rather penetrating, and had certainly been detectable long before one actually entered the house. No one, particularly wanted to see what Mrs. O'Hallaran looked like anymore.

"We need to put her soul to rest. Mr. O'Hallaran." Diplomacy, was not Lieutenant Kilborn's strongest suit. He really did not know how to handle someone caught up in grief.

"It's yer effing fault she's dead. Ye and the rest of yer lot!" The old man bellowed, vocally, with an accompanying shake of the pitchfork.

There were, moments, in everyone's life, when one's temptations grew in such force, as to very nearly be overwhelming. Much like the scent of the dead that tickled Kilborn's nose at present. The council had met in private the night before, and much had been discussed. Lieutenant Joshua Kilborn, as usual, had not been invited, nor privy to the council meeting, nor its decisions.

"I know Tom."

"Eh?"

"I know that we have to shoulder some of the blame. We're doing what we can. It's not easy on us either Tom O'Hallaran. We're burning our childhood friends out there."

"We were suppose to be together forever. You don't even know what forever is sonny! That's why we married!"

"She's dead, Mr. O'Hallaran. Unless you let us perform last rites and burn her though, she won't ever be waiting for you."

"Ye don't understand you uppity young upstart. Wes were there, when the governor fled. Fled. And left my wife to die!"

"The governor, was an imposter, Mr. O'Hallaran. That's why he was taken into custody last night."

"Whut?"

"We're dealing with things as best we can, you know. We're a little afraid too. But we do need to take care of the dead."

A brief bit of momentary silence had managed to engulf the old coot. With a hint of trepidation, just in case the man came to his senses before Joshua could put a detaining hand on the pitchfork, he stepped forward and stretched his hand out. There was no resistance. A sigh of relief.

It was over shortly afterwards. Mrs. O'Hallaran turned to ashes, with her devout husband collapsed on the ground nearby, tears streaking the soot that covered his features.

Lt. Kilborn himself, had marched off to another household, another vocal, complainer that wanted to keep their hold on their dearly departed as well. He afterall, had a job to do. Even if the Coucil themselves kept him ignorant, and unaware of what they decided behind closed doors. He was out burying their dead, while they were holed up in their snug country hourses. Out of everything that he knew, the little piece of information that had escaped him, was actually pretty minor in comparrison.

The ashes of the dead, continued to drift through the air and spread across town.