Burned Out

Burned Out

Postby Treadwell » Fri Apr 29, 2016 1:59 am

The morning of April 29, 216 AR.

Rememdium Edificium.

Aloisius Treadwell lies in bed in the Rememdium, covered only to his shirtless upper body, the front of his immense belly having been anointed and very gingerly rubbed with salves twice already this morning, with a hospital worker already carefully applying a third dose of the cool, soothing mixture. His back saw the same treatment on his arrival last night. His multiple layers of robes and pajamas took the worst of the damage, but the center of his belly, around his navel and inside the puffy Rings of Tubbius swollen gently out of his middle, and a sizable portion of his back are reddened all around.

Other than teary-eyed grunts and whimpers throughout the night, Treadwell has, so far, said nothing about his torch-wielding assailant. In truth, while the red and angry burns ache, his knees hurt the most. On the torch's hitting his stomach, he fell in a half-spin and landed hard on his knees as he flumped to the ground. Those knees, long since old and worn down with years of excess weight, throb and swell. His legs, in turn, refuse to support him for longer than a few moments at a time, even with his cane handy. Thus it is that his wheeled chair has been brought from home by his ever-faithful butler, Gregory. Its cushions have been replaced, and a double-layer of comfortably soft, purple blankets have been taken from Treadwell's sitting room at home. A new pajama jumper and inner and outer robes--all the same matching purple as what he was wearing last night--rest in the seat of the conveyance, waiting to be worn.

Mr. Treadwell will certainly not be engaging in much dancing or toddling about tonight at the fair, it seems.
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Re: Burned Out

Postby Treadwell » Sat Apr 30, 2016 3:10 am

However, Aloisius went to the fair in his wheelchair with his servant. All was well until Catch showed up again. The butler was pushed clear, and Treadwell was thrown from his chair--a mighty feat!--only to be rescued thanks to outside intervention.

Morning, 30 April 216 AR.

The Treadwell Estate, Myrkentown.

"You are going nowhere, Aloisius--not to hire guardsmen, not to work at your shop, not to nap in the meetinghouse. Nowhere!"

This from the beloved, yet currently very stern, Alice, who uses one hand to shoo young Harvell from the bedroom and the other hand to wag a quite disapproving finger at the child's father, who lies fully exposed on his bed, completely disrobed from head to feet so that the red-bearded personal physician, Doctor Jacobson, can attend his well-paying, well-fed patient. Never mind that said patient is dozing due to being quite sedated by various mixtures given him a couple of hours past.

"Nowhere at all, Holy Tubbius, at least not in this body" he echoes.

"Aloisius, Bill. Call him 'Tubbius' all you like at church or--or--or if you're praying to him, but as you work on him, here--"

"Madam. Aloisius, then, the Rememdium staff did very well with the burns, and I have continued their work while you were away bathing, my lady Alice. His knees are my worry, now."

"His knees?"

"This makes twice his entire weight has been upended onto the ground in a day's time. Gregory told me everything a little while ago about how he was thrown free from his chair by Catch last night--"


"Catch, and he landed face down in the grass. Your husband, here, and my lord, told me also of how he fell on the porch of the Broken Dagger but two nights ago, landing on his knees."

Plump-fingered, heavy-fleshed hand lightly strokes both knees in question. In the bed, Aloisius Treadwell, despite his slumbers, shudders. Doctor Jacobson's voice lowers.

"Aloisius will be lucky if he walks again in the next month, my lady."

"But you, and all the rest of you Tubbians, claim he is a god. He has said it himself. Why can he not just," Alice's hands flap about in a pseudo-magical spell casting, "wish his legs normal again?"

"Tubbius is a god of growth, my lady, and life, but Tubbius focuses more on plants and foods and fields. People? People are different. He is fed by our own feasting and growing, yes, and there is one known, rather extreme instance of his raising a man from the dead, and--"

"The dead? That would be Regis Drivel, his cousin, a short, fat fellow of middle years. He is a tailor along with his wife, Lilah, a seamstress."

"A very similar man in body and temperament. I should think that is part of the reason He could do such."

"So what is the problem now? What is stopping him from getting up from bed, hale and hearty and ready to run about?"

"It simply is not that easily accomplished, my lady Alice. Aloisius has been known to heal small injuries to himself before, yes, but those have been small things--a cut to the hand, or a bit of upset stomach, or quicker recovery when he was already on the mend from harm."

A shake of the doctor's head.

"He is Tubbius. He can do what He wishes. He can do it all better if He has faithful around Him. . . and most of those were sent away some time ago to convene elsewhere. Besides, it is quite difficult, I fancy, to call upon magic when you are constantly in pain."

Another shake of that voluminous red beard and the jowls behind it.

"I am certain my lord can hasten to good health. . . in time. But for now? Aloisius Treadwell, your husband, is a corpulent, fragile, old man of seventy years. He needs to rest now if he is to do anything to help himself at all in the future. Now, help me put his gown back on him and cover him again. We need to be elsewhere so he can sleep."
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Re: Burned Out

Postby Treadwell » Wed May 04, 2016 1:44 am

Morning, 4 May 216 AR.

The first floor sitting room at the Treadwell estate.

"It is foggy, mmph, and wet outside, Gregory."

"Tea, my lord. And, yes, it is."


"Bill says it will be some time before my knees are strong enough to help hold me up again, hm hm?"

"For times of any length, yes. It seems that you can barely stand long enough to move from chair to privy, and that--"

A mentally echoed howl of agony at rising from the chair for this morning's visit.

"With great pain, sir. Certainly not long enough to help dress yourself or to stroll the grounds. The stairs are entirely forbidden."

A nod, silent and small, accompanies another swallowing of tea.

"And my guards? They are here?"

"Newly hired yesterday morning, all of them. Strong, powerful fellows from Fyeden, four brothers. They merely await the lifting of this rain and wetness so that they might accompany you in town. Your cousin Regis is working on the uniforms you requested."

The butler smirks.

"Those uniforms, m'lord. You were very particular, sir, very specific."

"I have my reasons, mmph mmph. Now, what of their families?"

"They are still in Fyeden, m'lord. Two of the brothers have wives and no children yet, one has a son and no wife any longer, and one lives alone."

"Then offer to have them moved here, hm hm, to Myrkentown, for those who wish it. I aim to keep these gentlemen, mmph, in my employ for some time."

"Very well, sir."



"A bit closer, mmph, to the window, if you would."

"Of course."

Some discomfort accompanies this, of course. Treadwell is no lightweight man, nor is his butler, but soon they are by the window in question: a recently fashioned, stained glass image of Treadwell himself in the yellow vestments of his Tubbian office.

"Thank you. I shall have one of the guards take up the pushing about, mmph mmph. You and I, hm, are a bit too old to push fat men around in chairs, hm hm."

"Very well, sir, but know that I mind it not."

"I know, Greg'ry, and I thank you. Now, sit yourself there on my couch, mmph. I merely wish to rest here a bit."

"Very well, sir. Merely let me know when you wish to go somewhere."

"Mmph mmph."
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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