One thousand words of rebellion.

[channe]

The market is careening along at full speed when the whispers begin; there, in the corner, is the councilman Coriolanus Helstone, chatting quietly with a man selling worm-eaten apples; do they notice how he passes him three shillings for an apple others would throw out? How he picks off a maggot, how he holds it in his hand before polishing the apple off, right in front of everyone, as he mounts the gallows-stair in the center of the square, accompanied by a lovely woman with a rapier; and is that General Eriks standing with a supporting squad of Brotherhood troops?

…who are now calling for order, who are gathering the attention towards the barrister who has claimed the gallows-hill for his own? Who looks at the gathered assemblage as if this was a courtroom and they were a jury?

Ladies and gentlemen, he begins, as if he were addressing them as equals, and he holds up a piece of parchment; the dark brown ink stains like wounds on the page. Let me read to you something that was pinned to the Meetinghouse door earlier this year, the morning I was awoken to news that a man very close to my heart had been brutally murdered. Many of you knew him: his name was Michael Cobbler, and he had three beautiful children. He had done more than take care of my shoes -- he became one of my first friends here in Myrken Wood. I ate dinner at his house, once. His children sang to me. His wife baked a wonderful vanilla cake.

Let me remind you why they are dead.

He lifts the parchment, and reads, as if proclaiming something at church.

"Let the deaths of these commoners be your warning. This land belongs to us. In the name of the dark priestess Faeryl, in the name of Audmathus, in the name of Lolth Herself, we will not hesitate to cleanse the land of this humanity. May these still corpses be our herald."

He pauses. Meets the eyes of a woman in the front row.

Fifty-eight people died that night. Do you remember? Fifty-eight friends mutilated by drow blades and spattered by drow poison, murdered in the night by dark elves fueled by a hate against humanity so powerful it inspires nightmares. Do you remember? I remember. I remember, and that is why I am here today to speak to you in the name of the Judiciary Council, to tell you exactly what is going on and exactly what we intend to do about it.

As I speak, remember Michael Cobbler. Remember Smithy Gritchell. Remember Goodwife Totler and Louise Canty and Martin Chandler's towheaded triplet sons. Remember.

He stops for a moment, his voice catching, and takes in the crowd. Are they surprised that he knows those names? A Councilman?

Two weeks ago, my colleagues met with the drow priestess, Faeryl, and the beast Audmathus face-to-face in their underworld Citadel because of a very real threat: a threat that if they did not attend that meeting, the drow would kill more Myrkenlanders in similar fashion: drowned in their own blood, tied with their own intestines, their heads bashed in like melons. We Could. Not. Have. That.

Can Cory Helstone get this intense? Apparently, yes.

All of you have heard of the terrible feast that was set for us in the Council chambers as a warning to the Councillors -- how the eyes of the drow victims were gouged, how the poor, poor corpses of your brothers and sisters had been rotting for days somewhere, how guards from the Brotherhood were slain by Audmathus and -- reanimated --

He almost chokes here, in disgust.

-- reanimated into zombies that would go on to slaughter more guards. And, just like that, the count of dead became seventy.

Do you remember how he raised the corpses of your mothers and fathers from their heavenly rest three years ago, shoved swords in their hands and made them into killers of children? Even now, we must burn our dead to keep them from him; and, oh, I am a child of the One God just as many of you, and it sickens me to have to do it.

What the drow had to say sickens me as well. Their desire has not changed, ladies and gentlemen, despite the carts they've sent into Myrken Wood and the bribes they are dangling in front of your faces, as if you are stupid. Just like on that cold January morning, they still want our land. They want our farms and cattle. They want our buildings. Our churches. Our cities. The fires in our hearths and the grasses of our yards and the flowers in our gardens. The bodies in our graveyards.

And they want our hearts. These black-skinned devils and their poison goddess want our hearts.

These monsters, after having slaughtered fifty-eight of our brothers and sisters, wanted an alliance. At least, they called it such. They spoke of a greater force coming to tear through our borders, to take Myrken Wood for their own; they spoke of it without a shred of proof, as if we were donkeys following a dangling carrot or infants frightened by mere shadows. "We will help you," they purred. "We will cure the plague and feed your populace," they posited. "We will get rid of this new threat." They spoke in honey while blood and fire dripped from their very fingers and mindflayers hissed in the shadows.

They demonstrated their peaceful intentions by exhibiting violence so terrible it made even seasoned soldiers vomit onto the stones of the Meetinghouse floor. Hah!

He paces, his eyes afire, working himself into a full crescendo. It's amazing, the sheer presence the man can have, especially when he's so mild-mannered in his office -- he owns that gallows, now. He owns it like he's owned a courtroom for so many of them.

Do you know what they wanted in return? They wanted our souls.

Their goals have changed, even though they now petition with bribes instead of blood. The resolution is the same: they wish to intimidate and manipulate, and when Myrken Wood is theirs, they will become themselves a new plague: one that none of us will survive.

I have seen Audmathus face-to-face, my brothers and sisters. My guard has made him bleed. People you know -- people you drink with and chatter with in the taverns of this town -- defeated him last time. We can survive, and we can win. We will win, and we will thrive in golden days to come.

Most importantly, the Council is not a common prostitute, to allow the drow to defile Myrken Wood as they see fit. The Council will not sell Myrken Wood's best resources -- its farmers, its landowners, its very children -- to the highest bidder. We will unconditionally deny alliance and unquestionably resist the rule of the things that slaughtered Michael Cobbler's three children in bed by drowning them in their own blood.

We are better than that. We are stronger than that.

This is a land of heroes, brothers. You -- all of you. You have seen horrors beyond imagining, but you have weathered them. You are worthy of the greatest respect.

And we will do it again.

He pauses again, as if shifting gears.

And if there is an outside force moving towards Myrken Wood, we will find out and crush it ourselves, using the skill of the Brotherhood and the considerable resources of our people and our real allies. The Council has sent scouts and spies in all directions. We have called upon friendly nations: Derry, Heath, Thessilane, Tempestia. All of them have offered a great deal of humanitarian and military assistance to our beleaguered province.

But our best resource is the hearts and souls of the Myrkenborn: you. Each and every one of you who is listening to me today. Each woman. Each man. Each boy-child and each young lady.

We do. not. cower. here.

We will set boys to maintain watch-fires. General Eriks will train you men to fight the drow. We will battle with this recalcitrant, drought-ridden land until it yields using the assistance of our true allies. Dr. D'Rael at the Rememdium and the rest of his staff are close to a breakthrough regarding treatment of the terrible Bloody Flux; Molly O'Neill, proprietor of the Broken Dagger Tavern, has come upon methods to banish the plague of insects, which we will be shortly distributing to any household who wants them.

Here, he searches the crowd again, as if trying to pick out certain faces.

For those of you who may have other plans in mind: I implore you to band with us. Turn your eyes outward, as we have, towards the mutual danger that affects us. We could use the help of your -- machines. And the expertise of your men to create more of them. I say today that, on my honor and my word as a gentleman, we will have elections once the current crisis is passed.

We cannot address your complaints if we do not survive this coming storm. Help us. You have my word -- my personal word -- that your concerns will be addressed.

Each and every one of you can help. We must come together in body and spirit if we are to defeat this newest threat.

[channe]

Finally, he pauses, surveys the crowd, and lifts the parchment once more, in front of his body, displaying it to the crowd. He spits these words; endgame.

This is what the Judiciary Council of Myrken Wood has to say to the dark elves who would mislead us, who would take our land, our voices, our souls, to the foul things that murdered our friends and our loved ones: our hearts belong to no-one but the people of Myrken Wood.

"Let the resolve of these brave commoners be your warning. This land belongs to us. In the name of Myrkentown, in the name of hope, in the name of our gods themselves, we will not hesitate to cleanse the land of the drow threat. May these actions be our herald."

And then, in the full sight of all, he tears up the parchment, spits on it, and crushes it underneath his heel.

[ShadowRose]

The Sanguinus Rose, one of the many spies belonging to Mother and the Requiem Curae, looked on and listened to the words of Helstone carefully. The tide was turning and the mortals of Myrken Wood were rebelling against their suppressors.

Perfect.

The gypsy smiled beneath the dark concealment of her low-hanging hood, lightly thumbing the blood-red pendant dangling from her neck.

And somewhere, tucked away in the safety of the darkness and away from the harsh presence of the sun, Mother smiled too.

The darkness begins to stir...

[Kylerryth]

There; the Councilor's speech was finished, and the throng was milling, talking, wondering. They were not leaving the immediate area, however, and that was good -- for the purpose Tveitan had in mind, anyway. The sword had been transfixed outside the town proper, but quite deliberately within view of its center; that was a fact it now took advantage of.

The pommel referred to as the Red Eye by some, the Red Heart by others, blazed; sanguine light streamed from the sphere in visible rays like a violent psychotic's monochrome dream, painting buildings and people with spectral blood. The same light emanated from the mammoth blade, first in a mere pinpoint and then, as it quickly grew, a letter that seemed etched in the alien steel. More letters formed; from those letters, words; and from those words, a question. When the question was finished, it and the pommel's light diminished to a subdued but no less malevolent glow.

WHAT WILL YOU DO WHEN THE END IS UPON YOU, COUNCILOR?

[channe]

These are the moments Coriolanus Helstone lives for, really.

The lingering, exhilarating moment when a jury is wrapped around his well-kept fingers like a noose around the neck of a condemned criminal; the forward, careening moments after he's twisted an opponent's closing argument like wire. It is a curious kind of acting, this braggart's swagger he has adopted for the moment; it is utterly unlike the mild, day-to-day Cory Helstone.

The question is brought to him on the wondering, expectant whispers of the people, and he stares down the alleyway to where the sword sits. His eyes reflect the red light; they are filled by it; and he speaks, his intention to respond but not to give the power behind the sword enough acknowledgment to make the assembled people feel threatened.

"Survive," he calls. "Prosper. Live. That is what we will do." And, with that, he's turning on one well-tooled leather bootheel, his next goal to stride off the gallows-podium.