The Hand of Myrken

[Sadism]

The clearing was no longer the peaceful, tranquil ground it had been only a month prior. Now it bristled with canvas tents, all died a dirty green that would blend into the surrounding forest. Dirt roads had sprung up where grass had been marched flat by booted feet, ground bare by the churning wheels of carts. Even now the steady thump of marching filled the camp, mixed with barked orders and the cheered shouts of men watching their compatriots practice the swords they had chosen to lift.

A collection of hard-faced men stood watching the camp; the numbers of the Hand of Myrken were not astounding or very intimidating, but the men who had come so far had shown a deep conviction to the cause. Grim determination filled the faces of the soldiers that marched past their commanding officers. Many had expected to strike down the council that first day, to free their land from ineptitude. It had taken much persuasion, much talking, to bring them to understand the need for the camp, to train them in military tactics. War might be fought inside Myrken Wood, and blood might very well be shed. Blood of their enemies, and blood of their brothers. None wanted the war, of course, but every last man in the camp was willing to go to whatever extremes required.

Gerard De Santiago plucked his wide-brimmed white hat from his head, the blue feather swaying crazily with the motions. Running a hand through his dark hair, he sighed and shook his head, eyes of hard-metal watching the camp emotionlessly. Behind him, his chain of command argued, throwing plans of attack back and forth. None expected any military strikes this soon, but they worked feverishly to hammer out potential assaults.
“I need eight men.â€

[Sadism]

---{Continued}---

“So wot would ya have us do?â€

[Suede]

So many people in the crowd, every shape and size hoping to see good done in this land. Listening eagerly with food in their hands, and it was no exception for three different men scattered about the crowd. One was an older gentleman, a man who'd lived in Myrken Wood for years just trying to keep his farm afloat, a second was a former member of the Militia ready to throw aside his allegiance to that body for the hope the Hand would prove better, and the last a boy barely out of puberty wanting to protect his little sister and parents... even his dog.

Each would approach one of the soldiers throughout the day and seek to join the ranks, go to the camp, hopefully learn, and be ready.

[Una]

Several days later a young woman was wandering around town, trying to keep her ears open for the mention of "Myrken's Hand" or something like that, as related to her by Biske. They wore blue and they might help him, he'd also said. Sadly, Una was an unfortunate helper for this task as--painful shyness aside--she was so disconnected from the goings-on in town she had no idea how to go about locating this group let alone what pitfalls there might be waiting to snare her. Quietly, though, she forges on, hoping to learn something so she could follow through on her promise.

[Una]

Una never did find anyone who could take her to these men Biske had described. Perhaps they thought such a young woman had no business with them, perhaps they sensed what she was about, or perhaps she simply didn't find anyone who knew. Finally, though, she found a friendly old woman who agreed to deliver a letter for her. It would be round-about, to be sure. The letter to her, then to her grandson, then to a friend of his, then on to a member... Una certainly couldn't remember all the steps and odds were the woman wouldn't actually tell her who would really do the delivering anyways.

Maybe the woman wasn't going to deliver the letter at all, but Una would never know. She thanked the woman, passing over the carefully folded sheet and clasping her hands in gratitude. And after a few murmured words of thanks the woman essorted Una out of the room and waved goodbye as she left.

Only after the girl was out of sight did the woman's features harden. Turning back into the room they had shared tea in she quickly unfolds the letter with deft fingers, grunting slightly as she read the contents. Una's hand had a simple style, almost childlike in the unpracticed letter.

"Please Sirs,

A friend of mine asked me to send a letter to you asking for your aid. I was told you said you would help him. Right now he is being held in the Myrkentown gaol. Please, if you can, help him.

Thank you."

It was unsigned, but how many pale girls like Una could there be begging for the life of a murderer?

[Sadism]

The sounds of an army filled the air around him, dampened only with the slight distance of his tent from the training grounds, and the thin fabric that comrpomised the walls. Candles burned, offering faint light to combat the shadows that the tent created. The folding chair beneath him wobbled as he shifted, threatening to dump him onto the ground, yet he paid no mind to it. One booted foot crossed over the other on the stool he rested his feet upon, unfolding the letter.

The smell of tabacco smoke filled the air, wafting up from the bowl of the pipe. The letter held in one hand, he scratched at the dark beard with the other. "Blasted thing. I can't wait to be rid of it."

"Sir!" the soldier barked, stopping just inside the tent, stiff-backed precision, eyes staring off into a space in the air. Farmers and carpenters and candle-makers. They had once been these things, and would one day be such again. But for now, they were all soldiers, and many of the first now were fit enough to be in any army.

"This message is outdated. Why is that?" Steely eyes watched the soldier quietly.

"Sir... I.. I'm not sure, Sir."

Slowly he stood, placing the pipe on the table he had been seated next to. There were only a few steps for him to take to reach the soldier. THe man's personal space was invaded, as Gerard came to stand before him.

"Find the recruiters. I want to know why this letter was not delivered to me sooner."

The soldier sketched a salute and left the tent, though his attention was elsewhere. Too late to free the man, now, and that could mean that the chance to recruit him had been lost. Only time could tell, though. The letter was lifted, it's edge to the flame. It took the fire only moments to consume the parchment.