A Desperate Charge

[Jirai]

The delivery to the teahouse was made quietly, unobtrusively, and accompanied by a brief note for Cambree.

Lady Calomel,

Here is the first, as we spoke of. I should have the rest by tomorrow.

Rhaena Olwak

[SuperRy]

A wagon of supplies--sacks of grain, barrels of fresh water, four spared troughs--arrives at the Myrkentown Teahouse. Its driver, the Dagger's farrier, has come seeking out the Lady Calomel, as a letter sent earlier that week promised.

Introductions are made inside; inspections are then had outside to gauge the -amount- of supplies donated, the amount able to be spared by the tavern. A decision is made to store these things within the green-glass structure occupying a share of the alleyway--the greenhouse is empty now, its mistress one of several caught up in the unfortunate scene occurring only blocks away.

[Kylerryth]

As they had been spread out for some time now, the majority assigned to various duties across the span of four territories, it took several days to realize and then verify that one of them was unaccounted for. When they did, however, the search began immediately. They first visited the areas where he was supposed to be; from there, where he was supposed to have gone. The entire process ate up a few more days of their time, but they resolved to be patient, to wait until they had actual, physical evidence of any wrongdoing before taking action.

It was not until they returned to Myrkentown, following the events of the last week, that they finally found him. Or, more accurately, sensed him.

That was the reason behind their sudden appearance at the scene of the counting-house. Their grim faces and solid black coats were identification enough; the crowd, upon realizing exactly who was approaching, parted like water around a stone. The guards posted at the cordon, while made of sterner stuff, blanched at the news the leader of the group delivered to them, and ushered them inward to the command post -- where the Governor and many others had gathered to find a solution their current dilemma.

Unfortunately for them, the news Nils Fjellstroem and the seven channelers with him brought would only serve to complicate matters even further.

As it turned out, one of their own was inside the counting-house.

[ShadowRose]

News had reached the ears of the recently arrived--and quickly, preparations had been made if only but to lend a helping hand to those who stood in wait outside the location of the unfortunate commotion.

Foodstuffs, blankets, and portable liquid containers arrived outside the counting house for those brave souls that endlessly waited--the Constable and his men, and the various others hoping to end the situation quickly.. and cleanly.

"From the Baron Gailen Harlav Basile.." a finely-dressed gentleman spoke to he who led the resistance, before turning and tending to the handing-out of such generously offered goods.

[Isobella]

Meanwhile there had been an ever rotating vigil of farm children, the 12 siblings of Dulcie taking their turns delivering what supplies to the cause that they could. The evenings would often find a few of them lingering on the outside of the cordon, watching for any change in development. They were a fairly bright bunch of young people, having figured out quickly between the absence of their sister and her location on that day before the hostages were taken that she had to be one of them.

[Wendy]

The outpouring of effort from all walks is breathtaking. None of those people, inside or out of the counting house, could have expected this great answer to need as the days of a standoff continue. Mrs. Calomel has several thank yous to express and a list of them is piling up in a leather-bound log at the tea house. (She will begin with writing letters of appreciation on Sunday.)

Mr. Draez, among other pairs of hands, has been useful and kind in taking belongings to the trusted site of constables, some safe feet away from the true start of the cordon. Some of those helpers have reported back that there is more in the way of food and supplies that is coming in from other people.

And food! The letter from Mrs. Drivel was given to her hand, and a response was quickly made. Time is unfriendly when help is desperately needed and providers tarry. A brief note is sent to the councilor's wife explaining that she's given her a list and a schedule to follow - that she should forward both to the people of the church that would be honoring the Wood with these acts of benevolence. Hopefully, the Tubbians will find that they can do as they have promised - but, in the meanwhile, there are still others that are delivering food in what quantities they are able to share.

For once, Myrken Wood seems to be taking care of its own and there is no need for an outsider's great burst of generosity - most of which seem to come with a debt of grattitude attached. No, this time, it is the people and the government, and they are working together for the sake of lives that are worth keeping.

It is a refreshing awareness for this woman who witnesses what work it is to manage and nurture the region on a daily basis - witnesses this done with such altruism that manages to remain intact even through the worst of trials.

Smiling to herself, the governess arranges work with people that are glad to participate in this event - that are praying and hoping for its successful conclusion. It is an impressive response that they are seeing - the beauty of which is something she can't wait to share with Cinnabar when the day is through.

[Ymir]

Standing outside the now empty counting house, the Mul studied the remnants of the building with a certain degree of curiousity. Crumbled bricks here, broken windows there, a missing roof, and a few doors that hung limply on broken hinges. Distress had a home here, and havoc was a close relative to all the rubble nearby. It sired this destruction, birthed it painfully over the course of a week. A fine period of gestation for any action. The Mul had seen his share of sieges as a Gray Lancer, and always hated the wait.

The wait was what made his blood boil. It made emotions spill over like hot oil, scalding the surface of his skin and urging him into action. In another life he'd known when he had to kill. He knew the dates, and had been able to prepare for them. A siege was similar, but there was an element of unpredictability to it. It did not always end in violence, but you had to be always ready for it. Ready to spill blood and have your own blood spilled in turn. Death pulling so many close to her breast, like thousands of nursing piglets, fattened for the slaughter.

He stepped past the broken doors, the scent hitting him like a sledgehammer as he crossed the threshhold. It reeked of feces, urine, and vomit. The musky fragrance of unwashed bodies, of dried blood and rotting corpses, of death, touched him. In truth...it reminded him of home so very much. A nostalgic man, he was not, but standing in the darkness, despite the daylight, a wave of memories overtook him. His eyes closed for but a moment as he lost himself in the miasma of time. The most recent memory had been the day before. Where emotions outweighed rational thought. Where a sense of honor had him charging headlong into a psionic shield. He knew he'd been foolish, and there was one singular moment that had righted all that. That reminded him of who he was, and what his purpose had been, what it would always BE.

It was not when he rescued the courtesan or the barmaid. No, it had been when he'd broken a man's wrist and slit his stomach open, his entrails spilling forth, ready to be wrapped around his neck like a noose and then tossed the body aside like a doll. The killing calmed him. It made sense to him and spoke to him in ways that most other functions could not. It had been his sweet mistress in younger years, and he resigned himself, so long ago, to be her lover after a long battle of wills.

Ascending now to the second floor, he roamed the corridors of the building, his eyes picking up an artifact here, or a piece of evidence there that gave some notice to the horror that happened here. The walls had been painted with blood in some spaces, pieces of clothing, pieces of hair lay strewn about in some wild vortex of pain and misery. All the while his nose twitched as though it could glean some truth from the aroma's it absorbed.

Suddenly, he found himself in an open area. The sun shining down and touching upon the hairless crown of his head. He breathed in the air so very slowly and, reminded of home, a rumble started deep in his chest until sepulchral tones left his mouth. "Hello Grandfather", as his head turned up to meet the rays of sun, his crimson gaze seeking the light.

His commune with the sun would not take long. It was a simple half-dwarf, basking in the rays of the sun that heated skin so used to the ever burning kiss of that gaseous ball in the sky.

Now he was leaving the building, crossing the street, winding his way through town until he found his way back to the teahouse. His thoughts turned to the barmaid, appreciative of the tight-knit family she had to stem the tide of black thoughts in her head. As he ascended the steps into the upper area of the teahouse, he would attend to one who seemed to have few. Waiting on the courtesan Daveney and watching as she fought dark memories he knew...oh so well.

[Cinnabar]

It had ended, predictably enough, in bloodshed and slaughter. The important distinction - the detail that made the difference between victory and disaster - had been whose.

A week-long siege, seven days of tension, fear and impotent anger, had ended when a number of factors had combined. Collided. First, the failing of that sorcerous shield that had defended the renegades for so long, had allowed them to lash out with crossbows and arrogant demands while remaining immune to retaliation.

On the seventh day, as the authorities had seemed about to grant the Negociantes their demands of horses, coin and safe passage, it had flickered, faltered, and at last failed. Portals opened over head, spewing out lashing chains which assailed the shield in the moments before it fell; rumours speak of some disturbance within the building, some horrific incursion that distracted the renegades enough to leave their hostages almost entirely unguarded; from the outside, though, the assault was no less fierce, a wave of wrath seven days in the building, held off until that moment when it came crashing down upon the besieged counting-house the Governor, the Militia, the Shepherd Knights and the Constabulary stormed the now-vulnerable building, tearing bars from the windows, overrunning barricades, sweeping through the building like a tide.

Many of the renegades were slain outright; the rest were overpowered and captured as they attempted to flee into Myrken's streets, the cordon that had served for so long to keep bystanders out proving admirably efficient at keeping the routed soldiers in. The renegade leader, now named as Conrad Mazian of the mercenary Negociantes da Morte, was confronted and arrested by the Governor himself. From one of the rescued hostages comes the tale behind their precipitate arrival in Myrken Wood - a wedding the Negociantes were employed to protect, attacked by assassins within the crowd; the mercenaries' indiscriminate slaughter of any who came close, assailants, guests, members of the nobility among them, until the crowd turned in outrage upon the Negociantes themselves; their subsequent flight northward, away from the retribution that would surely follow, until they arrived at Myrkentown's gates.

Those of the mercenaries who remain alive languish in the Constabulary's cells; their trial is expected to be brief, their sentences final. There is scant room for doubt of their collective complicity in acts of murder, kidnap and assault, and little question of the punishment thus warranted.

The cordon is dismantled, though the counting-house remains roped off for now, wrecked and near-ruinous as it is. Traffic flows unimpeded once more through Myrken's streets, citizens return to homes and businesses after a week's unexpected absence. Signs of the long stand-off remain in the form of checkpoint-markers still pasted to walls, side-alleys still part-blocked by whatever improvised barricades would prevent townsfolk from stumbling into the middle of things, but even now, Myrkentown begins to heal, and recover.

On the decking in Market Square, carpenters begin construction of a sturdy scaffold.