Myrkentown: A Tempest and a Teacup.

[Carnath-Emory]

It's been a hectic few weeks, oh Faith, yes. This is the general consensus when the fires have burned themselves out, and a sleepy-eyed population is greeted by another sweltering dawn. Hectic. Why, you'd think this was Thessilane, not little Myrken Wood; you'd think this was grand New Dauntless! Except that here, the ladies don't prance about in silk and fragrance, and the only dashing fops are those seated on the Judiciary. Well, and it's been a violent sort of hectic, hasn't it?

Violence, in the shape of an epidemic that claimed some twenty lives before the Flux had vanished from their lands and their lungs. There'd been offerings left on the Rememdium's dirt path: bolts of old cotton, jugs of water and strong wine; some misguided fellow has even left a set of rusty knives, which the Doctor will surely discard as inappropriate for surgery. Twenty lives, and perhaps even more than that. They'd come to help the cleaning, afterwards, quiet and haggard folk well-educated in the scrubbing of blood from walls. Myrken's seen a lot of blood, these last years.

Violence, in the shape of an outlandish broadsword and its maddening song. Thirty-one had died that morning, or something like that number, for the savagery of the riot had made it difficult to count the bodies, let alone identify them. Thirty-one dead, and many, many more wounded. The crimson words engraved into that monstrous blade had seemed to taunt them, as they dragged away the dead, with little but choked sobs to break the silence.

Violence, in the shape of fire. This, at least, they'd been able to fight. Oh, it had been too late for the Baker's farm, too late for the Kaczmarek's home, and four others besides. But Myrken Wood is not without its means, and in the absence of aid from Straka, the Myrken Militia had called its members to action once again. They are an odd and motley assembly: old men surely too decrepit to fight -- but with a veteran's canny gleam in their watery eyes; young lads whose only knowledge of war is their grandfather's tales, but who still won't step aside when their land's in such dire need. These are men -- and even women, in theory discouraged, but accepted all the same -- who remember the flood; this is a Militia which had weathered the Baie. They'd fought under the banner of General Eriks, years ago, had fought aside the well-trained troops of Thessilane and the Grey Lancers, and none of them have forgotten that.

So there's been hard, stubborn work amidst the violence. While peasantry labour at raising barns and gathering grains for those left homeless, the Militia had scattered across the town, to knock on doors and speak with the heads of each household. Buckets, they said. Ladders. Fire-hooks in case of falling lumber, and dry earth to be kept in easy reach, for there's no sand to be had, this far inland. And you keep an eye out, they say most sternly, and your ears sharp, for these fires weren't set by no ordinary means.

No doubting that. They'd all seen that barn.

Preparations are made, and there's talk of fetching water from the Sagpa and Mavoiir rivers -- but even as they agree that this is a fine idea, there's not a man who doesn't realise this water will prove more useful for drink, than fighting flames. It's become hot, of a sudden, suffocatingly hot, and the men and women of Myrken know their fields -- and the signs of drought. But there's more talk as well: of regular patrols for the evenings, two-man teams to walk amongst the fields and look sharp for signs of spark or conflagration. This is a possibility that will be realised by the week's end, and by dawn next a pair of lads have been sent to the church, there to stand duty by the twin bells, Iona and Oban. When next the fires come -- for in such heat, the question is 'when', rather than 'if' -- the town will be warned.

An industrious week, then, for the Militia -- but still, certain facts have not gone unnoticed. Where is the Judiciary? Councilor Roschen's part in recent events is well known and, in some cases, gratifying. But most recent rumours place Lothbury behind impassable barricades, the Governor in a Rememdium sickbed, and the remaining Councilors beyond mortal reach. More importantly, given recent events, where is Straka? Their reassurances about the crops were met with gratitude of course, until the fields had begun to burn. The very fact of their presence had been well-received as ever, until swords had sung and men had begun to choke on their own blood. Hundreds dead and injured. Five homes burned to the ground. Why does Straka not act? It has become Myrken's Unanswered Question, one of many, but more easily spoken of than most.

The phrases employed to do so have become increasingly vulgar. Behind closed doors, in ruined fields and on bloodsoaked land, tempers have begun to boil over. It's no surprise that little attention is yet paid to the whisper of children who believe that fletcher's sons can fly...

[Tyralor]

Myrken was home to entirely too many maladies. With the reduction of one problem, two more invariably cropped up. The townsfolk had complained about an influx of great draconian beasts, and the Order had responded, sending men to scour the countryside and rout out the beasts. They'd even had some success in their herculean efforts, with the rotting carcass of one of the fell beasts prominently displayed within the city itself.

Then there had been a sword that had sponsored a massacre. Again the Order had moved with due haste and diligence, bringing tools to construct a fence about the object to prevent the unwary from drawing close to the mysterious artifact. There, another had acted far before they'd had opportunity to and the wall of ice had brought about a pause. With such a barrier in place, they were uncertain as to how to proceed, so they'd kept a wary eye upon the area and ensured no further townsfolk had trespassed or sought to bridge the barrier. Their vigilance certainly prevented the curious from taking advantage of the breach caused by a creature of mythical nature. Once again, the sword was behind a barrier, with a fence baring entrance through the hole that had been created and men of the Order guarding it as though they would a storehouse, particularly in these trying times of shortage of crops and food.

Now there were farmers squaring off against one another, and tensions were rising for entirely domestic reasons. This was a matter that was far more natural than most events of cataclysmic proportions that plagued the region and here they could intervene more directly. Patrols were increased along the stretches of road and land between these two vying factions. Any of those attempting to disrupt the trade of farmers on either side of the fence would be met with the lawmen of Justice. A difference of opinion was insufficient grounds for victimization or extortion, and those attempting to bar trade would suffer the punishment such laws permitted. Should things become rowdier, there were more than sufficient members of the Order and militia to ensure that those attempting to skirt the law suffered the consequences of their actions. Should the puppetmaster be revealled during these activities, he too would find himself locked within the gaol. A certain Lieutenant would probably be quite pleased to discover the offending individual was a politician, rather than the suspected rich merchant siding with one lot of farmers over another.

Of course there was the concern the dry heat brought in terms of fires. Patrols had already been increased in the region of the farmers territories, and the additional vigilance they provided would support the efforts set forth by the militia. The Order themselves, with the militia's assistance would set a few controlled fires. Creating burnt strips to ensure that even should another fire ignite, there would be a limit to its ability to spread. The cadre of mages employed by the Order, led by Devry were a limited resource whose ability was exhausted quickly enough. There was no competition within their ranks, to the magical prowess of those that frequented the Dagger could provide.

Of course, the Lieutenant and Devry had made their way out to the Baker's farm once word suggesting the fire had not been natural in origin. The Lieutenant had been provided some time ago, with word of who enjoyed causing arson. More than a few buildings, including a toy shop had been burnt down, and all attributed to the drow. Unfortunately, the Order still had no proof of the culprit. Though that was what they sought now. An indication to her presence would be sufficient for charges to be brought against Jirai.

Also, there was some concern niggling at the back of the Lieutenant's mind at the silence that emenated from Councillor Guillaume's abode. Perhaps the mageling and the Lieutenant would attempt to pay that region a visit, or make the effort to scry upon the household to determine what has happened beyond the barriers.