The #Broken_Dagger Forum

This was not Glenn Burnie's Myrken Wood.

The streets were kept clean, windows scrubbed and sparkling. It was extra work, certainly, but there had always been those who needed a job and the Foundation could pay them well enough for the work.

The children - street rats and urchins mixed in with merchant's sons and daughters - were well occupied with their schooling, under the instruction of a gentleman from Razasan and Myrken Wood's own Marshall.

There were parties, yes. Lavish affairs and small, intimate gatherings. Elaborate balls for those suited to such things and bonfires and line dances for the rest. There was also aid for those in need, whether the helping hand of a neighbor or a well-timed donation from the Foundation, either in the form of money or strong hands to do what needed to be done.

Perhaps there had been murmurings from some when the Marshall began wearing dresses but really, what was that in comparison to a healthy harvest, children with their bellies full, and perhaps a bit to spend on extras? Life in Myrken Wood was better than it had ever been. There were no plagues, no drought, no drow or fiends or Baie. There was plenty of food and more art and music than there had ever been. And those few who were not content with such things rapidly became so.

All it had taken was a nudge here and there. Most people hadn't been touched at all, for most people could see what was in their best interests.

This was not Glenn Burnie's Myrken Wood.

It was altogether better.

When a society is not concerned with drought, with famine, with plague, with overdue harshness, perhaps then it can begin enjoying and employing the lighter things. Wives may find leeway to visit one another. Children may find cause to abandon little chores, engage in small mischiefs that might cause waggling heads and lectures, but not be met with fists and angry words and hungry bellies.

And there are the parties. The balls. The hooves of fine horses and the squeak of little dog-carts, the artistry of flutter and flash of arriving just so, not too early, not too late, arriving just as conversations die, and slipping out when one is weary, to be spoken of in wistful terms.

They were irresistible.

At first, there are one or two instances. The uninvited would never be turned away, of course, and though he was frozen and quiet and dared do nothing, he was still there. The hulking madman. Catch, in his clean, coarse linen, the golden collar about his neck, his face shining with inexpert scrubbing, a lean, horrible, wolf-hungry look on his face as he watched quietly from doors, from windows.

Best to ignore him. Best to not risk his ire.

And with each passing party, he grew more bold. He began to take the dainty sandwiches and cakes, and though he nibbled upon them daintily enough at first, he soon began cramming them into his mouth, uncouth and unsettling. His eyes traveled rudely over the pretty women and their pretty dresses, staring in that dull, doe-eyed way that caused shudders and whispers. A time or two, a man may speak harshly, and rightly so, to the man, and the hulking beast at once would become contrite, apologetic, and flee, tail tucked between his proverbial legs.

He might as well have one, the way he acts the beast.

Those incidents caused him to brood, as he scrubbed floors and tended the Gardens, and chopped wood. They were one more anger in the pit of his belly. They were one more boldness to add to fires and secret insect-slayings at nights.

Soon enough, almost every party but the most guarded could find themselves gripped, trapped, by the madman, who found time, made time, to get what he wanted. He would devour the food, monopolizing the tables. He would, in the same breath, compliment the cakes, and - like a child, looking a man fully in the eye - he would take the pieces of them off a cowering woman's plate.

Sometimes he did not like the tea, and he would, being certain, first, that he was watched, shatter the delicate porcelain cups in pointed falls. Sometimes he would like the tea, and do just the same.

He would reach out to rub silks between his rough fingers, tearing snags in the delicate cloth, and huskily tell the ladies that they wore such finery that they must be whores. Never did it come to blows, but when a man simply refused to let this go on any longer, Catch would gaze at him with a lingering, smug little look, a toddler's certainty. He would go.

He never caused incident, nothing to have a Constable called, or to cause a man to claim insult. He was here, after all, to eat the cakes, and watch the dancers, and drink the tea. To enjoy himself, as any Myrkener had a right to do. He was a festering wound in Myrken's party scene, and with each bit of fear, each inaction, he grew only bolder.

There may not have been incidents quite enough to merit a complaint, but that did not mean that such actions went unnoticed. This resulted, eventually, in Constable Alla Breve standing to one side as Rhaena Burnie had her hair done, reeling off a rather lengthy list with one name frequently repeated.

Catch.

The gowned woman sighed, watching the constable in the mirror as the girl behind her tugged and twisted and pinned bronze locks into an impressive and intricate pattern.

"Go find Dulcie Miller, constable. Please ask her to visit me at her earliest convenience."