Notes and Announcements

Notes and Announcements

Postby Treadwell » Mon Oct 14, 2013 7:01 am

Taking the role of Acting Governor Treadwell has been busy these last few days. Bobbling around the town, talking to citizens about this missing spot of time in the ledgers of all, learning what little details could be found about injuries sustained and a death attained.

Today, this fourteenth of the tenth month of 213, Treadwell finds himself back at the Meetinghouse, settled into his comfy seat in his Councilor's Office--no moving a chair that size and cushiony by himself at his age!--and writing notes to send out by a well-paid lad of the town.

The first goes in multiple copies to all of his colleagues seated on or affiliated with the Council--Ariane, Agnieszka, Berdini, and the rest, even if they so rarely make appearances.

= = = = =

To all who receive this letter,

I'm hoping to make better sense of this whole messy business now that it's seen some manner of resolution. I bear no ill will to any who was under such close control by the deceased Rhaena Olwak. However, we must resume the task of overseeing this province as our requirements dictate. As Acting Governor, I henceforth call upon each of you either to see me directly this week at the Meetinghouse or to respond by writing about what date and time is convenient for you to do so. Ideally, I would much rather host a proper Council meeting to discuss plans for the immediate present and time to come, particularly with regards about getting everything back in order so that Glenn Burnie doesn't return home to a dreadful mess at his place of work.

Aloisius Horatio Treadwell, Acting Governor, Councilor of Revenue and Finance

= = = = = =

Otherwise, a quickly scrawled note, stamped with the appropriate Governor's seal if it's anywhere to be found in the Meetinghouse, goes out to the town criers, particularly to the one he trusts most, one Jack Alldale by name. It is to be shouted above the streets, of course, but arrangements are also made to have it posted about town as soon as possible.

= = = = = =

By order of Aloisius Treadwell, Acting Governor, the recent laws about clothes, foods, appearances of shops and market stalls, habits of bodily cleanliness, etc., as well as their consequences of indentured servitude, time in the stocks, fines, taxes, levies, fees, etc., are henceforth removed from the legal code. Concerned townsfolk may come to discuss these matters with Acting Governor Treadwell at the Meetinghouse as necessary, in an orderly and peaceful fashion.

= = = = = =
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Re: Notes and Announcements

Postby catch » Mon Oct 14, 2013 7:30 am

The stunned silence of the past few days lingered. Those who had been swained were slow to recover; some continued along their mental paths, mechanical beasts without a driver. Others wept without knowing why. There were suicides, here or there, bleak-eyed men and women who were found with throats and wrists slit in such a manner to leave a beautiful corpse, still unable to shake free of what had been done to them. The scruffy, the unfortunate, the fringes of society - and those who simply had not enough coin - did their best to pick up the mess, scrubbing blood and brains from the streets.

Pulling their lives back together.

They listened to the criers, to Jack Alldale and his sort.

The stun, the sting, began to fade.

In it's place came a great and terrible rage.

________________________________

The crowd in front of the Metting House was massive, disorderly, full of the well-off and the beggar alike, farmers and tradesmen together, their voices lifted in a dull, furious roar. They pushed and shoved at one another, the well-to-do flinching, but unable to break themselves from the contact, for they had dared not wear their silks or furs, and dared not bring body-guards. It was best to let it be assumed that they were humble petitioners, only.

"Look at my girl!" one ragged harridan screamed, thrusting a grand-daughter forward with a protective arm, an angry, red welt distorting her pale skin, eyes wide with fright. "'Ow is she s'pposed t'find a 'usband? 'Ow is she t'be properly married -!"

"Five 'undred gold," bellowed another man, a fistful of papers clutched in his ham-thick fist, his sons arranged around him - thick farmer-stock, all. "Five 'undred gold I lost, with stores full o' silks an' tea instead of good, wholesome bread, with winter comin' up an' frost already on th' mountains -!"

"They killed my boy! They killed my boy! 'ang 'em, 'ang 'em all!" screamed another, froth at his lips, eyes gone mad from seeing his only boy to pass the Flux beaten to splinters by sneering Civil Constables, because his shoes had mud and his hair was unkempt.

This cry, this cry of retribution, of revenge, was a dull and bloody undercurrent to the roar - hang them, hang every single one, every civil constable, every participant, everyone involved - a chant that was picked up, that wound through the cries for payment, for gold, for food, for shelter. It is the young that find this cry most appealing to them, sliding down their throats, settling in bitter lines. Sons, brothers, young fathers, blood and shadows pounding through them, they each found a lovely accord in one another, in muttering, whispered conversation.

Plans to be made.
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Re: Notes and Announcements

Postby Treadwell » Mon Oct 14, 2013 9:41 am

Pirates, he'd dealt with.

Political corruption, literal backstabbing, rivals maneuvering for power, an assassination attempt or two on his own life, he'd dealt with.

General grumblings over taxes, boats driven by drunken sailors crashing into docks, bad shipments of food and drink and purchased goods, he'd dealt with these, too.

A mob of angry citzens who had been jerked and twisted about for the last few months, some made to believe they were living in a fantasy world under the guidance of their Lady, and others suffering the injuries and, yes, occasional deaths from such?

He hasn't dealt with that yet.

Aloisius Horatio Treadwell--born of Westenford, transplanted to Myrken Wood, and current sole authority figure the province has with good health and a body sitting in the Meetinghouse chambers--peers up from his office desk as the noise and uproar stir outside. Of course he hears the cries and calls, the frustrations voiced, the mourning expressed.

"Well, old belly, so much for their being orderly and peaceful, hm hm?"

A frown brings fluffy mustache drooping.

"The constables are still in mucked up disarray. Ariane has the militia with her, I'd wager. And, hmm hmm, here I am, fat, elderly, and wealthy."

Chair legs squeak as Treadwell pushes himself to his feet and takes up his cane. Pudgy fingers rub wrinkles from the front of his black vest.

"You're one damned large target for 'em, Aloisius, if you don't try to do something. They're likely to raze this Meetinghouse to the ground with you in it, mmph mmph."

A chuckle brings a peculiar mirth to him, a light bounce to his lumbering steps.

"It wouldn't be the first time someone's set this place on fire, dear boy! Merely the first time someone's been in it!"

He stops, though, in the Council meeting room.

"And what will you do, hmm? Merely wave a hand and tell 'em all to go home, that all will be well, that crops will appear in their barns and their children will be whole and healthy by morning?"

Aloisius Treadwell frowns again, staring toward the front door, where, on the other side, a human monster with its dozens of arms waves and roars. A sniffing, a snuffing, a straightening up of his not even five and a half feet, a scratching at his bulbous gut, a straightening of his top hat and vest.

To the door the big, black-suited butterball wobbles, opening it inward with a calm seriousness to his face.

To begin, he politely clears his throat.

To speak, he manages a reasonably audible bellow above the din, drawing on theatrical voice projection mannerisms unused for decades--quite the difference from his usual aged squeak.

"People of Myrken Wood! I will help each of you as I can," a thump-thump of gloved fist to chest as a cough threatens to harrumph forth, "but I must be allowed to work with each of you in turn! We will find what answers we can, and my office is open for peaceful discussion, but there will be no talk of hanging aught of us, hmm hmm!"

For one, no rope would hold me, and no gallows trapdoor would fit me.

He extends his hand toward the family nearest, waving them closer--the man and granddaughter wondering of how she would be married off with her injuries.

"One family at a time, if you please. I'll be here all night to help find answers, and tomorrow, and the next day, and later, mmph mmph, if that's what it takes."

Another wave inward toward man and granddaughter, a slight sidestep backward into the Meetinghouse--his other hand, the one with the cane, behind the door, poised to slam the thing if he must so he can bar it and not continue being a big, fat target.
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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Re: Notes and Announcements

Postby Treadwell » Mon Oct 14, 2013 1:59 pm

It was a very long afternoon that turned into a very long evening. A surprising number of townsfolk lined up neatly and orderly enough; they stayed reasonably well put as Treadwell worked to relieve fears and give what aid he felt necessary. To some, this was money. While sums of hundreds of shillings certainly couldn't be paid out as relief, some money could be paid out in small quantities--partly from the Council coffers, partly from a box of his own money he keeps at the Meetinghouse just in case. It might have been a pittance by comparison to their losses for some, but it was an appropriate gesture, a showing that the tax collector did indeed understand something of financial hardship even if he didn't look as if he did at all.

For others, the concerns were physical. Injuries from the much misguided Civil Constables, who hardly lived up to their title. Apologies were given; suggestions of treatment at the Rememdium or the local churches were made; again, a minor amount of funding could be spared to help with something of that. Again, that same gesture of attempting to look out for the citizenry without coming off as the gluttonous, self-centered elite.

For a sad, miserable few, the wounds were emotional. Family members beaten beyond recognition or, in the one case at least, to death. Again, the distasteful work of the Civil Constables. All that could be offered there was a soothing voice, one man's warm and flabby hands atop shaking others, perhaps an embrace or a drink to calm nerves. Assurances could be made that such wouldn't ever happen again or to another, but that simply couldn't bring back health or vitality.

For some, though, no assurances or monies or words were ever allowed to be offered. They left the Meetinghouse at the Acting Governor's request for peaceful, rotating, routine assembly, for whatever misguided ends. Treadwell had to make a jot of a note to remind himself to have the Constables and Militia step up their protective duties, at least for these next few days.

The entire evening left Aloisius Horatio Treadwell feeling horribly ill within.

What was given financially, in all cases, was strictly from the province's current excess finances if it wasn't from Treadwell's own. It meant something a little closer to security for some. What was given emotionally was from the old man's own reserves. So it is that, in the late evening, with half a mug of wine just drained to burn in the belly and a pipe lit to glow at his lips, the black-suited Treadwell finally plodded out of the Meetinghouse, locking it behnd him, to make for his reasonably near toy shop for the night--a place of sanctuary, of comfort.
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium
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