IR: April 14th, AR 207

IR: April 14th, AR 207

Postby Vanidor » Tue Apr 17, 2007 1:20 pm

Aeryn Karloinger sat within his darkened office, gazing out the window into the illuminated streets of an early evening in Myrkentown. Fingers were steepled before his face, fingers rythmically rocking upwards and down as he contemplated the report before him. Sergeant Coplin had delivered it to his desk nearly a half hour ago, having simply set it down on the desk with a hard look to his weary and weathered face, saluted, and then departed. The Captain had barely had to look at the thing past the first page to understand why his man had been so ill tempered with the news within, yet he had read the whole of it because he had too.

Incident Report: 14th Day of April, AR 207

Today a band of militiamen that had been 'defending' one of the farms left vacant by the so called "Pritchites" was encountered by a troop of soldiers led by Brother-Corporal Xavier Quentin. They had been previously noticed by Brother-Sergeant Gerhard Tomas when his troop had been in the area two weeks prior and had been observed to 'take their ease when they should have been studiously and viligantly sweeping the location' (please ref. the Action Report filed by Sergeant Tomas on the 29th day of March, AR 207). So as this was the same company of men, numbering perhaps twenty or so militiamen, Corporal Quentin decided to take his five men into the yard and see what they were doing.

When they arrived at the farmhouses' main yard they found the detrius of two weeks worth of eating and spoil. As if the militiamen had decided to use the farmhouse as their base of operations for the region. Upon seeing the Brotherhood Guards enter the courtyard, ten of the militiamen came stumbling out of the house in various states of disarray, as if they had slept in their clothing for the last week without finding the decency to at least brush it down. Corporal Quentin then noticed a poorly dug latrine, by sight and smell, and immediately requested to speak to the man put in charge of this detatchment of the Myrken Militia. Soon enough, a heavy-set man with wide shoulders came out of a second building on the property and marched directly towards our Guardsmen.

He introduced himself the man in charge of the troop of twenty, tasked with protecting the farm they were in as well as the surrounding four in a twenty mile radius. He called himself 'Corporal; Darryl Ruthvin and carried himself like a former soldier. It was noticed that a few of the other miltiamen, as the rest of the group seemed to be filtering out of the other houses, were a bit squeamish at this fact. Corporal Quentin then set about asking this man, Ruthvin, about the status of the surrounding farms and if there was anything suspicious that the Brotherhood needed to know about. The usual drill that we, each and all, go about when encountering our so called 'brothers' who also defend this province.

Ruthvin answered with derision that there was naught that the Brotherhood could do for them, and that they could simply just 'mosey on their way' out of 'their territory' and that they 'did not need the assistance of outsiders' in the defense of their own lands. As this has been a common trend lately, the Corporal took it with good grace, and then asked Ruthvin if they wished assistance in lengthening thier latrine pit, as the smell was truly noticeable as the day was slowly becoming warmer. Surely a longer, and perhaps deeper pit dug on the otherside of the house would be better for them and their health. Also, the Corporal was willing to leave them their extra ration packs, as they had packed for a week's rotation but were slated for only a three day ride.

It was here that the so called Corporal Ruthvin became agitated and started screaming at our men, waving his hand and becoming threatening. At this several, but not all it should be noted, of the militiamen were seen to find their weapons and start to advance upon Corporal Quentin and his men forcing the Corporal and his men to draw their sabres and start backing away from the encounter as per Standing Order 210. In short order, the miltia had their pikes and scythes and few spears in a rough circle around the corporal who was attempting to diffuse the situation.

The situation changed when a spear was thrown, and took Brother Swentin Jacobs in the chest, dropping him from his saddle and killing him. It is not known which of the militiamen threw the spear, nor if it was out of anger of fear, but the end result was the same either way. With one of our own murdered, the Corporal ordered the attack against the ill-trained militia. Of the twenty militiamen who had been 'stationed' at the farm, thirteen were slain and the rest either captured or surrendered, all but two of them wounded. Our own losses were severe as well, as Corporal Quentin was also slain and every other man suffered injuries from the encounter.

The surviving militia have been detained at the farmhouse, and another troop of Guardsmen dispatched to further investigate the scene. The reports recieved from the remainder of Quentin's troop suggest that the man Ruthvin, who was one of the first of the militia to be slain, had actually slaughtered the previous man set in charge by 'General' Eriks and by fear forced the whole of the troop to live off the empty property and goods for the last month, and that none of the surrounding farms had seen aught but our own patrols in a longer time than that, suggesting that this troop of militia had been performing their lackluster duties in this manner for more than the month suggested by the survivors.

I have put a stamp on the news of their deaths for the time being, and am starting to circulate a rumour suggesting that a band of cutthroats had attacked the men there and did most of the knifework. It is my suggestion that we silence the remaining militiamen to bring the bodycount into collusion with the rumour. The troop who went to the farmhouse are my own, and will do so willingly to both support the morale of the township and both Militia and Brotherhood.

I await your word.

Lieutenant Jons Feul.


Here. Another hour had passed since the thing had been brought to him, and Aeryn had continued to gaze out of the window and into the darkening night. When had the sun dropped below the horizon? He hadn't noticed, but knew that he had to make a decision. Agnieszka would propably geld him if she ever discovered this report. Or the others that like it that had blow out of proportion.

Thankfully such things were rare. He had expected Pride to get in the way of duty here, and for the most it was good natured ribing from both sides of the coin. Yet, this was the third time that such a thing had occured, and it would be the third time that Aeryn would reach for the crimson inkwell reserved for such information. Thankfully, it would render the ink invisible until the recipient brought the colour out of the parchment. With a sigh, Aeryn put quill to paper.

Adon have mercy upon our souls, but do it. Do it quietly, and make it look like the Mont'Kai cultists from up in Jaheuss did it, ritualized killing and dismemberment. You know what to do.

And there it was, neither signed nor addressed, yet sealed with an everyday nub of blue wax and sealed without a seal to denote who it had come from. He would drizzle sand down over the ink, which served to dry it as well as create the reaction that made the ink invisible. Then next, a whistle directed into the hall would bring one of his runners into his room, and a quick word would have the missive delivered to the cook... From there, well, it was sufficent to know that within the hour a man would ride from the barracks to head into the farmland around the town, and in short order seven men would be killed, all to preserve the fragile veneer of morale that gripped the province.

Yet before that would happen, and after the report was deposited into a magically sealed lockbox, Aeryn would set his face into his palms and silently weep for the seven he just added to the previous nine.

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire


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