[OOC NOTE: Slight edit to remove the specific day from the thread title, just in case.]
Notes had been sent out with some urgency over the last day and a half, or thereabouts.
Be at the Meetinghouse, they said.
Come vote on something of dire importance, they said.
Fulfill your rightful civic duties to Myrken Wood, they said.
Of course, despite the lingering heat outside, Aloisius Horatio Treadwell would be there tonight, dressed seriously and somberly, in a simple black robe and sash. His accompanying floppy black hat hangs on a rack by the one chair large enough, cushiony enough, and sturdy enough to seat him at the meetinghouse table--a table quickly converted to one part meeting table, with parchment, ink, and quills for notes at each seat, and one part dining table, with every seat having easy access to a seemingly endless array of cut sandwiches, delicate slices of meats and cheeses, and a variety of things green that some might relegate to mere "rabbit food."
Thus does Treadwell putter wheezily about the room, pipe between his lips, hands resting on his monumental gut, his usual limp more pronounced without his cane handy.
"The lights!" the old butterball squeaks, and soon he is toddling about the room, patiently igniting lamps, candles, and lanterns.