On the Wind

On the Wind

Postby Michael Renne » Mon Jan 22, 2007 8:16 am

"Oh! Joshua! Have you ever seen so much blood?"

Ben Glass looked to his playmate with a mixture or horror and outright fascination in his wide umber eyes. The breeze tossled uneven hanks of dirt brown hair, dotting them with snow. A moment later a hand slapped at the back of his head.

"Oy! Mom! That hurt!"

"Benjamin, you will show respect for the dead. I'll not have you speaking ill of this poor woman, now come along. This is not for us to see."

"Buuuut Moooooom!"

Bem hollered a bit as they walked away, his mum tugging at his ear all the way.

Joshua Gran watched them go, for a moment, but soon enough his pale green eyes return to the twisted body beside the yet to open bakery. People were beginning to gather. He grew more uncomfortable by the moment, suddenly fearing that perhaps one of the grown-ups would find a way to blame him for the young woman's death. The thin boy finally got up the nerve to do what he had wanted to do since they had found the body perhaps a half an hour before. He reached down and carefully drew closed her eyes.

"Gods, please take her to you that she may rest in peace."

And with that the young man was making his way through the growing crowd, unwilling to let them see how much this had effected him.

"By the All Mighty, Sven! What happned here?"

Martha Kingsforth sounded disgusted, but she too could not tear her eyes away from the scene of a lovely young woman twisted in ways that simple murder would not allow.

"Martha, you worry too much over things that are not your concern."

With that, the old man is half-dragging his wife away from the scene. For each that leaves it seems two more take their place.

"John, what do you think happened? She jump?"

The young lady is dressed in her Sunday best, a lovely little calico print frock of blue with matching headscarf. For the most part, the dress is unmarred, but the headscarf will never be the same. It has accepted the huge offering of blood which seems to be slowly creeping from the unseen wound in her skull. What remains is simply more than the scarf can absorb. It spills out in a horrid dark pool beneath her head.

"No. No way she jumped, Clyde. Look how far away she is from the building. If she'd jumped she would have landed in Bromn's flower bed. She's halfway into the street for crying out loud."

Sure enough, the girl was much too far away from the building to be a jumper. It seemed that she had been...thrown from the rooftop.

"Shame. Young thing. Pretty too. Reckon we should summon someone. Maybe the folks at the Rememdium will know what to do."

Slowly the crowd began to dispurse. Their curiosity sated for the time. Janice Fines remaind upon the road, with no one to tell her tale.
The light in the window is a crack in the sky
A stairway to darkness in the blink of an eye
A levee of tears to learn she'll never be coming back
The man in the dark will bring another attack
Your momma told you that you're not supposed to talk to strangers
Look in the mirror tell me do you think your life's in danger here

No more tears
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Michael Renne
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A less than timely response.

Postby Vanidor » Mon Jan 22, 2007 6:13 pm

The response came a little while later, a patrol of Brotherhood guardsmen on horseback. They pushed their way through the crowd with their horses. then coming to a stop once they reached the scene itself. One, who had a kit that was still pristine and new, leaned over the side of his horse and vomited noisily. The corporal in charge of the patrol raised a hand, then flashed two fingers. A pair of soldiers peeled away from the others and rode hard for the Remedium. He doubted there was anything he could do for the girl, but at the least -they- knew what would need to be done with the body.

"Blood flaming mess. Get the last of these gawkers out of here, and see if anyone knows the boy that was seen here first." The corporal pursed his lips, and then looked at the building. He knew it was newly purchased, and by odd coincidence knew who owned it as well. Mystery surrounded the man that had purchased the building, much like it did half of the notable folk who lived here. It's what made Myrken so flaming interesting. "Tannison. Go to the Barracks and get Sergeant Rautha, or anyone one of his mob. Tell 'em I sent you... And get yourself cleaned up." The young man, still a boy really, nodded and wiped off his lip with the cuff of his grey coat.

Then, with the rest of his men dismounting and starting to disperse the crowd with a mix of questions and force, the corporal turned about in his saddle and once again eyed the building and then the cold body that lay halfway in the street. "Gods above, this place is insane...." Then with a turn, his horse stepping carefully over the cobblestone. "All right! Let's get this place cleaned up!"

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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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed Jan 24, 2007 2:50 pm

It had been a sombre Bromn with whom Ariane had met, on the evening of this incident. A Bromn clad in sturdy garments of a morbidly charcoal hue; a man with little laughter for his mismatched eyes, little pleasure in him at all, and so very quiet on the cause of it. Hours had passed before, following a sojourn in the Governor's home, he had explained himself: that there had been this dreadful ... mess. This poor, broken girl. This corpse, flung from the very roof of his bakery.

Fallen, she had corrected, in sympathy and growing disquiet.
No, he had insisted: Thrown, and not realising in the slightest that he'd echoed a promise once hissed into her ear, a plea once breathed from her own foolish lips. Not by any means understanding her quiet shock.

And quite unaware of what would follow the very next day. This matter had demanded certain actions, from a woman familiar with the ways of Myrken's authorities, with the ... prejudices of its would-be Governor. There had been some small, ferocious confrontation in the Broken Dagger's commons, the night before this murder, and she could not quite risk the fact becoming common knowledge. There had been those words, and a wanted man had been let to walk free, after she'd had her knife at his throat, and --

And so she had spoken at some heated, dire length with Councilor Treadwell, and had extracted what promises from him that she could; had demanded silence, in such terms that over the weeks yet to come, he may actually comply with them. And as for Ariane...

"Why will you not kill me?" the monster had whispered one night, as they'd sat together upon that distant rooftop. "Or will you wait until I have done something so horrible that you will have no choice?"
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