Damn the Institution.

Damn the Institution.

Postby Suede » Sat Apr 28, 2007 12:30 am

It started outside the so-long-closed tailor shop in the Marketplace. A few dozen folk mingling around and discussing the recent events of town, not limited to the closing of all the borders by the wall. Suede Roschen, former councilor had just scaled the overhang of one of the nearby buildings and had begun speaking to the crowd as the morning mist faded off.

"Look at what they do! They try and control us, take away what few liberties we have and deny us any hope of controlling our own lives. They seal the wall they claim is here to defend us to lock us all behind it, seperated from hope and the escape many of you desire...."

And they came.

"... rumors of the convenient cultist attacks on the Militia that have instigated their demand we disband, and the sudden creation of a constable under their control. Well I'll tell you, we've seen the truth. It was the BROTHERHOOD. All a sham to remove your last abilities to defend your own homes. They want to..."

And they came.

"... leaving you helpless in the streets. You think they care as they sit around their fat fires and large meals? Look who they brought back into the council the first chance they got? Treadwell, the man who's always fatter even in famine. They devour all the food and wonder why you starve. The man disappears in the MIDDLE of his job, and the nobles just throw his position back..."

And they came.

"... moment I joined the council they began to slander MY name. Why? Because I'm not a noble, just a regular man like you who WAS able to drag himself out of the poverty they want you to be in. So they call me a criminal, they declare that I must be a traitor as well when that doesn't work. How many of you have they called traitors? Lothbury puts out warrants for anyone who's invovled with the drow. Convenient for taking in anyone they wa..."

And they came.

"... we can no longer walk the streets safe, all thanks do a governer who gave HIMSELF the position without even an election of his own. This is TYRANY, and we deserve the right to decide how we are lead. DO NO SIT DOWN AND TAKE THIS..."

And they came.

"... having TEA PARTIES. One which I attended to try and address their mockeries. But would they have it? They claimed an even so full of our 'leaders' was no place for discussion..."

And they were angry.

"... defend yourselves. If they constable or the Brotherhood demand you move, stand fast. Carry your weapons today and on, carry whatever you must. We shall not be moved, and we shall not kowtow to their needs. Anyone who wants to leave, who planned on it? ALL OF US... All of us will march you to the wall and out today. We'll burn the damn thing down if we have to."

By late morning it would be quite hard to even move admit the chaos of downtown.
"So, Lone Starr, now you see that evil will always triumph, because good is dumb."
~ Dark Helmet, Spaceballs
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Postby Altias_Bromn » Sat Apr 28, 2007 1:14 am

...and they came.

Even some who might not have been the intended audience. Some who knew the truth, or at least some portion of it, as Roschen spoke his words.

It was true, Altias Bromn had not been active in politics since his return to Myrken. Why would he have been? The position of Governor had been filled. Did he agree with the how? The why? The who? To be truthful? No. However, what could he have done? How could he have changed what had happened while he was gone? Why Roschen himself had tried to have him removed from his seat as Governor before this foul fate had befallen him at the hands of Brother Prime and the Order of the All.

The man spoke some truths, and Altias realized that perhaps the people had been ignored. Had they also been lied to? Had they also been forced away from opportunity to have their voices heard by the council?

It was a different Altias Bromn that slipped between the common men and women gathered to hear the voice of the one man they had hoped would be their voice in the council. A voice silenced...perhaps for all the wrong reasons.

"They called me mad. They said my ways were not the ways of politics. They said I could not be the voice of the common man. Tell me, Roschen...was I mad? Or was I simply another thorn to be extracted from the lion's paw?"

Queer mismatched eyes rose up to look at the tailor perched upon a rooftop. Glittering violet and green, the latter sparkling and shifting as the emotions within the once-governor warred.

A thin man, his lean frame clothed this day in blackest silks, as they had been since they day he had learned of Kerrak's death, made his way ever closer, his intention to climb the building, and join the man who had once tried to call his loyalties into question. It didn't seem to matter now, as it seemed that perhaps those the council thought mad were the only ones who weren't.

This was all he could do. This was all he owed Kerrak, and all the others who were mad enough to say...enough.

Wrong, in all the right ways
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Postby Cinnabar » Sat Apr 28, 2007 1:56 am

...and they watched.

At first it had been a couple of patrols of Street Constables, noting a crowd gathering in the street listening to the man ranting about plots and conspiracies. They'd done what was needed, politely asking those on the edges of the crowd to keep the street clear for other traffic to pass. That had worked for a while, until the crowd had swelled further. So they'd sent word to their fellows, and pulled in a few more patrols from neighbouring streets. Just to keep an eye on things.

By the time it became apparent that the man - who some of the Constables recognised as former-counciler Roschen - was well on the way to whipping the crowd into a mob, there were too many townsfolk gathered, and their mood too ugly for the woefully-outnumbered Constables to attempt to move him on. So they'd sent word again, to the Constabulary headquarters this time, and more Street Constables had gathered downtown.

They formed a thin line of dark grey tunics and steel helmets along one edge of the square, quiescent for now but alert and wary - perhaps two dozen Street Constables in all, watching a crowd of a couple of hundred. Some of them looked less than pleased at Roschen's words against them, but they made no move just yet - one leaning to murmur something to his colleague beside him; a new-arrived sergeant speaking with a few of those who had been there for longer, being appraised of the situation.

When Roschen started speaking to the crowd about weapons and marching and the crowd was filled with angry faces nodding to one another in agreement, the mood among the Constables changed from quiet vigilance to something more tense, more concerned. The sergeant - lined of face, greying at the temples beneath his helmet, the mark of a military man in his bearing and tone - spoke in a hushed, urgent voice to one of the patrols. The two Constables nodded once, glancing uncertainly at the crowd, and set off in the direction of headquarters at a jog.

When former-Governor Bromn pushed his way through the crowd to join Roschen, a couple of men in plain street clothes near the front of the crowd conferred for a moment, heads together as they whispered briefly to one another. Apparently reaching a decision, one of them - shorter, stockily built - slipped grim-faced through the gathered mass of humanity, striding away purposefully, then breaking into a run once around the corner and out of sight.

Meanwhile the Constables drew together, closing ranks, staring out over the steadily-growing sea of people.

And they watched.
Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.
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Postby Suede » Sat Apr 28, 2007 2:40 am

"Look and see!" Thet tailor would gesture towards the amassing Constables. "They're already preparing to try and stop you from WHAT IS YOURS. Forming a wall between you and your rights at the whims of politicians that DO NOT CARE."

And what was this? He heard Altias's voice down below, and when the man pushed and shoved forward to climb the makeshift stage... why the tailor offered him a hand and pulled him up, up, upwards if he so chose to accept it.

"I cannot deny your situation, sir, what quite extreme. And at the time your lacking ability to be present towards the end defied any ability before that to be the Governor we needed. But you still knew what the people wanted."

Spoken for all the crowd, whom he turned back towards and threw his arms wide.

"But yet, even when Bromn did strive for your rights, for your needs... LOTHBURY BUILT A WALL. Wasted so many coins, the rest of which disappeared mysteriously when Treadwell vanished. Coin that could have paid for the food we eat. Instead we are indebted to other natures for the meager spoils they can provide."
"So, Lone Starr, now you see that evil will always triumph, because good is dumb."
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Postby Altias_Bromn » Sat Apr 28, 2007 3:03 am

The hand was clasped. Clasped with gratitude, understanding and passion. A passion which this man might have tried to forget. A passion for these people who amassed below to hear the words of a man who might just care enough to speak for them.

With a smile he would find himself atop this roof with a man who might have wanted him dead some months ago. It seemed that perhaps they were not so different afterall.

"Mr. Roschen and I have found ourselves on different sides of the table many times, 'tis true. The one arena in which was have agreed, without fail, is that this government has not done enough for it's people. Our avenues to mend that may have differed, but the desire...the passion, remained the same. Our passion, for you. For all of you."

"What lays before us now is difficult. We face a council which is more lax now than ever before. We face council members who are not even present to hear you, better still to make a difference. And those who are present? Well, who among you has been heard?"

"I made mistakes during my time as governor, I have not, nor will I ever, deny this. My presence was not reliable. My voice was not loud enough. My ability to convey your words to those that need hear them was not yet matured. Time changes a man, makes him stronger. I have changed, my desire to help you...has not."

"I have sat back these last months and watched the few in Mykren grow fat and docile, while you...the very heart of this land...struggle and starve. You are angry. You have every right to be. Know this...*we* have heard you."

A hand would clasp the shoulder of Suede Roschen if allowed.

"This man speaks words that no other before him has had the strength to speak. He speaks words which will anger some, and inspire others. Hear him. Hear us. For you are not ignored. You are cherished by some. Change comes on the wind, my friends. Change that has waited too long."

Altias Brom would fall silent then, to await more inspiration from the once-councilor. This day would see them heard, jailed or even killed, but by the Gods this had gone on long enough. Perhaps, if nothing else, their deaths would mean something.

Wrong, in all the right ways
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Postby Wendy » Sat Apr 28, 2007 3:51 am

and they saw...

Commotion on parade, heads of henchmen hanged while still in the balance of verbal disdain. The public cry of the ex-councilor was too distant a sound to penetrate the straining ears of Madame Swinton.

She viewed him from the jam of the Tea House door, where her fatigued body propped. Her thoughts fingering the incident, she toyed with recognition while watching as townspeople gathered to the end of the street. The tailor's building milked a generous crowd from their places, it seemed. Cambree witnessed the pristine march-in of the constabulary men, and then the hastened retreat of the two once they had measured the ordeal.

and they wondered...

Unable to imagine what could be taking place, her comely features were done up with confusion. She could not ignore the odd sensation she felt moving over her skin, and neither could she give it a name.

The Madame centered herself in the opened doorway. She was tempted to step down to the street. Her girls were still sleeping, the last she checked, and the mother of all instincts wouldn't allow her to leave.

and they wondered...

A hand tearing into her loosely tangled mane, she watched the spectacle of folks coming, not going. Her lips were parched. An indicative fear grew in her belly. The heat of midday sifted through her morning attire, beckoning the cool of sweat.

It became impossible to speculate, as too many thoughts were rampant in her worried head. And she was tired. And the sun was relentless.

so, they asked...

"You, there." she called, not knowing who might heed. Her green eyes on guard for anyone who might pause and share the news, she voiced, "What is that man up to?" Her finger pointed at Roschen, though Bromn had just climbed on.

She used the other hand to banish sunlight from her gaze.
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Postby Mathieu Laurent » Sat Apr 28, 2007 4:25 am

During the height of Myrken's need, several months ago, Lothbury had bolstered the Militia's numbers with its own. Men clad in gilded maroon had lent their considerable expertise to those nascent forces, had added simple numbers to the weight of their authority.

This early afternoon, that is no longer the case.

Perhaps they will notice this now and then, from up upon the podium; perhaps even the crowd will, if it is not too occupied with its muttering, not too transfixed upon the spectacle of two Councilors, of more vigour than they've seen from Myrken authorities in ... quite some time.

Perhaps even the line of Constables will realise what they see, for there are uniformed men drifting past them in small groups, in clusters of two and three. They are all of them moving from and through the town's broad center, and towards the general direction of Lothbury Estate.

One might almost think they reckoned it in need of guards...
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Sat Apr 28, 2007 4:39 am

This crowd, this shocking crowd, sweating beneath the blazing noonday sun. And stinking beneath it and whispering beneath it and listening, most of all. At its heart, bodies are pressed shoulder to shoulder, at the heart of itself, the crowd moves like a single body.

Not a single mind, however. Not yet.

It's into this thick cluster of bodies that she has inserted herself, a girl-shaped shadow of a thing. Scars command a certain respect; an intent gaze certainly does. And when these fail, there is a cane's firm end to move bodies more insistently from her path, a service which it has so-far performed quite adequately. This silent creature, a shadow clad in subtle greys; this very intent gaze, which sets upon a lover, a councilor, a mob, a constabulary --

And waits.
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Postby Cinnabar » Sat Apr 28, 2007 4:47 am

While the marketplace became a scene of angry crowds and growing turmoil, the Constabulary headquarters grew every bit as active. Grey-clad Constables dashed hither and yon, extra leather armour was distributed from stores - breastplates and greaves to add to the pauldrons and vambraces that are standard uniform, broad square shields fit to protect them from knee to shoulder.

A steady stream of Constables passed through the gates of the former teamsters' yard. Some on foot in twos and threes; some on horseback, their sturdy mounts clad in hardened leather barding; some in wagons, rattling and jolting with disciplined haste. All bore a look of uncertainty, of tension, of resolve, grim mouths and stony eyes and sweating palms that had nothing to do with the heat of the day.

Elsewhere they gathered, in side roads, in squares off the main thoroughfares, several streets away from the increasingly-fractious crowd in the marketplace. Those on foot or descended from wagons stood clustered in subdued groups; those on horseback sat upright and vigilant as their mounts snorted and pawed restlessly at the ground.

All waited carefully, ready to move in but silently hoping that they would not need to. The greater part of the Constabulary's men were drawn from Myrkentown itself, and they had no desire to face off against their friends and neighbours, people they spoke to and dealt with every day. But they were each sworn to do so, should it prove necessary in order to maintain the rule of law.

Among them walked a slim man, figure bulked out by his own leather armour but readily recognisable from his shock of silvery hair. Intense and determined, High Constable Cinnabar Calomel carried his helmet beneath one arm for the time being, and moved from group to group of Constables ensuring that each knew their orders, knew not to act until given leave to do so, knew where they were to go should trouble break out. He addressed each of the Constables by name when speaking to them, giving reassurance and encouragement where needed.

One look at the crowd upon his arrival had told him that this would be a serious challenge to the fledgling Constabulary's authority, and would need to be handled with great care and cleverness were it not to result in all manner of unpleasantness. Grey eyes had narrowed at the sight of the figures up on the tailor's shop, then widened in disbelief at the identity of one of them.

So now he prepared his forces in case it all went to pieces, and hoped that it would not.
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Postby Vanidor » Sat Apr 28, 2007 5:22 am

And so they waited...

Guardsmen who had been off duty and dressed in such a fashion. Looking more like a small band of mercenaries than Brotherhood soldiers as they were. The crowd seethed. The Guards sensed it. As that crowd had swelled and was whipped into a frothing by both Suede and Altias, one of the trio melted into the throng and made for the Barracks.

As the Constables assembled their thin grey line, Brotherhood guards prepared themselves. Those nearest to the Barracks would notice the flurry of activity, especially with the great main gates swinging open and a full squad of armed and armoured Guardsmen standing athwart the door. Massive tower shields dominated the guards, making a wall of wood and steel.

Inside. They prepared. They waited.

Outside. Aeryn walked the crowd, his usual coat of Janerio grey hidden by a hauberk of chainmail. Only the high collars with his rank upon the edges could be seen. Behind him, another full squad, again looking like mercenaries. But... then again, that's what the Brotherhood was. Mercenaries looking for and working for the highest bidder...

Did Myrken ever really understand that?

Soon... it would be time...

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 Treadwell » Sat Apr 28, 2007 10:52 am

A knife flung through the air, carving out a fleshy fold of blood and flab as it passed; a fearful tax collector struck down on the outskirt of a mob being raised to just about any cause one after the other, one of them being his own destruction, it seems, all of them finally to settle on rebellion. The final words on fast-fading hearing? "SOMEONE'S KILLED COUNCILOR TREADWELL!"

Of course, someone hadn't, but Haar was last seen hauling him away from the crowd as Treadwell's horse, Arnold, made madly for home.

But, sadly, an incapacitated, unconscious Treadwell, even for just a few hours, won't be any sort of man to argue with that "fact," in public or in his own head.

Dreams prove ferociously frightful, prompting a soon feverish Aloisius Treadwell to squirm and sweat in his sleep: his toy shop ablaze, he himself hung up in stout chains naked and exhausted, food and water placed out of reach of his pudgy and saggy arms and thirst-swollen lips.

Where--and when?--might this poor old tub wake? Would the rest of Myrken need--or even want?--to know?
"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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Postby Treadwell » Sat Apr 28, 2007 11:51 am

"Uwahhhhh?"

It doesn't have the same ring as his guttural "Mmph mmph."

But it's a sign of life as a moaning, weary Treadwell wakes--and squints around himself.

His top hat is missing. His coat, vest, and shirt are also nowhere to be seen. His boots sit atop a chair across the room.

His left arm is downright numb. Loss of blood and a nice thwunk of a knife through his shoulder have seen to that much. Well, that and the addition of a helpful bit of healing.

Aloisius H. Treadwell is alive and well, sprawled out in what is fast becoming his usual bed in the Rememdium. . . but how he got here and what might happen next are beyond him. There Tready lies, his beady black eyes blinking wearily in the darkness.

"Hullooooo?"
"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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Postby Treadwell » Sat Apr 28, 2007 1:41 pm

A left arm aching and numb, a letter dictated and sent out near midnight by Jack Alldale--the younger, not the older town crier--along with Treadwell's servant, Arlyn, and eight of Treadwell's house guards. The destination?

= = = = =
To His Royal Highness Chedwry the Second
Razasan, the Kingdom of Trae Kelsa
Long may he reign

As of the twenty-eighth of April, Anno Regalis 208, I regret to inform Your Majesty of a most unpleasant uprising among the lowest of the citizenry in Myrken Wood, an uprising meant to topple our currently existing government, consisting of a rightfully elected Judiciar/Governor, presently Coriolanus Helstone, once barrister, and the remaining four members of the Ruling Council. Fears run as rampant as the Reaper himself, scythes of ignorance and hostility poised to cut down the preciously growing shafts of security and stability from the very fields of Myrken Wood.

Your Majesty, I beseech your all-encompassing wisdom and aid on this matter, of behalf of your rightly elected officials put at danger due to fear, misunderstandings, and utter madness. A reluctant once-leader has been impressed into service upon one side, and upon the other, some, I should think, fight in self defense. I seek reconciliation and sanity. Having already been the victim of an assault in the town square, I have felt the dangers brought by feverish hostility. War amongst ourselves is not the answer, given Myrken's own threats without and within. Should replacement of office be necessary--so be it! Should maintenance of the present system be required, so be that!

Regardless of who ends up assuming the role of victor in this bloodbath--yea, this massacre!--it merely brings infamy and shame to Myrken, and, yea, to Your Royal Head. Thus, as loyal subject and provincial Councilor of Administrative Sanctions (and once Judiciar, myself), Myrken Wood, I seek your guidance and assistance, as begged above. Reach forth your hand--protective *and* admonishing--and set this to rights--for Myrken Wood, for Trae Kelsa, for Your Eternal Glory--

In your debt, and by my lips,
From the Rememdium Edificium, Myrken Town, Myrken Wood,
This day the twenty-eighth of April, Anno Regalis 207.

Councilor of Administrative Sanctions, Myrken Wood,
Aloisius Horatio Treadwell.

= = = = =
"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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a call for action

Postby Wendy » Sat Apr 28, 2007 7:43 pm

"To the teahouse!"... "The wounded! To the teahouse!"

It was close, wasn't it? So close -- so close to being Townsedge. But not, with the promise of food, they're screaming Bromn's name and murder against Helstone; and 'down with taxes,' and some of them are speaking of Swinton's tea-house, and retreating there to care for wounds and punches.


It is said that "a woman in an apron invites hugging." May it also be said that a woman in business invites chaos? Swinton's establishment abruptly became a point of refuge for those of immediate need, only these were troubling circumstances.

Men came to her door and pushed, rather than rapped, upsetting a mediocre barricade of furniture. She and the girls had secured the door with moderate luck, but it was clear the portal would be rid of its hinges if she would not let them in. She'd been watching from a window inside of the suddenly small room, and though she'd seen them coming, she didn't budge until the door threatened to give. Hollers for Cambree to open up the room to the men and their brothers in arms were insistent. While she wanted no part of this spectacle, presumably begun by Suede Roschen, she bartered with those on the other side of her door before she would readily open it.

"Have some of your men to stand by the door. There are women upstairs." she said. She was assured that the Governor Bromn was aware that her house would require protection. Satisfied, she dismembered the pile of furniture that was up against the door.

The hours which followed blur. There were patients of all sorts, with wounds ranging from multiple gashes to outright unconsciousness. People were moving so quickly, dragging in the lame, making cradles of human arms, Cambree was unable to utter a word of authority. Townsfolk were taken upstairs to occupy the very beds which she and the girls slept on.

She helped to arrange tables so that severe cases could be kept off of the floor. Benches askew, kettles aboil in the kitchen, pots turning up broken on the common floor, it was a dizzying scene for all of the initial minutes it took for people to find their places. "Why aren't they using the Rememdium?" she wondered aloud. The wood floor was being ruined by the seeping blood of these riot pigs. Attendants filtered in and out, chasing their way up and down stairs. The sight of all this was insulting!

Before the attachment to her lovely teahouse claimed the best of her thoughts, she finally apprehended clarity. It was as if an angel touched her, how calm and ready her body had become. Then came assistance, some real help, in the form of a young, capable girl and a proud looking man. Her girls were all upstairs, likely making dressings out of bed linens. She'd seen one of them moving on the stairs with soiled clothes, but Cambree couldn't watch to see where that was leading. There was so much else to do.

The heat of the day was a driving force and the body count in the room only rubbed at it. As friends and foes shared common space and talked of their own ails, she worked to provide the girl and the man with any of the supplies that the teahouse could offer. She had dabbled in healing arts in her past, but cauterizing wounds and snapping bones in place was so far from her craft.

In the moments while others tended to the wounded, Cambree found clever ways to provide relief. At the suggestion of Darkfeather, strips of bark were softened to use aides in wound dressing. Herbal remedies were made and distributed. Alchohols were poured and rubbed into gashes - poured beyond lips in extreme cases. Before long, the memory of the tearoom had vanished from her mind. This was a new space.

She could not watch as one peasant, whose head was severely split apart, died on a table.

There was a period of rest when questions and answers were blandly given. Someone said the governor was being rushed - that Altias was clearly taking over. Did she, herself, have a preference as to whose arse would grace the governor's seat? Of course she did, but that idea she kept to herself. She was able to chase away the question with a small remark and by disappearing with a 'job to do'.

Later that evening, Cambree was sure to remove candles from the windowsills. Watchmen posed at the edges of her building, and she could see that one was standing by the door.

People were finally fed rationed foodstuffs; however, tea flowed like a river through the narrow, two-story house.

Cambree ignored the physical weariness that plagued her; however, it would take great effort to keep awake through the night. Trusting that all would be at ease overnight, she knew, would be a silly thing to do. She had been up since that early morning when the ex-councilor made himself a spectacle at the end of the road and was joined by the ex-governor.

The teahouse was full of strangers - any of whom would be willing to steal the alchohol or the antique pieces that she reluctantly cherished. Arguments escalated, and now and then a fight broke out, making for a very long night in the structure. Thankfully, the presence of a lady seemed enough of a deterrent for most. Others needed restraint, requiring the arms of a watchman or two.

For the night, Cambree Swinton kept herself moving, cleaning, tending out of fear. If she were to sit down and so much as wink, she would as soon fall asleep - and she did not dare to do that.
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Postby Cobalt_Steel » Sat Apr 28, 2007 9:55 pm

The young demon elf slipped out of the building sometime near dawn, leaving word with the nightwatchman posted by the door that she was returning to her quarters in her shop down the street, and that she was to be fetched if any of the wounded needed further care.

She made her way down the quiet street, the constant presence of the night watch in the area pausing to watch the young one pass, none of them knowing that the afternoon before, she had been the one that had thrown the dagger at the taxman, causing the spark that set off the tinderbox that the marketplace had become. No. They only saw her leaving what had become the makeshift infirmary, having word from thier fellows that had passed through there of being the one bearing the closest thing they had to the skills of a healer, even though she was but an assistant.

She stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her overcoat, ducking her head down in habit. She did not know why, after all this time, that the shadow had made its presence felt once more inside her. Had she not gone through a long, and very painful ritual to remove the taint of the shadow from her body? How was it that he was still able to cause her enough pain to force her into action after this long?

These were the questions the young elf pondered as she unlocked, and pushed open the side door leading into the quiet, dark depths of her shop. As she returned the bar to the door, an answer came to her. It was the lack of the presence of the healer that had been at her side. It had to be. The shadow had not been able to touch her since the ritual, as long as the healer had been at her side.

Another sigh escaped the elf as she accended the stairs at the back of the shop leading to her quarters. She had to go home. There was no way around it.
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