In groups of ten, they'd patrolled Myrkentown streets some months and more ago -- and now they do so again, this Brotherhood that wears Straka colours. They are an odd lot, alike in uniform but motley in origins: originally composed only of Councilor al'Nerun's own men, they'd absorbed some of Straka's finest, when that Order was disbanded; had taken some of the Militia under their wing as well, when crops went bad or went simply to dust. Men new to the sword, those had been, but not strangers to backbreaking work, not by any means -- and they'd been trained well, during the winter months. What walks the nighttime streets now is far greater a force, and even some Lothbury guards walk amongst them; they hold their torches high, all those who march, and their lanterns as well.
Scattered amongst them are men who've lost children to the drow. This year; several years before; when a child lies dead, who bothers to keep count?
Several of the Brotherhood have been set to guard the homes of certain Councilors -- al'Nerun is exempt, as one would expect, and Lothbury sports its own guard as ever -- but the vast majority have been set upon the patrol, and those spectators who watch from balcony or rooftop are treated to quite the spectacle indeed. Great snakes of flame wind their way through those streets, driving back the shadows from their corners; great bonfires rage in the two town squares. Under better circumstances, the sight would be festive and rich with cheer; hah, even given recent events, this is almost true. Almost.
For there have been broad posters nailed to the doors of businesses, the walls of homes, each bearing the Governor's own seal. Less-literate townsfolk had eyed their text in frustration, but not for long; word spreads swiftly, when it's of this sort -- and in any case, criers had soon recited it to the length and breadth of Myrkentown's streets.
[INDENT]Citizens of Myrken Wood:
We enter a time of hardship...but we have known hardship before.
We enter a time of danger... but this, too, we have known before now.
Cultists have bedevilled our youths. A vampire coven wars in our woods. And now the drow Audmathus thinks to hold this town for ransom -- or even claim it for his own. He makes appeals of your Council, perhaps thinking that we forget his fell deeds here several years ago: the innocents slain, the ancestors made to rise unnaturally from their graves. He makes threats, perhaps forgetting that it was Myrkenfolk who once slew him; perhaps imagining that we have faced no greater horror than he.
In this he is sorely mistaken.
Some condemn Myrken Wood as cursed, and perhaps they are right to -- but it has made strong citizens of us all, we who have proven too stubbon, too proud, to flee past its borders. We have weathered the Fivefold Blight, those of who survived; we have seen war amongst the vampiric Kindred -- and slain their monstrous Lucian. We have endured even the filthy Baie's predation, and not once have we bowed in despair.
We shall not learn to at this animal's behest.
The Brotherhood walks your streets: with them tred your kin -- merchants and farmers and clerks alike. Perhaps you will follow their example, and hang sturdy lanters from your eaves come nightfall. The hero Coran D'zir, he who turned away floodwaters from our streets three years ago, returns to us soon with all the aid he can muster. Keep to the light; keep close watch upon your children; if it becomes necessary, safehaven will be arranged in Foggy Bottom for those with families who feel that danger is too near.
But do not despair. We have known danger worse than this before, and as in the past, we shall endure -- to rightly elect Councilors to your government; to rightly select a Governor for your guardian. In days yet to come, we shall prosper -- but for now, we must conquer.
Giscard Guillaume
Governor, Myrken Wood
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