We are Myrken.

[Cinnabar]

The Ashfiend brings fear where he treads, fear that spreads outward from each new atrocity he commits, like blood seeping from a wound. A ripple of unease, of worry, gathering momentum with each new report. Fear that echoes and rebounds within Myrkentown's new-built Wall, that drifts across the countryside like a pall of bitter smoke.

It grows stronger, this fear, with each fresh account of farms found empty, just as seven houses in Myrkentown were found empty: door smashed in, signs of struggle inside. But no bodies. Never any bodies.

The people of Myrken Wood know fear. They know dread, and have lived with it for long years. By now it's almost familiar. The depredations of the drow Audmathus, the horror of Zayken Perfect, the brutal murders of the Order of the All. Myrkenfolk know what it is to be hunted, to be harvested, as the Ashfiend harvests them now. As he harvested them in this summer last, picking people off one by one, family by family, house by house, killing and stealing and raising and enslaving them, to fight for him when Myrken Wood's guardians came to do battle at Snowstill. They know the signs. They know what it is to be preyed on.

With time, fear becomes anger. Heated words in taprooms and taverns, first grumbling then declaring then shouting. Something must be done. The Constables do what they can, patrolling the streets and alleys of Myrkentown, mounted officers roaming the roads beyond, but they are few in number, overstretched, spread thin. The cannot be everywhere.

Instead townsfolk and farmers gather into groups, sullen and watchful, and roam the town in gangs, walk the boundaries of their fields in packs. Within the walls, clubs and hammers and cleavers and other tradesmen's tools are the weapons of choice; in the countryside, wood-axes and pitchforks and pruning hooks are more favoured. The mood across Myrken is tense, restless, fraught. Dangerous.

As evening closes in, word spreads through the streets of Myrkentown and beyond that the Governor himself is to make an address, to speak on the Ashfiend situation. To do something. After a time there is a movement throughout the town, a drawing-in of townsfolk, of farmers and fieldworkers from the lands around Myrkentown, of Constables and soldiers of the fledgling Myrken Army. To the Marketplace, where more and more of the people of Myrken gather, an angry buzz of conversation filling the square, echoing from the scaffolding around the part-built Meetinghouse, from the walls of St Iona's whose bells chime as the appointed hour draws near. Torches and braziers are lit to warm and illuminate, and the Constabulary are a visible, watchful presence in heavy night-duty armour.

The crowd waits, restless.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Uriel had been in town ever since he had made it a point to visit the Apothecary several days ago and make an absolute nuisance of himself. He had pestered the store keeper with a hundred inane questions, attempting to bury a few, interspersed with meaning. Whether he had succeeded or failed he did not know, perhaps would not know, unless someone became very clever and put two and two together quickly. Then it would be too late.

Word had indeed spread, in the wake of the Ashfiend's latest rampage across Myrken Wood. Armies marched abroad, creatures raided the orphanage, and the 'Fiend stirred his wrath against Myrken Wood once again. In the wake of Vraal's death it might be quite interesting to consider how the people thought they had gathered his attention. But he saw their eyes, wide with fear and yet narrowed in anger. They were not the eyes of reasoning men but of vengeful men.

He tugged the brown, woolen hood up tighter about his soot-stained cheeks and narrowed his eyes while scanning the perimeter of the crowd. A knife's handle pressed reassuringly against his inner arm as he waited to see if Calomel would put two and two together. The Governor was a dangerous man.

[Cinnabar]

When the Governor appears, he presents a markedly different figure to his previous public apperances - no more the neatly-dressed young man in well-tailored formalwear, smart but understated; nor even the slim figure in pale grey who'd ascended the hill to send the Duke's war-sorcerors away from Myrkentown's walls. Tonight he presents a far more martial aspect, clad in the steel cuirass and pauldrons of the Night Watch, Constabulary-grey cloak thrown back over one shoulder, mail and buckles jingling as he moves. He climbs the steps onto the deck in the middle of the market square, features stern, posture alert, confident, standing tall amid this sea of fearful, angry humanity. A few moments pass, and the rumbling of the crowd quiets enough for him to be heard when he speaks.

"Citizens of Myrken Wood." His voice is clear, firm, resounding across the square over the shuffling of restless feet, the crackling of braziers and torches. "You are by now certainly aware of the latest attacks by the ghoul Teron Ashfiend. Within Myrkentown, and more widely across Myrken Wood. I know all too well the inhuman fury and violence of the Ashfiend's acts, the ruthlessness with which he strikes against those who cannot strike back. Innocent lives lost to profane blade and sorcerous fire." A pause, here, scowl deepening with the memory, the ghoul's attack upon Calomel's farm. When he speaks again it is with yet increased conviction, righteous anger in his voice, in his posture, in his expression.

"The ground suffers beneath his tread. His presence is a blight upon the land, a corruption that smothers life and light with the chill of blasphemous undeath. His existence is an affront to all that is worthy and virtuous in the world. His actions are a scourge upon the troubled people of Myrken Wood. People who have suffered, who have sweated and wept and bled for their homes, for their families. I am a newcomer to Myrken Wood, it is true. I have not suffered as you have suffered, I have not faced the horrors that have plagued this land. But I am honoured, I am humbled to serve you who have." His gaze sweeps out across the crowd, keen and penetrating in the flickering light of torches and lanterns.

"You have suffered, and you have endured. Against famine, against drought, against pestilence. Against the insidious machinations of the drow, against the corrupting touch of cults and false gods. You have prevailed against a tide of horrors, and I have faith that you - that we - will prevail now." Rousing words, and there is a fire in him now, a passion and fierce resolve that draws the eye, that commands the ear, that stills the breath.

"Know that the Ashfiend waits, and plots. Somewhere in Myrken Wood he makes his lair, as he once made his lair at Snowstill, before he was driven out by Myrken's defenders. He murders our families, our neighbours, to build an army. To harvest the bodies of our beloved, that he might raise them to march against us as he did at Snowstill. This we will not allow." A staunch declaration, there, an absolute denial from the Governor's lips.

"You are angry. You are vengeful. You hunger for action, for something to do, some way to strike against the Fiend. Here is what can be done: He lairs here, somewhere in Myrken Wood; a vile infection that threatens to corrupt the whole. But we will find him. We will seek him out, in whichever black and filthy hole he lurks; we will destroy his works, and we will drive him out into the light. But it will require planning. It will require coordination. It will require you to act not as some ill-gathered rabble, but as parts of a directed whole."

He raises a hand to point to the far edge of the square, where armoured Constables stand in pairs, stepping up onto boxes or barrels or carts to make themselves seen above the crowd. Command in his voice, in his posture, an undeniable authority, a charisma that impresses itself on those around him as clear, concise instructions are issued.

"Form up, twenty men to each patrol. Each Constable has an area to search within Myrkentown, and will guide you to it. There you will search, house by house, street by street. Every empty abode, every abandoned cellar, every disused warehouse. Search them well."

He points towards another corner of the square, where men in the black-and-crimson of the Myrken Army stand ready, a mix of fresh-faced youths and seasoned veterans formed up in squads of five.

"Outside the walls, thirty men to each patrol. Otherwise the plan is the same. Each patrol has an area to cover, where you will go from farm to farm, door to door. At the occupied farms, check on the safety of the residents. At farms empty or abandoned, search for signs of the Fiend's presence." He raises his voice over the swell of crowd noise that his words provoke, speaking warnings that the folk of Myrken would do well to heed.

"Be vigilant. Be cautious. Beware of traps, of ambushes. Beware dark places. Beware fresh-turned earth and the stink of death. Do not divide your groups. Go nowhere alone. There is peril, certainly. There may be death, as the Ashfiend is not a foe to be approached recklessly. If you need to fetch arms or armour, do so now; patrols will be forming up throughout the night. Follow the instructions of the Constables and soldiers who accompany you, and they will do what they can to keep you alive."

A pause, to let these instructions sink in, as the murmur of the mob surges at this speech; a plan, an organised plan. No longer a mob, but an army, an army of craftsment and tradesmen and labourers and farmers, angry and discontent and hungry for payback. His voice is a clarion call over the thrum of the crowd, rich with determination, with righteous wrath, with an exhortation for these citizens to turn their will to one cause, one goal, one shared desire:

"He thinks to sow fear, to sow dread, but know that Myrken's hearts are poor ground for such seeds. He will not harvest our fear; he will reap only retribution. Go now, and seek him out. Let him learn this truth: We are Myrken, and we look out for our own!"

[Khalika]

Yes, many angry farmers and townsfolk have gathered. With such things that run about Myrken, and such officals who broker on such fear, it is a wounder full fledge riots have not erupted. Yes they gather, and they form, needing purpose.

And finding it..

Behind the crowds though, there is another, who is neither townfolk or farmer. This one listens and observes in her own unique way. The Govenors words make her back teeth grind. She pounders the wisdom, of sending such untrained aid out to track such a being as Teron Ashfiend. though there is some peace in the thought that she doubts any will find him. But also a worry, for other things lurk the dark streets of Myrken. Those less then savory folk, who if comfronted, and came upon may act...unwisely?.

Yes once again her thoughts fall so very far from the leaders of Myrken. First another wall to trap the townsfolk inside, leaving little room for escape if needed. Now he sends untrained, unskilled, farmers to seek out the Ashfiend.

Soon she is slipping away....Woundering how soon this will all go so very and tragical wrong....

[Vanidor]

We are Myrken, and we look to our own. It was a phrase that roiled across the gathered citizens of Myrkentown. It rolled across the people like a peal of thunder across the restless crowd. It filtered over the ears of the knot of men in their coats of crimson edged in black and gold. Strange, wasn't it, that the colours of the Duke of Thessilane's personal guard were so similar to those of the newly raised Myrken Army. Perhaps some of the townsfolk had taken them as officers of such, from the way they stood like sentinels amoungst the crowd, their eyes peering in every direction almost at once.

It was possible, that the man who stood in their midst was a man who had been risen to lead such an army, for he as well had elected clothing that was similar in hue to his Companions. He stood there, peering upwards at the dramatic speech given by the Governor. A man who had, for whatever reason, seemed to make it his life's goal to be a thorn in Burel's side. Still. He had spoken about hunting this Fiend. It was something that had trouble him from every report he had read, before stepping into Myrken with his army. Then, there was a nod of his head here, and the knot of men -moved-.

They moved with purpose, and it was obvious that their target was the deck chosen for this oration. Perhaps there was a hush in the crowd as the Duke and his Companions made their way forward. At the cusp of the crowd, Burel would wave a hand and his men would stop and turn to face the assembled throng. It would leave the man vulnerable, stepping towards the dias and the Governor. Towards the Constables that might have stood in his way. Would they? Or would they allow him to step upon that first step. Would Cinnabar.

Here was your chance, Governor Calomel, and the Duke's as well.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Uriel obeyed both masters - the one who thought to rule over him and the one who truly did. There was no denying the one even while paying obedience to the other. And perhaps, should everything go to the hells in the next few weeks, he might beg pardon from the one or grovel to the other.

So long as he didn't die.

His left arm tingled with the reminder of death, always close, permeating his flesh and binding his entire extremity to continued use with improved potency.

But the Governor has given his orders and the smithy moves to take his place amongst one of the Myrkentown patrols. The knife's cool blade pressed lovingly against his tanned flesh, baked with soot and grime.

They were angry, he thought. And they were vengeful, he considered, agreeing with the Governor's words. But, he considered, they were also afraid.

Or they soon would be.

[Cinnabar]

It is a time of noise and motion there in the Marketplace, as the people of town and country move to join those patrols, or to hurry home in search of what weapons and armour they might scratch together. Constables and soldiers count off volunteers and move off into the streets once they have the requisite number of men, more or less.

Voices are raised to to call friends and neighbours over to this patrol or that, such that some bands of this makeshift militia are for the most part made up of the residents of one street or another, or members of a given trade, or of a particular collection of families. Most of the groups, though, are composed of those who were nearest to one another when a Constable counted them off, a disparate mix of citizens thrown together by a shared purpose, a shared desire to see something done.

On the raised deck, the approach of those uniformed figures is certainly noted, and responded to; Constables know well enough the difference between the uniforms of the Myrken Army and the Companions, and move to intercept Burel and his little knot of guards. Some consternation here, perhaps some displeasure at the presence of Thessilane soldiers within Myrken's walls. The Duke is denied those steps for now, but it matters little for the Governor is moving to descend them. Stern of demeanour, the air of a man who has business to attend to and little room for distractions. A polite enough bow of his head for Burel's benefit as he stops at the foot of the stairs, quiet and clipped instructions for the Constables to let the Hawk of Thessilane approach. His voice is calm and even, only what is required to be heard over the clamour of the crowd behind the Duke.

"Your Grace. Good evening."

[Vanidor]

"Do Myrken a favour and shake my hand, Governor Calomel." This was whispered towards the Governor, as his eyes darted upwards. Do Myrken a favour? Burel cared less about his status than perhaps some would think. And then he would extend his hand slightly towards the other man. It was quite clear as to the intent, friendly. Gregarious even. "I know you dislike my presence, but after listening to you here, just now, I understand that you and I are quite similar. In the fact that we both care about our adopted home, and the depth that we yearn to see her safe."

His words were still low. Kept between the two of them. At least until he raised his voice a notch higher. "I pledge the Legion here under my command to your service, Governor Cinnabar Calomel. To the Safety of Myrken Wood and the Realms, around it. To assist Myrken in her time of need. To hunt down this Ashfiend and harry it to righteous justice. Their supplies and arms and skills are at your disposal, as they have always been throughout the years." That hand was still there.

And now, the people at the front of the crowd had heard the words so pledged to Cinnabar. To Myrken. Perhaps it was filtering backwards through the remaining throng. The most battle hardened soldiers (so it was said, anyway) in all of the Provinces, aside from the mercenary soldiers dispatched at request from New Dauntless. And not here to conquer or lay claim or annex. Burel looked truthful, almost fanatic in his phrasing. Myrken meant more to him than he would ever say.

[Cinnabar]

There's a quiet moment here, a time of consideration, of weighing up of options. The Duke's words are listened to attentively, keen ears picking them from among the tumult of the crowd, and at first there is but a raised brow for that instruction; do Myrken a favour? Scepticism in his gaze, clear distrust and perhaps a cynicism that is somehow out of place in one so young, suspecting some ploy, some gambit, some subtle strategem. After a pause of a few heartbeats, though, this fades a touch.

"Your offer is generous, sir, as I am told you have been generous to Myrken Wood in the past. Do not doubt that I appreciate the spirit in which your pledge is made, but I fear I must decline it for now." A quirk of a smile, there, grey gaze fixed upon the Duke, perhaps amused by something.

"Do not doubt either that I share your concern for this land and its people. As you say, I yearn to see Myrken safe. However, I yearn to see her safe on her own account. I yearn to see her stand on her own feet, rely on her own abilities, and recognise the indomitable strength of spirit that resides here. I would see Myrken's people given the opportunity to solve their - our - own troubles without needing to call on outside intervention, however noble its intent. I believe - no, I know that we are capable of it, that we can tend to our own troubles; that we can look out for our own. But we must be allowed to do so, sir." His eyes leave Burel's for a moment, glancing out across the crowd to where Constables gather their bands of volunteer militia, then to the Companions who still face the crowd, then back to the Duke.

"If you wish to aid Myrken, sir, I will be taking a patrol beyond the Wall to check on the outlying farms; it would be an honour if you and your men would care to join us in the hunt." His own hand held out halfway, enough to allow the Duke to make the clasp, if he finds this proposition agreeable.

The nearby crowd and Constables watch, and wait.

[Vanidor]

"I was right, Governor. You and I are the same. As inflexible as the stele. Ariane is more wise than she gives herself credit for." The man smiled, as if everything was going according to plan. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it wasn't. There was no great scheme, not here. Not now. "Of course, Myrken will need to stand on her own. With her own feet strong and sturdy and sure. With her arm behind the shield, and hand about the plow." Those enigmatic eyes of his swept over the other man. Swept to the Constables that stood near. Surely, even to the farmers and farriers and merchants who hung to every shred of word these two said.

And to everything that they did as well. For here, Burel was stretching his hand forward. Cinnabar would find the Duke's grim firm and strong, but not crushing. A hand that knew strength, but knew kindness as well. Knew humility, perhaps. "Myrken will always have the support of the Nation of Thessilane, Governor. Whether it be in the field, or in the camps. On the front lines, or ancillary. And you will have my blade added to your hunt, and the lives of myself and my men, to put before this Ashfiend to see Myrken secure."

Was there a cheer from those behind them? There certainly could be. For it meant, at least, that the army in the north really -was- friendly. It meant that force wasn't here to reave the countryside with violence.

[channe]

"He's good," says one figure, a black-haired man in overalls.
His sister snorts. "Oh, shut up."
"You shut up, he's talking -- "

And when the call to arms comes, Dominik Kaczmarek silently breaks away and joins one of the teams. Agnieszka trails behind him.

"... you're going?"
"Gotta, Agnie. I can't kill him, but I can fight him."
"Well, then, you dolt, I'll come, too."
"Agnie --"
"I almost did kill him. I almost did."

And the two are off to become part of the night watch sweeping from place to place, guarding against the darkness.

[Wendy]

Of Myrken Wood’s farmers, the families of the Ficks and the Fells give what they can to their community, continuously. Their members are fostered to hold reverence and respect for their land, even if they do not fly its flag on their sprawling properties. These men and women are interested in world events and lead by example, showing respect for all mankind but, tonight, they begin to hunt a Monster.

There had been plans to go after the Ashfiend, between the Ficks and the Fells, like a whirlwind that gathers great speed, collecting particles (consisting of armed commoners, swearing in their own minutemen and women) on its way, in an undefined direction, that is how they thought they'd move. Myrken was sprawling and likely to be littered with clues of the gruesome Fiend.

Anger and righteousness fuels this portion of the community. They care nothing for the price of hunting and killing, or delivering, the Ashfiend – even to the end of their own lives. Myrken, as they've said, will permit no more.

The Governor identifies their feelings on this night, and is able to numb their conversation with an address to all who gather. When he is finished, there are silent glances, shrugs, from these fed-up patriots who were far, too swollen with ire to balance their moods with any structure. The elder Fick, farmowner Templor, of coal gray hair and a cataractous gaze, keeps the handle of a sickle in one fist, an axe in the other. Mindful of his clan, Templor boasts, with a determined chin, that he will join in the rankings as prescribed by Calomel. Then bodies will disperse… somewhat dizzily... and then decide to move together, as one unit, bound for those uniformed leaders.

The Fick girl can be seen among those dressed for peace-keeping although, she is in ordinary garb – as one might envision her wearing for the taxing duty of penning Council discussions. There are thirty members of her family, if you count the distant cousins, which rank among those gathered in Myrkentown's Marketplace.

While she is busy taking care that any loosed questions are answered from the crowd where she is, Chief Officers stand ready for those of her kind to assemble as groups. They will be going in a westward direction. [B]“All persons,â€

[Wendy]

Clearly, no one is fighting, but there is talk of such as people imperceptibly march the Main Street. She passes Constables on that thoroughfare, slowing her steps as she hears Cinnabar speaking to an assemblage of working-class citizens and notables, alike. She may have missed the beginning of his speech while gaining perspective of the crowds that fashioned in the square; however, as the Governor continues in his address, she moves among the people to be nearer to the front – to see and hear him better.

She chooses someone of official regalia to be next to, while Cinnabar completes his charge to those gathered - someone wearing Myrken colors whose eyes stare off in the same direction. Most of those gathered are aimed for a chance at finding the Ashfiend, but she is only here to watch (her skills being of other timeless traditions.)

News of this event might quickly spread.

There is no such thing as a wall too thick in Myrkentown, nor a curtain drawn too tightly. Perhaps this is why even secrets will spread for miles beyond the new wall with a precipitateness unseen in other lands. Not even the monks are immune to gossiping and carrying on, delivering farce described as dramatic comedy whenever they get a whiff of a tale. They that instruct students who are unwilling to light one candle in their vestibule (on behalf of one of Myrken’s fallen) by request.

This behavior creates exasperation in the sense that, perhaps, nothing is truly made sacred in this land. In her mind, nothing has been made sacred in Myrken, until the existence of Cinnabar Calomel.

Biased, though she may be, the teahouse madame cannot keep her teeth concealed. She is broadly grinning, though the moment is yet ladened with the stern management used to address the crowd. She is a distance away, as far as a teenage boy can throw, from the platform where he is, then shaking hands with Burel, but this she cannot see.

What she can observe is the exchange of guardsemen moving here to there, and the passing of people moving to claim their gear and disperse. The main groups spread into smaller bunches, and she moves to be within the periphery of this clearing. Her green eyes are bright in the investigation of all this.

[ShadowRose]

Sarayn Aluna Dala'vaesa, newly-born priestess of Eilistraee, stood within the crowd, shrouded in the thick of a silver-threaded cloak, the cowl of it covering most of her face but the lower half--coral and full lips that curled into the whisper of a smile. Within the angry mass of farmer and craftsman, the drowess had chosen to wear the ring that concealed her dark, and presumedly-evil heritage, leaving her skin pale like that of a flawless winter. Behind her, the same fate felled her dark elven companions, all five of them, blending into the crowd seamlessly and appearing as those of the surface races.

On mention of drow machinations, Sarayn heard chuckles behind her from her brethren, to whom she silenced with a subtle glare of doe-brown, and then returned her gaze to Cinnabar, and the sudden unfurling of conversation between he and the Duke.

With the speech completed, and the call to arms proclaimed, Selenthis leaned toward her to whisper, "Your thoughts..?"

Sarayn smiled faintly, whispering in return, "I am afraid that Calomel sends sheep to the slaughter. For how do common men and women fight against he who can effortlessly traverse the shadows? I feel that he is -feeding- the Ashfiend's army. When his common-folk soldiers fall, they will walk again. And against him."

Her brother nodded, returning, "Will you offer your services, then? As one who can control light? Perhaps even.. preventing the Ashfiend from hiding? Slowing him down?"

The drowess tilted her head to the side, watching Cinnabar closely from her place in the crowd, determining his goodness, as if she could see through him. At length, she said, "No. My allegiance is to Malaroth and his knights. My place is with them. And, if they choose to go after the Fiend, I will surely follow." And she dropped her eyes to her brother, her friends behind him, "And so will you."

With that, they disappeared into the crowd and beyond, as effortlessly as they had appeared.

[Cinnabar]

As the night progresses, the crowd is divided, split up and spread out across Myrkentown and the lands around; under the guidance of the Constabulary within the town walls and the Myrken Army without, the land is quartered and searched comprehensively, methodically, systematically, with a thoroughness far greater than would be the case had the crowds been left to roam unchecked. They would have embarked on such a task with or without Calomel's speech and organisation. It would have been a chaotic, confused rampage of angry, frightened townsfolk; it would have been a mob, a riot, and this is what the Governor's plan serves to forestall.

The mood among the makeshift militia is determined, resolute, and after a time the process becomes routine. Each building is checked for signs of life, or signs of violence; at the presence of one or the absence of another, the patrol moves on. Abandoned buildings are entered and searched, the petty warrant held by the Constables accompanying each group providing the legal authority to do so; the investigators move in groups from room to room, calling to one another as they go, with lanterns and torches held to illuminate their way. It's not quite disciplined, not quite orderly, but it is rigorous.

Out in the countryside the procedure is much the same, with bands of citizens under the direction of the soldiers being guided from farm to farm, property to property. At occupied farms they check on the residents, advise them to make secure their homes, and move on; at abandoned farms their progress is more circumspect, their approach more wary - the volunteers move in large groups as buildings are searched, lanterns shone into empty houses and barns and cellars and woodsheds. Each of these patrols are accompanied by a couple of mounted Constables who hang back a little as a farm is approached; their horses are swift and lean, and the more canny might suspect that these riders are not there to oversee matters, but to spread the word should their patrol meet with foul play.

There is caution here, for certain; trouble is not feared, but almost expected, and the instructions given by the soldiers assume the worst case to be true, and only after carefuly and diligent investigation are they allowed to satisfy themselves that a building is safe. It wears on the nerves, especially of the civilian volunteers, but to proceed otherwise is tantamount to offering oneself up to the ghoul. In both cases, town and country, each group is counted off before proceeding to the next location to be searched, lest they leave any of their members behind. This is organised, this is sensible, and every measure is taken to make this most dangerous of hunts as safe as it can be.