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Study of Scorch Norton Vicarage, ~2pm Monday May 6th, 1771


"Mushrooms." The sergeant's voice is tired, but between being passed de facto command of what's become more mission than inquest by the flustered deputy and all he's seen today here and at the inn, it's understandable. "Ay, well, the tall fella upstairs is in some kind of daze that fits your theory, and the stuff in the stag and that room at the inn-" the square-built soldier tenses rather than shudder, remembering opening that kitchen door onto a rank darkness like an open wound befouled, the way the floor had its own slow peristaltic pulse.

One of his men had thrown up and promptly fainted in the result: a fortunate distraction that had kept everyone from thinking about that. It had only been when they were well clear that they'd realised how dizzy and lacking in co-ordination they'd become, even Cecil gently bouncing off the bar as they stumbled through the taproom and back outside, though he'd been least affected.

"If that's not mushrooms, I don't know what exists that it could be. They're mushrooms right out of H- a Very Warm Place, though." Sergeant Rowsell closes his eyes and taps two fingers to his forehead like that helps him think, hat sat on the desk beside them. "Assume the parish'll get a court order to drag ditches an' fumigate that...that in the inn. All right."

"To recap: there's a fungus problem that's affected some wild water supply, the murder the judge's men were called in to investigate was down to one of a group of roving poachers or general riffraff who'd drunk this water and wound up in a state of violent delirium. We have another body and injuries caused by affected animals. We're assuming it's not rabies, but your physician's away. Some- yes, Pavey?"

The young private hovering at the door bobs a nervy acknowledgement, "We got hold of that wise woman as the Squire says's been at mischief, sir, an' we found the head groom such as the black feller thought got et by the...that room, he was with 'er. Awaiting orders, sir."

Sergeant Rowsell looks to Cecil. "May we bring her in here, Vicar? Pavey, is their Squire Fox outside, too?"

"He is, sir."

"Well, not much we can do to keep him from coming with the prisoner, unless the Reverend here wants to interfere," the sergeant sighs, and looks to Cecil as though this house - still being cleaned by a good number of volunteers as the Vicar handles the law - really were his castle, despite all that has been in it.


[[edit: changing the sergeant's voice colour, since Goodie Westcott already uses Royalred. Picture his voice at the deeper end of the red range.]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:35, Mon 23 Oct 2023.

Cecil gestures obligingly. "Oh yes, by all means bring Mistress Westcott here. I'd not gainsay the Squire's presence." He rests his steepled fingers against his lips for a moment, as if in prayer. "You cannot gainsay the noxious effect of this fungal bloom at its peak. The likelihood that prolonged exposure to the spores is responsible for all the observed behaviours of our errant livestock, fauna, and townsfolk should not, however, be discounted. Doctor Lovelace apprised me that there are varieties of molds and fungi which cause delusional thoughts and hallucinations."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:38, Mon 23 Oct 2023.

Pavey hastens back out at the permission. Sergeant Rowsell grimaces at the Vicar's speculations. "I'll try to have my men out of here as soon as possible. Seein' as you're going without a kerchief or any mask yourself, I take it you don't think the next place we stop at will have anything to fear?"

They hear Goodie Westcott before the door opens again, giving the soldiers a piece of her mind: _{"...an' never lay} hands on a body without havin' the charges right an' laid out. What if I was some relative to the judge, besides?"

Pavey's response is inaudible, but it's him that opens the door to show the midwife in and takes up a post near it, ruefully rubbing his knuckles. Goodie Westcott enters, looking entirely unamused, followed by a dark-haired spring trap of a soldier Cecil thinks might be called Lunkin and lastly the Young Squire, looking in no better temper than the midwife.

The latter looks about at the men around her and folds her arms, straightening her spine. "Well? D'ye mean to have me ducked, or what?"
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:40, Thu 26 Oct 2023.

Cecil plainly answers the sergeant. "That which caused you and your men such distress was a miasma due the swampiness of the ground hereabouts, not animalcules of the sort responsible for contagions. After you clean the mud from your boots and hose, and have a good wash, I imagine you'll have no trouble." To Goodie he replies, "I assure you 'tis not my intent, and indeed I would object most vehemently to such cruelty."

"Well then, what do ye mean to do with me? Only it's not that I'm lacking for work to be about after all this agitation. If there's no right charges-"

"Conspiracy to assault, conspiracy to breach of the peace, suspicion of slander and quite possibly Practice of Dark Arts," Mister Fox cuts in, tone icy. "I think you had better go with these gentlemen to Taunton."

Goodie Westcott looks like she wants to snap back at him but knows it would go ill with her against the law. She presses her lips together and swallows, angered to find herself made vulnerable. "You haven't a-"

"Master Sexton sourced the rumours that caused the idiot Jim Stone to make an attack on my person to you. He - we both, I think - understand why you did it, to keep...the other party in check, but he will testify if I will it." the Squire at last breaks eye contact with the older woman. "Though I understand he might be undertaking to work elsewhere for a while. Hopefully we will get you before the kind of impartial jury not to be found here before that."

Goodie Westcott looks at him a long time, fear and anger warring in her. At length he looks back and catches her look, adding "-I trust the carpenter will not meet with any dire accident in that time."

"How...how long would it take for...an'how long would I be away?"

Cecil frowns and waits to hear the answer to the midwife's question.

"Well, that depends what you're convicted on, ma'am," the sergeant says, faintly amused.

"I think it'll take at least a month to get beyond the petty court," the Young Squire adds. "Time enough for tempers to cool and any other whispering you've done to fade out."

"You'll have the right to call any witnesses that might exonerate you, of course," Sergeant Rowsell puts in, already tiring of the buisness. "Now, I'd advise you come quietly an' not push us to arrest under force of arms. These two can take you to go pack." He nods at the soldiers flanking the hallward doorway.

The midwife seems unable to find a reply as yet, her whole body tensed. She makes as though to look to the Vicar as if he might help, but can't manage or perhaps fails to believe there's help there.

Cecil raises his hand to forestall the soldiers. "With your permission, Squire, might I suggest an alternative to prison and the courts?" He meets the eyes of Nathan and Rowsell before settling his gaze on Goodie. "In exchange for her promise of good behaviour in both word and deed, grant Goodwife Westcott pardon so she may remain in Scorch Norton." He smiles kindly, and volunteers himself. "I shall keep her parole for an agreed-upon time not to exceed what her lawful sentence would be if convicted. Should she violate that parole, she will surrender herself to serve the remaining time in prison." He gestures with a certain solemnity. "Assuming this would be acceptable to all parties, of course..."

Squire Fox gives a quick, frustrated snort. "-and what of the other party - forgive me if I don't name names, gentlemen," Nathan looks levelly at the Vicar, so alike to his ancestor that they might be brothers, "- who would serve to profit by my removal or replacement? Do we think She might be made to recognise this bargain?"

The sergeant seems to be listening, but since the arrest is up to the prosecutor he is not presently inclined to interfere. The soldiers look on, one wary and interested, the other a cold blank.

[[Hm. Persuade roll, though if you can reasonably bring godly guidance and/or Christian mercy into it you can use Practical Religion.]]

Cecil spreads his hands in supplication. "God's mercy to us is the motivation for showing mercy to others. You shall never be asked to forgive anyone more than God has already forgiven you."

[[18:20, Today: Reverend Palmer rolled 90 using 1d100.  Practical Religion 70. Absent a +20 bonus, that would be a failure.]]

There's a distinct crack in Nathan Fox's composure: he begins to pale, then blood returns to his cheeks in a rush and he starts to pace in agitation in the small space afforded to him. "That- That's not an answer," he points out in clipped tones.

[[+20s are for being exceptionally impressive. Pushed rolls exist, tho'. Just remember that a failed Push is critical. Presently I need to go to bed...]]

This message was last edited by the player at 23:46, Mon 13 Nov 2023.

Cecil focuses his eyes on Nathan. "It is the only answer. The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. Who can know it?" He answers his own question. "The Lord God can. He knows our every sin and awaits only our confession and acceptance of Christ." He meets Nathan's gaze. "There is naught to fear, Nathan. Because God's wrath and mercy met at the Cross, we can be transformed and made fit for eternity."

[[06:45, Today: Reverend Palmer rolled 100 using 1d100.  Practical Religion 70 (Push). Natural fumble of an already-critical result!!!]]
This message was last edited by the player at 11:50, Sat 18 Nov 2023.

Nathan Fox takes in a deep breath and turns abruptly, heading for the door. The soldiers start and scuffle out of his way, recognising a rage born of sheer frustration in that stiffened spine.

"Then go preach to the Wood, sir," Fox says in a voice forceful and thick as the haul of hemp rope, and snaps to the sergeant: "Have her away at the next opportunity, before the judge's men have done - in irons, should she give you trouble."

He leaves the room ringing to the slam of the door. The soldiers, once they feel Cecil's attention is on their sergeant, murmur puzzled speculations as to the nature of this wood, so spoken of, and the unmentioned lady. The midwife stands stiff and pale, knowing no more to do than await her fate.

Cecil stares at the door for a time before sighing and returning his gaze to Mercy Westcott. "I'm sorry, Goodie, truly sorry. I've failed you, the Squire, all of Scorch Norton." He turns then to the sergeant. "Please convey my suggestion to the court, though without the Squire's agreement I doubt it shall be approved." He finally tells Mercy, "Unwelcome though I imagine it is, I shall pray for you nightly until your return."

"Can't save what won't 'ave it, Vicar," Mercy replies, if more weakly than her wont as the soldiers close in on her. "There's a book I'd have ye keep safe for whatever woman they send for - that's due dates, not spells - 'case anything happens to me or my property. Sure Widow Sexton will do her best, but y'know what some lads are for crashen about an empty house."

"If you're truly so concerned about this- Goodwife Westcott, I'll take her in hand myself at Taunton," the sergeant offers, if still somewhat lost as to the heart of the dispute. "Write out your commendation of her character and notes for the judge proper-like and I'll deliver them together."

Cecil nods acceptingly and steps into his study to pen said commendation. He catalogues Mercy Westcott's contributions to the community in summary, the respect with which she is held by the folk of Scorch Norton, and his own admittedly-limited assessment of her character as someone who has never himself required her services save in consultation. He returns and shows his missive to Goodie for her perusal. "I hope you will not feel this inadequate," he tells her. "I am also happy to state in person what I say herein if it would hasten the settlement of your case." He folds and seals the missive with wax after she has finished reading it. "With your permission I shall write you weekly to look after your needs. If there is any way in which I may help, please do not hesitate to ask." He sighs as he hands the sealed letter to Rowsell. "I do not wholly understand the reason for the Squire's animosity, I confess. His fear is a puzzlement. If he would but trust in the Lord..." His voice trails off.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 16:28, Mon 27 Nov 2023.

The sergeant had taken the document and quietly read it to the woman it concerned on seeing her struggle with even the Vicar's admirably clear script, standing beside her. He accepts it once sealed, fanning it a few times to make sure the wax is set before tucking it into his coat.

"Fear? Mostly he looked angry to me, sir, which I doubt speaking of the heart's ways as wicked would help - if he's for defending this other lady, or his own, I mean. You know how it is with young people, everything so clear-cut an' high in meaning, and of course feeling deeply wise on account of not being but fifteen any more. Unless he has something to be afraid of."

He looks at Goodie Westcott, who seems silenced by the fact forthright opinion would effectively be a confession to the charges, and knows it. She makes a thin, vexed line of her lips then lets out a heavy breath.

"He might, but it's not me. Nor I'm no threat to his lady, either, I state that with all witnesses. My thanks for your good word, Vicar, leave a leaf blank when you write letters and I'll see what I can do for writin back." She hesitates, then holds out her hand. "There'll be some as don't hold with your speaken for me, but truly, thanks."

Cecil unreservedly clasps Mercy's hand, allowing God's warmth to pass from his own to her. "Christ's path was not an easy one, and following it no easier. A true servant of the Lord must ever be ready to see a martyr's end and deliver himself into the hands of his enemies for the sake of Providence." He gives her hand one last squeeze before releasing it.

To Rowsell he simply says, "Only he who accepts Christ as his Lord and Saviour can hope to enter the Kingdom Of Heaven, for we are all sinners. We can never be made pure, save by His sacrifice on the Cross. For no sacrifice was ever so pure as the Lord Jesus Christ." He sadly concludes. "In truth, I know not whether dear Nathan fears that God will deny him mercy... or grant it."

Rowsell squints at him a moment, troubled, then draws the midwife and her warmed, rough hands away. The soldier's instinct to action takes over and he ceases to speculate.

"Not mine to say, Vicar," he concludes. The soldiers come close in escort, and lead her away.