The Super-Peasants of Gluten, Syphilis

The OOC
The Cast

The small village of Gluten is quietly going about its business. It's a lovely Spring morning. The farmers have been tilling the ground for the new planting season, and some may come to town for seed or supplies. The small livery stable may do some business as well, for the two rental horses there are the only ones within miles. The baker may be finishing up his morning baking, or not, depending on how early he got up, and opening his small shop. The barber, butcher, tailor, and blacksmith will also be preparing for the day's activities, and the shopkeeper may already have sold some small item to an early riser. As for the old parson, he's probably slept in. Let's just hope he has his sermon ready in time for the Sunday service in three days.

Pieter Malcolm sighed as he threaded a needle. Lately he had been doing mostly patchwork. It made him enough money to get by, and he couldn't really expect the people of Gluten to be ordering custom-fit waistcoats with matching vests. Pieter picked up the brown shirt and flipped it inside-out, then put his fist in the sleeve to hold it open as he patched it. As he did so, he noticed an even larger tear on the bottom of the shirt, as if someone had caught it on a branch and just kept walking. "I'll need a whip-stitch for that," Pieter thought, and looked at his spool of thread. To be on the safe side, he'd better buy more. A good whip-stitch would take a lot of thread. Pieter set down the shirt, patch, and needle and left his shop, walking down the street toward the general store.

Trotsky left out of his house. He held a small tankard of ale in his hand and was taking gulps of it every now and then as he walked. In his other hand he held his forging hammer, the top resting on his shoulder. As he reached his Forge he finished off his ale before wiping his mouth with the same arm, some droplets that were left in the tankard dripping out. He had designed the forge so that two massive pieces of wood that were really just a few logs strapped together acted as doors. He put down his hammer and tankard before gripping each of the doors and pulling them apart. He then pushed each of them until they were fully open, showing the full of his forge. He picked up the tankard and hammer before putting the tankard on a nearby hammer and getting to work on a hoe he was making for a farmer.

Tybalt rushed to grab his rolling pin, another sheet of dough was put down. He flattened it and rolled it, kneading it as he prepared to stick it in the oven. After shoving in the tray to the brick over, and stoking the flames, he wiped the sweat of his brow and stood back from the heat. He smiled, comfortable in the knowledge that his breads and sweets would sell well today. He walked from the kitchen to the front of the store, opening a few windows to let out the smell of sugar and freshly baked bread, which always drew in more customers. Finally, he made sure the door was open and unlocked, ready for business.

The Osteler took a moment to sit down near the cool of the window, looking outside. He glanced around at the rest of the town and across the street, able to see the blacksmith and tailor from his storefront. In fact, he saw Trotsky's forge start smoking. He wondered if he the smith would see him if he waved. He decided to give a wave anyway, just in case the smith was looking out his window. After a moment of rest he checked the dutch oven he had had going since yesterday evening, bringing out the cake in question and propping up near the windowsill, allowing the sweet smell to waft out into the streets and beyond. He patted his chubby belly, knowing he should resist the temptation of his sweets, but not sure how long he could hold out. In the meantime, he would wait for his early-morning batch to finish, and then would begin making something else depending on demand today. He wondered if Pieter or Jacoby would come by today- or if someone else would. He knew some kids would come by later though, that much was almost guaranteed.

Grace hummed quietly as she walked around the shop. She had been up before most of the townspeople and had finished setting up before the first customer had walked in, just a bit before sun rise. "Will that be all for you?" Grace smiled at the old woman standing across the counter. With a quick nod, the old woman paid her dues and made her way out. "Have a great day!" she called after her, just before the door closed. Her smile slowly faded as she grabbed her broom and began sweeping the already clean floors. It wouldn't be busy until a bit later and for now, she didn't have much to worry about.

Grace turned hearing the door creek open and she grinned kindly at the customers. Fixing her dress a bit, she resumed her position in the back of the counter, assisting the customers as needed.

Markus awoke earlier than expected, and, having no real reason to have done so, went back to sleep. A few hours later, the parson arose from his cot and wandered into his kitchen to prepare a pot of stew from whatever he could find in his cabinet. He threw in some lentils, a bit of ham, and a pile of leaves that looked edible, then he began to stir. Sitting down to eat his stew, Markus could smell the fresh bread and pastries from Tybalt's bakery. "I'll get some bread when I'm done here, maybe a bit more meat too," he thought out loud. Taking a spoonful of his stew, Markus raised one eyebrow at the flavor of the leaves. It wasn't bad, but it really didn't go with the lentils ether. Once he had finished his stew, Markus took a step outside, breathed in deeply, and choked on air that didn't taste like his room. Taking another breath, Markus cleared his system and began his walk toward the bakery, noting passively that smoke was rising from Trotsky's forge.

Reuias rolled off his cot. The church cots weren't the best bedding, but they were much better than the stables or the ground. He looked over at his traveling partner on another cot, he couldn't tell if she was awake or not so he got dressed silently out of the room. He began looking for the parson To thank him for letting them sleep on the cots. He searched the church, but found not the parson. Out of habit he checked the weapons secreted around his person and adjusted the blade hanging on his belt.

Noting everything was good he stepped out onto the street. Taking a deep breath he smelled delicious smells coming from the bakery.he thought he saw the parson headed that way and could think of no better way to start the morning than with a pastry. He walked over to the bakery calling a greeting to the parson. "Thank you for letting us sleep in your cots." Turning to the baker he asked how much a pastry would be.

Webster sat in his shop's barber chair, absentmindedly polishing one of his razors as he stared out of the window. Eventually, he ceased the repetitive motion, and gently placed the blade in its place on the counter before leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. Arrayed on the counter were all the necessary implements of his trade: an assortment of razors and scissors, some cloths, a jar of leeches, forceps, and of course his trusty scarificator. All that was left to do was wait and see if his little bell would be announcing any customers today.

Jacoby wiped the white stallion's sleek coat while he spoke to it, "One day I shall buy you for my own, I almost have the money, just another year." He pulled an apple from his pocket and gave it to the animal. He stood, and began caring for the only other horse in the stables. He called this one "Wolf," because of its black coat and habit of snapping at him. Recently he had solved the problem: he would stick a small piece of wood in the horse's mouth when it snapped, then when he tried to take it back the horse would tighten its grip, this continuing for a while, damaging the wood and not his arm. It was quite a task shoveling the hay with one arm, but it was also quite a task keeping the wood from the horse with his other. He decided he would soon become used to this as his muscles grew.

Vocalia woke up to the faint sound of clanging metal and thumping shoes on the ground. With a drowsy yawn, she rubbed her eyes and stretched her tired arms, looking around for her traveling partner who was already out and about. 'Is he out?' She silently asked herself as brown eyes scanned the room, wondering where he had gone off to. Pushing herself off the cot that was generously provided by the parson of the church she and her traveling friend, she instinctively folded every sheet neatly and tidied up both cots before changing into a modest travel dress. She was grateful that they had enough money to afford something inconspicuous to wear lest they attract unwanted attention. After making sure that her belongings were secured on her person, the raven-haired woman walked out to the streets, happily soaking on the morning sun as she strolled with a soft hum.

One second, everything was normal. The next, there was a piercing bright light. Startled villagers shut their eyes, but before the eyelids fell the light was gone. For that second it felt as if the air was heavy and constricting. Whatever that was, it was over, but most people had a faint ringing in their ears. And some were affected even more.

Pieter gasped and stood. The atmospheric pressure had been heavy and he had bent to a crouch in the street. Now he felt fine. "I must have imagined it," Pieter thought. He shook his head slightly and continued on his way to the store, but stopped short. An old woman was lying on the ground, her face to the road. Pieter ran to her. Upon turning the woman over, the tailor recognised it to be Mrs. Jenkins, the widow mother of a young farmer who lived outside of town.

"Mrs. Jenkins!" Pieter called. There was no answer. She didn't move. He slapped her face lightly, trying to rouse her, then glanced up and about worriedly. "Miss Templeton!" Pieter called to the shopkeeper, not calling the lady by her first name even though he was a year her senior, "Mrs. Jenkins is unconscious!" He jumped to his feet and hollered, "I'm going to get Webster!"

Pieter sprinted to the next building and threw open the door to the little barber shop, seeking the person in the village with the most medical expertise. "Webster," Pieter called, "someone needs help!"