A letter was slid under Ythill's door late one night. He didn't discover it until the next morning, and was perplexed by this gesture. Even in this remote village, technology wasn't a mystery, with many locals using email as their prefered method of communication. He came to the conclusion that it must be a romantic letter from a lover, sealed and sent to stimulate a sense of nostalgic curiousity. Opening the letter over warm oatmeal, Ythill's innocent assumptions disintergrated after reading the first line;
This is a death threat. Leave town by tomorrow, or your head will be divorced from your body.
The spoon dropped from Ythill's mouth, he couldn't stand divorce. He read on;
Your anti-development policies are harming the Quayside, and no longer will you stand in the way. In case you haven't put the pieces of the puzzle together yet, we are an underground movement powerful enough to take this town with violent bloodshed. However, we're prepared to be peaceful, for now, if you follow these precise instructions;
1) Retire and sign the town deed over to the Quayside Mafia
2) Flee the Quayside and never return
3) Do not tell a soul what you have done and where you have gone
Ythill's gut wrenched. It was scary, like when you finished the 7th world in Super Mario Bros. 3 expecting a letter from the princess, but getting a horrifying, seizure-inducing piece of hate-mail from Bowser instead. Yet, deep down, he had a small inkling a mafia presence had developed recently - people seemed to be staying inside at night, they'd look over their shoulder when gossiping, and fake moustache sales were up 30%. And perhaps he was naive, and should have expected personal greed to surface when big companies were offering big money for this land. But it was too late now.
Hastily scoffing the remnants of his oatmeal, Ythill's first instincts were to start packing and get away immediately. His head was swirling, thoughts clouded by fear and confusion - hands filled with socks. He clumsily stuffed a floral print suitcase with a collection of clothes, valuables and other Quayside memorabilia he was particular fond of. He cursed as a framed picture of the Quayside predating his time, cracked under the mound of clothes he was shoveling in. He then sighed, suddenly thinking of all the people; his friends, his lovers, his family - all living under this heinous mafia regime, and was overcome by a great sense of guilt and failure. He had to call a town meeting.
***
The afternoon rolled around quickly, which did nothing but fuel Ythill's anxiety. He had a heightened sense of paranoia - something he'd not felt before, at least not to this degree, and sober. Every unusual sound was met with a snap of the neck, eager to catch out it's creator, who would presumably pocket a handgun right at the last moment, confirming Ythill's suspicions, and rewarding his obsessive vigilance. But it didn't happen - at least not yet. The internal debate between conscience and survival-based sensibilities waged on, and was eventually decided, painfully. He would make a final, but fleeting appearance at town hall and vanish forever. It tore him up inside, and he pitied his cowardice, but he could not bring himself to take such a risk with his own life.
The crowd slowly trickled in around four, staying true to their positive response to
'Ythill's cool town meeting, be there or be square!'
facebook event he'd sent to everyone in his network. Even some of the 'maybe's' showed up. Ythill arrived shortly after, having spent his last afternoon rushing his final address to the patriotic town. He had a series of messy palm cards, outlining some of his fondest memories, and what he loved about the Quayside. But he also knew he couldn't get too emotional - it was going to be difficult. When the time came, he nervously shuffled on stage, scanning the crowd, still expecting a rogue individual to be lurking in the corner with a rifle lining up his head. But instead he saw the adoring town, homemade banners and excited faces. He couldn't do it, he couldn't sell these people out.
'Loyal Quaysiders', Ythill began, putting his palm cards back into his pockets.
'This morning I was sent a death threat by the Quayside Mafia', the crowd gasped.
'And for the last few hours I've been planning my retirement speech, sifting through combinations of words, figuring out how to say goodbye. But no matter what I came up with, it felt hollow. I know now it felt hollow because I was planning to flee, and leave you all behind. And I can't do it',
'Ladies and gentleman, these bastards, these
traitors,
are going to kill us if they don't get their way, and there aren't any guarentees even if we do comply. But I say we FIGHT! I say we find out who these animals are, and we bring them to justice!'
The crowd errupted into violent cheers of agreement, pumping their fists in unison, chanting obscenities I don't dare type.
***
Giddy with adrenaline, Ythill confidently strode home, at peace with the prospect of becoming a martyr. While his beliefs were reinforced through crowd passion, his face was about to be reinforced in a loud fashion (with bullets, you know).
Ythill's bin thudded, as he dragged it down the porch frontsteps, and out to the roadside. His life may have been in jeopardy, but this still wouldn't stand in the way of performing important household chores.
The lid resounded in the cold, clear night, as Ythill closed the bin for the morning's garbage collection.
Walking back inside, he couldn't help but feel slightly offput by his surroundings. Something was wrong. A cool draft was filtering through the hallway - it was then he noticed the glass in his back door had been broken. Shocked back into reality, Ythill's senses numbed, stumbling through the house to find an escape. But it was too late.
Ythill, Town Mayor (NPC) has been killed.
