Long Tom's own humming guided him through the soft background sounds of a quiet village and the harsh voices of the birds in the rookery as he threaded through the graves towards the sexton's little dwelling. Familiar names were doubtless inscribed on stones he passed among, perhaps including his own since his grandfather had also been a Thomas. The letters kept their mysteries. His parents' grave showed paler to his right, identifiable by the little beehive on a myrtle bough in place of the usual skull or dove heading the gravestone as was the fashion. The Fox estate had paid for the carving from compassion and in recognition of his father's service: a symbol, almost, of the unspoken expectation that Tom, too, would give forty years' excellent labour and a healthy son to the needs of his master's house, and his name to be written in stone for reading two hundred or two thousand years hence.

It was hard to decide if it mattered a lot or very little, if Polly had given him a son whose blood was not quite his. It might have been a daughter. The graveyard was quiet, scattered with daisies that paid their respects to the fractionally better habitat of disturbed soil, congregating with their little white bonnets on marked and unmarked graves alike. Mr. Carpenter's assigned cottage was far less neat than the tended graves: a chaos of leftover and sprouting cabbage, beans, and poisonous foxglove in raised beds, all scattered over with a strangling rise of buttercups growing straight from the death-fertile ground. The cottage itself was almost lost under ivy, and Tom had the unpleasantly acute impression he'd been sent to root out some animal. A scuffling responded to his knock, and a perplexed scowl once the scrawny old gander of a man realised he was not the Vicar.

"Y'need something, lad?" he asked, as always a little too calculating when looking over the village youth.

"Ah yes, Sir the Vicar would like some chalk, a slate and a bucket of water if you please. I can help you take it to him if you like." Thomas was quite intrigued by the house and the area surrounding it. He turned to have a better look while the man collected the required items.


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The cottage had probably been part of the original vicarage, or possibly the first bell tower on the site, square and solid. The sexton's tools lived in a lean-to against the churchward wall, which kept them far tidier than what could be seen of Mr. Carpenter's dwelling. The sexton shuffled back for Tom to bend and enter if he liked, seeming somewhat offended by the notion of having anything carried for him.

"You can have the chalk," he allowed, miraculously putting his hand on a box at once from the chaos of a shelf over the window. He unhooked a slate from a set near the door and thrust that at the visitor without ceremony, too.

Tom could see all there was in the place from the entrance: a bed still haphazardly heaped with blankets despite summer coming in; a table wedged against the window covered in papers, tins, string and small objects including fragments of bone for reburial; a hard chair wedged under the table and a plump once-red one by the fire; a chest and washstand between back door and fireplace; a collection of drink and medicine bottles, both new and unearthed, and a broom in the corner serving to prop up the homes of several spiders. Thomas felt there might be skulls about the place, but couldn't locate any at a glance. The old man stamped off and somehow produced a bucket from somewhere beyond the fireplace.

"Good water or stream water?" he asked after staring at it blankly for a moment, not sure what the Vicar could want this particular collection of objects for, or whether something might be blessed.

"Stream water should suffice. Would you be so kind as to give me your opinion on what has been going on with the "wood" and the disappearance of the girl ? I myself was accosted by some hares up at my hives."


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The sexton held the door long enough for Tom to follow him out the back, wading through a chaos of cow parsley. "Girls? Flighty little temptresses, don't you trust 'em any. If that Goodie Wescott weren't up to some mischief herself, belike that Polly was leading a young man on, thinking to give him up to the Devil or who-'ave-ye up there in the Wood. Only he got fed up when she said yes and yes then of a sudden 'no', and staved 'er head in for her, and now is pretending like it never 'appened."

Tom felt he was being suspected but not blamed for this behaviour, should he want to confess to some outrageous assault and butchery in sordid detail. "Only it was near enough the Wood that the place took notice and gave us animals, right? Then something changed, an' this afternoon we 'ave none. Must be Goodie Westcott or him who did it fixed things, or else set us up for worse."

"That old woman, they can't prove it, but Sam Smith reckons she's cursed his wife," the sexton vouchsafed, drawing up a bucket of water from the stream. "Thinks they're too closely related and don't ought to have children, he says, though they're only cousins at that. So she says she's giving Anne good herbs whilst she's in calf, and yon female looks better, but then the baby comes an' it lives two weeks and dies, if it gets there at all. Old besom's been telling his wife she ought to cut loose and go fornicatin' with the neighbours an' suchlike evils. Ain't right, that kind o' meddlin'."

"Wouldn't be surprised if it was 'er and some friends all messing with your hives - if the bees don't thrive after, take you some of the comb and simmer it in a pan with an iron nail, that'll sort her out." Mr. Carpenter laboured his way back up to the cottage amongst the tree shade and the distant clamour of rooks, but simply cut through the garden past his tools and headed into the churchyard.

Hand on the gate, he stopped dead as he spotted something beside the church. "Here," he said to Tom with a certain tremor of panic, looking from the lad beside him to the one standing calmly near the church wall, now watching them, "-that's you."


[[SAN check, please, because as far as Tom can tell besides already being himself, it is.]]

Thomas nodded along as Mr Carpenter spoke as they collected the items. He added nothing that might turn the conversation as he listen to what the man had to say.

Once everything was collected Thomas started back and it was only after Mr Carpenter spoke that Thomas looked up.

Thomas Bees rolled 88 using 1d100.  SAN = 60%.


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The youth that was apparently Long Tom stood there, identical in feature, height and clothing. He watched but did not hail them, or make any motion, the plucking of the breeze at his clothes and the natural slight shifts in weight of a living being demonstrating he was not a painted board or even a work of wax. The other Tom breathed, and watched them, and came no closer at all.

[[Apparently both of you find an extra Long Tom deeply distressing. That's -4 SAN for Tom and Carpenter the sexton.]]

"Be damned at this nonsense." Tom walked towards the figure, he still carried the items he had been given. Striding over towards the spot where the likeness of himself was standing Thomas was not in the mood for whatever game someone was playing.


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The Other Thomas studied the original's movements intently, then began backing away, blasphemously anticlockwise around the church. The thing moved wrongly at first, drawing a cry from the sexton as Tom left him behind: it jerked and flowed like every joint had been wrenched out of place and the bones left swinging free on some strange structure within. Shortly it seemed to correct itself, however, like a man pushing his fingers into the ends of a glove, and moved with Thomas' movements, making him specifically aware of the way he used his body.

It smirked at him with his own face, backing up. Tom became aware of a great noise of birds as they moved at a long stride's pace into view of the rookery, and behind him a faint jingle of bells.

Thomas continued forward, looking to send the "other Thomas" over some obstacle so he could jump at him. He was a ware of the bells, but this time was focused on one task to his front.


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The thing grinned at him like a disobedient living mirror, reached down on passing a grave and hauled up a clod of grass and soil by the roots, the flecks of dark graveyard earth stark against its stockings. It lobbed this unimpressive missile at Thomas, unafraid but seemingly testing his reactions, sounding him out. It moved like he did now, drawing down breath like he did, watching him.

[[Sure, we'll call that an opposed INT roll, since the Other Thomas isn't used to being this shape.]]

Thomas dodged the grass, turf and mud, going low and then using the momentum to launch himself at the figure, looking to bring him down and pin him, prepared to punch him if he struggled

Thomas Bees rolled 58 using 1d100.  Int = 70.

[[GM edit: moving action into empty post as previously requested, tense fix.]]
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This message was last edited by the GM at 08:02, Wed 06 July 2022.

The Wood-thing watched, still watching as Tom dodged and sprang. Its attention distracted, Tom managed to drive his double to step back onto the jutting corner of a low grave slab; they fell together, the thing under him feeling very like a man at surface level but horribly yielding within, like an apple full of rot. There were bones, though, for the Other Thomas gripped the scruff of the first and rolled them over with surprising strength, and Thomas felt his arms pinned by its knees in a scatter of escaped chalk.

It looked at him, at its hands - and Tom remembered how they said Polly had died, what terror there must be in strangulation - then leant to kiss him on the left eyebrow with a mocking smirk and sprang off, seemingly keen to avoid the jingling that rushed up behind. Tom saw it circle that sourceless sound, watching something, hesitate between church and lane, then make a bolt for the gate. The rooks behind were making a racket fit to wake the dead, as though some predator were near their nests. Black birds flared around the sky and some stood on the churchyard wall to yell anger at whatever this was that should not walk, or whatever its presence had drawn up.

[[Rolled a Brawl for ye:
09:03, Today: The Keeper, on behalf of Thomas Bees, rolled 54 using 1d100.  Fighting! (50)
09:04, Today: The Keeper, for the NPC Him From The Wood, rolled 35 using 1d100.  ...really? The thing is not grappled, but chooses to forbear from thumping or murdering Thomas for the moment.

Following your new friend wants a CON for the standing start, getting up and informing Lucy and he Vicar of developments takes none.]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:37, Wed 06 July 2022.

Thomas get up from the ground embarrassed he was bested by something that up until a few minutes ago was having trouble walking. He starts off after the thing at a sprint.

OOC: More disappointment on the dice roller front
Thomas Bees rolled 38 using 1d100.  CON = 55%..


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This message was last edited by the player at 22:03, Wed 06 July 2022.

Lucy appeared at the church door as Tom stumbled to his feet and reeled around the building, abandoning his chalk. "What happened to the birds?" she asked, then clutched her skirts, uncertain whether to follow as he ran past. "Tom-?"


[[ ? I can't see your CON roll for some reason - what was it?]]

OOC: Sorry I have added it to my post.


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[[Thank you, I can see it now. Not so bad at all, there. Any reply to Lucy above?]]

Finding itself pursued by merry jingling and Thomas both, the thing jacknifed like a hare, using its - Tom's - long stride to gain ground. It reached the churchyard wall in four hurtling paces and vaulted between two shrubs, passing momentarily out of sight.

[[That'd be a DEX roll to copy, or Tom can run a few more paces to the gate and let it keep its lead.]]

Thomas tried to follow failed miserably and ended up on his arse. He waved the double off with his right hand not being bothered with the whole situation any more. As he rose he brushed the dirt from his breeches and walked back towards his sister.


OOC: Thomas Bees rolled 85 using 1d100.  DEX = 50%.

[[edit: wardrobe.]]
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This message was last edited by the GM at 09:19, Fri 08 July 2022.

Lucy stood confused a pace from the door now, though Tom was at least assured to see the Vicar in the porch, keeping watch on her. It would have been easy work for the thing to grab her and hasten her away from him in terror, Tom realised, if the jingling had not encouraged it to flee. The rooks on the wall had moved off to local rooftops, still making a racket.

"What was it?" Lucy asked.

"Nothing, nothing a strange hare again, here help me with the items the Vicar wanted." Thomas collected up the various peaces he had been carrying and followed his sister to the Vicar.

-

"You don't ought to chase them about, they'll lay spells on you or somethin," Lucy said with concern, trotting after him to pluck bits of chalk off the grave slab of Thomas and Ethel Vile and several of their children.

She followed him back with the slate and looked confused to see how the sexton looked up and stared at them whilst handing the Reverend a bucket of water. Mr. Carpenter glanced behind them, determined there was only one of Tom, and muttered some exuse to be gone and not at all involved in whatever this was, shuffling hastily away.

The Vicar stood on the threshold, looking utterly perplexed. "Oh...well, at least I got his key off him," he said to the Bees as they came up. "That means I'm the only one that can lock or unlock the church."

He hesitated, then seemed to decide that his sexton had probably given in to his lamentable weakness for suspicious over-familiarity and reaped the consequences. Trusting that Tom would tell him if anything truly untoward had occurred, he hefted the bucket to the grave slab near the Devil's Stone ready for use and watched Lucy kneel with the chalk.

She brushed back and forth carefully, turning the surface gradually white. Unwilling to get down there and crowd her, the Vicar hemmed uncertainly and looked over at Thomas. "You said something about a hare, here near the church?"

Tom helped with the task at hand and then when the opportunity arises he asks to have a word with the vicar away from his sister. "I saw a double of myself earlier as did the sexton, I tried to pursue it but it was better then me and escaped. It was being chased by the bells I heard earlier when it tried to punt the hare at my hives." Thomas let the information set in and looked for a reaction from the vicar.



-

The Vicar looked somewhat bewildered. "I'm sorry, how many doubles? -and the...horse thing chased yours off? From right here? Did you see where it went? This is...very troubling, oh dear."

Lucy, meanwhile, made a satisfied sort of sound, having findally encountered some sort of lettering after following the faintest traces of a border and effigy decoration on the slab.

"Just the one, he headed off up the lane>" Thomas points in the direction the thing went. "I am not sure what the thing with the bells looks like, never got a look at it." Thomas stood up when his sister managed to find some lettering to give her some more light and to check their surrounds with a quick scan.


-

The church looked generally empty as before, which didn't mean there couldn't be a mischievous invisible jingler standing very still just about anywhere. Lucy had indeed found lettering, and drawing closer let the beekeeper and troubled vicar behold an inscription, now stark amidst the swathe of chalk:


The Vicar frowned at it, taking up the slate and stylus to jot the words down. Lucy grinned, but kept exploring at the edges of the slab with her chalk, in case there might be something else.

"...'he who digs me up will take my place'," the Vicar translated, "-though accepts would be as good, and 'place' is very literal, as in a place he doesn't own, but one that's his physical location. As though to say that exhuming him would...cause one to die on the spot, maybe? I...I think we better not exhume him, at least for now."