---

The Doctor's House, ~3:40pm Saturday May 4th, 1771


Andrew slipped out of the buzz of organisation and witchcraft-based rumours at the inn and followed the Doctor home, Polzeath trying to stay unobtrusively near the carpenter in case the day's strain caused him any need to lean on someone. They slipped around the side to come in at the back and nearer their goal: a brick arch and a welcoming floral plaque with the date of construction in clay relief stood above the garden gate where it was set into the alley wall. Beyond it were as many plants as Andrew had seen collected with no more use than beauty: roses, lupins and hollyhocks were well in bud or shoot with such shelter, the daffodils just giving over, tulips and fist-sized ruffles of flowers he had no name for stretching up their leaves to the passing sun.

There were familiar herbs, of course, and sprouting beans, but also a stretch of plain and perfect grass heading down to the trees above the river, studded only by daisies and clover at the further edge. It was like a carpet laid outdoors, lusher than the common wold hard-grazed by rabbits, and perhaps mown so by hand rather than the teeth of beasts. Flowers even climbed the privy and screened the midden-heap. Bees thrummed in such a place, providing a lazy background as they passed from the brief flush of sunlight into the scullery through the servants' door.
The crate of animals stood starkly before them, weighed down with an iron pot. Polzeath sidled into the line of sight towards his bed in case that was improper for anyone to behold and waited to be handed his master's bag, if the master wanted his hands free.

Andrew was silently grateful for Polzeath’s concern for him, the effects of the long hike, the terror inflicted by the Wyzenwood, and his injury all suddenly finding him at once, fatigue settling upon him like a long shouldered burden. Gazing down at the collection of captured animals wrested him from his weariness, at least momentarily, the questions about what had brought about their strange state once again filling his mind.

”My apprentice told me that a rabbit with this same affliction threw itself under a knife that was being used to chop vegetables , as if it yearned for death,” the carpenter told Doctor Lovelace and his assistant, ”I’ve done my share of hunting since I was a boy, so I feel I know the country in Somerset well enough, but I have never seen a malady like this one among any of animals before.”


[[GM edit: significant leporid distinction!]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:41, Fri 13 May 2022.

He handed Polzeath his medical bag as the man seemed to expect, perfunctorily, his mind in truth elsewhere. He simply stared at the situation until Sexton spoke, which seemed to rouse him from a stupor.

"Yes, the behavior is quite unusual to say the least, in that it violates the most fundamental natures of creatures to seek the furtherance of life and avoid death at all costs. Of course, some creatures do by instinct behave in ways that inevitably leads to their deaths, though this is usually in furtherance of other life affirming activities such as reproduction. The behavior of these animals is not like that case. There is no benefit to putting itself under a knife," he said.

"Moreover, that an animal would put itself in such a position knowingly requires an assumption that it understands the human use of tools, what a knife is specifically, and the outcomes that might follow placing itself in that path. It is all a bit much, to be honest.

I think the most direct line of reasoning shows that these animals are acting out of accordance with their natures, as if in a state of delirium. This behavior, in conjunction with the uncharacteristic secretions observed on the creatures indicates a sickness that is perhaps impacting their ability to see and think clearly. That they all have come from the Wyzenwood tells me that the source of miasma which has created this illness is found therein. Additionally, the rapid change in behavior of those who entered the dread forest informs me that this miasma effects humans as well.

That much can be avoided by not going into the forest, but I cannot tell what will happen if these animals remain alive and capable of spreading this disease while among people. As you were attacked by the stag, as a dog with rabies might attack its owner, this is something that could be dangerous if the problem is not addressed. Normally, I would suggest addressing the problem at its source - it is likely not advisable as the miasma is sufficiently potent as to render that solution not viable.

Instead, I believe putting an end to these creatures and them disposing of them in a manner that will not enable their secretions to spread further is wise."

OOC:

Is this a slatted crate, that we might see inside and insert narrow objects through said slats?

"Would you like me to stoke up the kitchen stove, sir, or make a fire out by the midden? 'Less you were thinking to look at their insides first, I mean." Polzeath seemed to be forcing himself to stillness, uncomfortable with the situation in general or the wasted meat.

[[The holes between slats aren't broad, but it's possible to see inside if one gets down there and looks. As a reminder, you have two partridges and a rabbit in there, at least in theory.]]

Careful not to draw too close to the crates, Andrew knelt down, trying to peer through the gaps in the slats to see what the trapped animals’ present condition might be.

His hand moving to his wound, Andrew asked, ”Do you have any sense of how easily this affliction might spread?”

There was a muffled scrabbling from the crate as Andrew passed between it and the light in the doorway. The pot atop it wobbled fractionally and was still.

"My suspicion is that it requires prolonged exposure. The individuals who were mildly exposed to the miasma experienced a temporary but dangerous state of delirium, which soon after resolved itself. If a person were to have suffered prolonged exposure, it is possible they would be as badly afflicted as these poor creatures here. However, a spike of significant and very direct concentration might allow these creatures to serve as a vector for whatever foulness is in that place. Best to be safe and be done with them."

He considered Polzeath's offer. "Definitely not anywhere in the house. If we find a good spot, a bit out of the main town, we could begin to gradually burn the remains of these things. Not just these three but any in the village."

Polzeath bowed slightly. "I'll take them off in the crate when you've done with them, sir," he replied, still a little hesitant.

Cautiously, Andrew stooped down closer to see if he could get a better sense of the animals’ condition, his nose alert for any hint of the scent of damp decay, a smell that was now imprinted on his memory.

There was further scuffling and a muffled grunt from the crate as Andrew got almost up against it. Polzeath tensed despite himself.

Andrew stood to his feet and frowned. Looking to Doctor Lovelace, he said, ”One of the partridges is still running about in there, seeking a way to freedom. The rabbit is in a corner. It made a few angry noises at me when I drew close.”

“The other partridge is dead. It’s already reduced to bones, like it had been left out in the sun for days on end. That unpleasant smell of the bog seems to be coming from it, more than anything else. There are also leaves scattered about inside there, but I don’t know where they might have come from.”

"Well, we'll need to kill them both and then have them burned. Do you want the rabbit or the partridge?"

Seeing the carpenter's hesitation, Polzeath gently cleared his throat to offer: "If it would be better on your wound, sir, to spare it some scrabbling about on the floor, you might come back here with a blanket to throw on anything that might escape. They do seem lively and willing to save themselves now, save that one gone to bones an' all."

He went and took up his blanket and held it up in a loose bunch to demonstrate. The improvised net would certainly cover a larger space in all dimensions should a small fleeing bird or beast escape the hand that grasped for it.

"A good notion, my man. Mister Sexton, take that blanket and stand at the ready. Polzeath, you and I shall do the scrabbling about as needed. Capture the animal and bring it quickly to a swift death. Harden your heart against this task, for it is a kindness that we do here."

When everyone was ready, he tipped the crate back slightly from one end and waited for one of them to come out at which time he would attempt to grab it, and hopefully drop the crate down over the other so they could do this one at a time. If both escaped, he would hope to rely on either the blanket method or the wily Polzeath's catlike reflexes.

11:36, Today: Martin Lovelace rolled 13 using 1d100.

DEX vs 80. That's a critical success right?
This message was last edited by the player at 16:37, Fri 03 June 2022.

"It's not the killing so much as not eating 'em after, sir," Polzeath said with regret. "Seems more like murder that way."

Nonetheless, he stood ready to take charge of any errant beast. Martin gave a count of three, jerked the crate up and siezed the quick blur of movement that darted free, feeling the urgent little blunt pecks all over his forefinger before tightening his grip and wringing the bird's neck with his other hand. Another precise manipulation of the now-unweighted crate delivered the rabbit into the deft broad hands of Polzeath. It screamed, but only briefly. Polzeath held the dead animal over the righted crate until the sudden slackening of its bladder ceased to leak. The seemingly blackened and shrivelled partridge remained on the floor where the crate had been, a little broken up by its companions but not contributing anything.

The still-warm partridge lay in Martin's hand, perfect and ordinary. Polzeath looked over, trying to ignore the room's fresh stink of the terror of wild things, the corpse in his hand swaying a little. "Were you going to cut into them, sir, or should I take them off somewheres, as you were saying?"

"Let us go and establish an appropriate place for the burning of all said creatures, Polzeath. I have no wish to examine them, lest their malady spread to me somehow."

Andrew followed the doctor and Polzeath, his mind still lingering on the image of the mummified pheasant. ”Doctor, if I might ask, do you know of anything that would cause the bird that died to decay that quickly? To be reduced to nothing but bones over the course of an afternoon?”

Polzeath had nodded and swept the crispy partridge into the crate with the rest of the corpses to follow his master's lead. "...if you'll excuse me, sirs," he broke in quietly after Andrew's question, "I'm not sure as it's skin and muscle the dried one has at all."

He held up the crate, the soft of his throat moving in some subtly disconcerting manner as he swallowed. "That texture - more like leaves on the thing, and roots, just with the moisture gone away - see there."

Andrew was hesitant to speak up, only able to offer the evidence of his own senses. “When I’ve gone hunting, I’ve come across animals who have perished. Although it is slow, the earth always works to reclaim them, a small amount at a time.”

The words of Genesis came immediately to the carpenter’s mind. ”By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.”

He swallowed, then added, ”Perhaps this is what is happening. The forest taking them back.”

"Hm, but see you, sir, I'm not sure as your Wyzenwood here didn't put the life back in it before it - she - took it away again, seein' as we didn't want that. It's a bird skeleton, right enough, but what's on it's like plants, not flesh at all...you see the other ones are fine, muscle and bone, not even the green stuff. On the outside, anyhow," Polzeath observed, holding the crate up nearer Andrew as they went since he seemed more interested.

[[If there's no sign of Dr. Lovelace by the morrow I'll consult the Magic 8-Ball as to where we're going exactly.]]

"Well, if the one of them is some sort of plant it'll burn all the better - I'll take a look at it once we get out to...oh, let's say the crossroads up by Goodie Westcott's cottage," Doctor Lovelace said cheerfully, grabbing a bundle of kitchen firewood on his way out. "That's supposed to confuse devils, isn't it?"

[[Grabbing the good doctor with permission, since the player has been sighted but has Preſſing Concerns at present.]]

They came back out into the lane with their grisly burden covered by a tea-towel and made a little procession up the main road towards the crossroads, avoiding puddles and horse dung. Andrew tried to ignore the part of his mind that told him he was walking away from the spot his father died, as though that were important, or turning around to see that stretch of road might do anything at all. It was so easy to die of a sudden - the flash of an opened window or a falling crate scaring a horse, for instance, or a swift disease, or being run through by a stag - the very idea of murder seemed an impossible waste. There were holes to fall down, roof slates to come loose, the fearsome bites of badgers or fevered fits; how anyone might design to take a young woman's life away in wrath or lust or jealousy was not a thought that could be followed.

All was pretty much quiet in the village as they went, those with urgent work either at it or newly gone to the inn on prior summons at its end, those without already there or amusing themselves in their own homes as wonted. A distant cuckoo could be heard somewhere before them to the right, off beyond the fussy cooing of doves and some muffled dispute between dogs amongst the houses behind them. All seemed very much normal and right with the world.

They reached the crossroads and Doctor Lovelace cast down the firewood where a sign post might be if anyone had any need of it. "This ought to do," he said, and tested the wind's direction. Polzeath apologetically handed the crate to Andrew as he crouched down to start arranging something that might get up heat enough to immolate a fresh corpse.

The Doctor, meanwhile, was looking thoughtfully off into the orchard.

Andrew regarded the crate in his hands uncertainly, recalling the leaves that had been scattered near the mummified bird. Clearing his throat, he asked, ”Could it be that the plants…invaded them somehow? Similar to a hookworm or the like?”

Feeling more and more like a simpleton, he added, ”Is that even something that’s been known to happen?”

"What? Oh. Hmm. I don't recall anything I've studied along those lines, though given the strangely decayed condition of one of these creatures I suppose the biology might not be exactly the same. I have read of some plants that can grow in a corpse, so if these creature possess some strange condition that renders them partially rotting...then it may be possible. This is all speculation. I'm not sure what is wrong with these creatures, but that is the best I have for you," he said.

"Now, how many more such creatures do you think are about in the village?"


[[GM edit: only one weirdly decayed/suspiciously vegan partridge, other critters were fine.]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:17, Tue 28 June 2022.

With the little pyre heating beside him and his kerchief protecting his long fingers from the blood, Polzeath took and opened the unwithered partridge for his own curiosity. Tilting it so that any unclotted blood would head into the flames, he remarked:

"If it's plants grown inside them alive, they're fearful slow. Can't see a thing in eyr...no, not even at the spine. Should I look at the heart whilst I have the knife out, sir, or the brain maybe, or is that too much of spreadin' it about?" He shuddered.

"Don't like the idea of slowly turning plant any. Worse than hookworm, that is."

"Yes, I should think becoming a plant would be quite dull indeed. Let's not go messing about with it too much. Fire is what we need, and soon," he said cheerfully.

Stepping back as Polzeath performed his examination, Andrew’s thoughts went to the stag, suddenly curious about where the creature might have vanished to. When the doctor’s assistant mentioned that he saw no traces of any plant life within the bird, the carpenter briefly wondered if what they had seen was the Wyzenwood’s way of controlling the unfortunate beasts. If perhaps the forest, or the witch that made her home there, had sent them into Scorch Norton for some unknowable purpose, and now that they had done her bidding, they were freed. Those that had been able to survive the affliction, that is.

“No sign at all?” Andrew asked, his throat suddenly dry, at once wishing that the animals’ sickness had a natural explanation.

07:06, Today: Andrew Sexton rolled 100 using 1d100.  Folklore - Folklore 20%

Yeah, if there are any prior stories of wildlife becoming ill in this manner, Andrew certainly doesn’t remember them.

The Doctor's man glanced up at him, equally peturbed. "None, sir."

Polzeath let Andrew see the inside of the partridge, delicate membranes pulled loose from glittering flesh: pink muscle over the long keel plate and delicate stone green at the guts, all of it hale and healthy as his best catches from a moonlit night's wandering. Once the carpenter seemed satisfied he reluctantly closed the little bird's skin and wings in his hand, letting the head loll like a tassel on its broken neck.

"Mind not to be downwind," he said, holding it carefully and then letting it slip into the hottest flames. Even upwind there was a terrible smell of good fat and burnt feather. Polzeath reached up and quietly took the crate to let the others step back.

---

They burned the rabbit, too, and the crate with its remnants of fear-piss and plant-wrapped skeleton. The Doctor watched until he was satisfied all was ash, perfumed kerchief over his nose, and Andrew wracked his brains for anything of use, sending all his folk knowledge scattering from the point of pressure to doubtless seep forth in the deepst watches of the night when he had no need of it. There was something about using apples to repel doctors, but that wasn't much use.

They explained themselves to anyone passing by, and at length left a gang of interested village children to guard the ashes and each other as more kindling was gathered and donated wood set ready to make the smoulder a blaze when called for. Armed with a sack and the village's general goodwill towards the Doctor and Bill Sexton's son (there were a few folk still unsure about Polzeath, for being Cornish and thus rebellious, if not for being peculiar in his looks), the three set about searching through the village for dead or captured beasts. They picked up the dead rabbit-kit from outside the Sexton kitchen, a plump pigeon that had dashed its skull to pieces on the Wortheys' door, and even retrieved and slaughtered a wild duck caught in the Durbin farmhouse, though at that point the Doctor was called away to the bedside of the understandably devastated lady of the house.

He managed to get a tincture of opium down her, and persuaded her that Kit had not been lying about traces of murder out of wanton cruelty, and that running into the Wood herself would not bring her baby back, though if a future search should find a body, Dr. Lovelace would do his utmost to return it. Mrs. Durbin had kissed his hands for his kind words and fallen asleep holding them, exhausted from hours' intermittent weeping and screaming. Other neighbours were gathered in the kitchen with Phillip Durbin: Stephen Collins crouched on the floor beside the farmer's chair explaining how work could be done, should he need time away from either field or wife; the women stowing away things out of place and ready-made food for when it was needed. Being outside with Andrew, Polzeath and a dead duck in a sack was a relief like surfacing, coming out of that house of grief.

All the same, they went quietly down the footpath Polly must have often trod, threading back around and along Church Lane to cover the houses on that side. No further beasts were netted there, though Polzeath did his best in crawling through a shrubbery in search of a reported hedgehog and wedging himself up the still-warm base of a chimney in search of a suspicious thrush. Thanking the occupants of various houses, some of whom had been quite prepared to take advantage of free meat, they continued along the low path, past the hoarse shouts of the rookery.

Ruth Hooper stirred from the indeterminate heap of dirty clothing and blankets as they passed her hovel beside the tannery grounds and growled something but neglected to hurl a gin bottle at them, ostensibly boiling scavenged meat bones down for soap. The Doctor did call over to ask, but if she had seen anything then gin or syphilis slurred the answer to some incomprehensable aggression the former nonetheless thanked her for as they went on their way, circling back towards the consuming fire. The Sibley girls at the tannery had seen nothing, but didn't know about their father; their mother silently added another neck-wrung rabbit to the sack on being informed it was a danger to their health, though it looked clean as the others and might have fed them for days.

---

Crossing the bridge and commencing up one of the little paths through the bluebell-studded strip of woodland, Andrew spotted something like a sack down nearer the water, hurled haphazardly amongst the cow parsley. Quite used to being asked to do all necessary clambering by now, Polzeath left the carpenter in charge of their sack as soon as the request was made and edged down to the object. He gained trepidation on getting close, remembering that somewhere was a missing body and that surely this could not fit all of it.

After some pause he reported that he'd found the device, and that given leave sir, he warn't touching it and would just poke it under the foliage there with a stick. As he was coming back up with almost comical levels of supressed disgust written over his face, Andrew happened to glance behind them and spotted something else.

"Polzeath, the oldest and strongest emotion is fear of the unknown, and with respect to the device you have located, I believe we best know as little as possible and have a little fear of it, but not so much fear that we won't touch a sack that contains it. Give it to me, and we will make a present of it to Goodie Wescott."

Despite having boldly crawled through hedges and up chimney-pieces this past afternoon, Polzeath cringed at the thought. "Ah...no, sir. The thing be as she described it, exactly sir. No."

He looked a bit closer. "Oh dear. You are correct. It is rather unseemly. Fear it shall be then. Can you go fetch Goodie Wescott then? Tell her we've located her device and where to find us."

"As you'd ave it, sir," Polzeath said, bowing a little to the instruction. "Though I do think she'll say as to burn it, seein as it's, well, somewhat buggered as you might say. I'll take the sack, for I'll pass the fire. Master Sexton-?"

 The servant approached Andrew to reclaim the sack of dead beasts, yet hesitated as he observed the carpenter's gaze fixed elsewhere. Polzeath looked behind them also. "?"

Andrew deliberately looked away, doing his utmost to appear calm and focused on the task they had come for. Speaking quietly to Polzeath, he said, ”There’s someone else here, sir. Behind us. I thought it a scarecrow at first. They’re wearing a sack over their head. But I feel certain they know they’ve been seen.”

The servant hesitated in the course of taking back the sack, somewhat foxed. Frowning, he looked at his hands, then made some quite serviceable fists and looked to his master. "Shall I off and 'ave at 'em, sir?"

”I’ll do my best to help you, Mister Polzeath,” Andrew told him, ”though I’ll confess that I haven’t been in many donnybrooks myself.”

"I haven't been in a scrap in some time, since my days at sea, I think, but never let it be said that the good doctor wasn't capable of throwing a punch or two at a miscreant if need be. You needn't go it alone, Polzeath. Sexton and I will be with you as well," he said.

"Now listen here, you sack-headed pisspots, you may think it well and amusing to play with Goodie Wescott's device, but it is in truth a very foul matter. You best identify yourselves on the moment and we can keep as quiet as possible, or we'll have no choice but to give you a sound thrashing before we drag you through the town to answer to her yourself for all to see!"

There was a long silence from the mid-distance, and then the sudden break and crashing of someone taking off like a rabbit. Polzeath stood a moment, startled by the other's sheer speed, then darted away after them, not even troubling to call out.

[[a CON roll for the standing start if you wish to follow, gentlemen.]]

OOC:

I'm a doctor, not a runner!

18:29, Today: Martin Lovelace rolled 87 using 1d100.  CON artistry.

OOC: Andrew wants to follow, but his athleticism is…lacking.

21:12, Today: Andrew Sexton rolled 83 using 1d100.  CON.

Doctor and carpenter lurched into motion, almost ran into each other and righted themselves, losing sight of their quarry as the masked lurker dashed off into the trees and bracken. Only partly led by the distant and indistinct crashing, Andrew realised where the presumed miscreant was heading and tugged the Doctor that way.

Doctor Lovelace had no time to examine the axe he'd spotted and within a partly hollow tree, but grabbed it and hurtled on as bid, thinking it entirely too much running about in woodland for one day as he ploughed through a glade of bluebells. Rather heedless of his injury, Andrew slid over newly-crushed cow parsley in a scatter of buttercup petals, flailed upright partway down the alarmingly deep ditch beside the Wookey road and hurtled onward, his next two steps along the wedged cart shaft once brought down in a flood to jump off on the other bank. The Doctor followed with a little more caution and arms outstretched, quite aware that slipping on any moss would pitch him into the nettles and vile water beneath.

Andrew scrambled up the other side and saw Polzeath engaged in a pitched if truly inept battle with their chosen prey on the ground some twenty paces off, both sides flailing in an energetic struggle for the upper hand to an effect much like a pile of old sacking possessed by the Devil. As Andrew stumbled forward, feeling the hot pain in his side again, the disguised party managed to kick the Doctor's man in the chest, sending him flat and apparently winded.

The lurker turned and was instantly up again, running as though life depended on it. By the time Andrew had reached Polzeath, the figure was mostway up the meadow and accelerating. There was a brief glimpse of the sack turned back to see them at the edge of the woods around the Fox estate, and then the runner vanished among the tree trunks, far off and brown amongst brown.

"Well, I 'ad'm, zirs, but I last'm," Polzeath explained between wheezes, his accent coming thick through the other exhertion. It seemed those following him had lost the miscreant as well.


[[Those rolls put you rather far behind Polzeath, who only really caught up to our mystery buddy by luck, then got exceedingly outrolled in the holding on stakes...]]

[[ghost-posting for the Doctor, who's been gone a week, just to sweep up.]]

"Well...bugger," Doctor Lovelace concluded, letting his breathing steady. He looked at his newly-aquired axe. "I rather wonder what this was for. Sinister, isn't it?"