Cecil casts a worried look in the direction Polzeath ran off before turning his gaze to the wet spot on the Young Man's back. "I've ne'er seen so severe an imbalance, Doctor, not even during my time among the Irish. 'Tis as if all four of this poor chap's humours were displaced into parts of the body they had no business being!"
This message was last edited by the player at 13:21, Tue 24 Jan 2023.

Satisfied that her handiwork will at least slow the strangers if they should want to wander, Maggie stands, wiping her hands on her skirts. She turns to regard the Young Man  but declines to venture closer.

"What's t'be done fer him, Doctor sir? Can your arts help him or is he a goner?"

"I... I must admit I don't know. Some of the animals came out of it" is all the doctor can suggest. His gaze though it on the path Polzeath took, and there is grave concern written on his face.

He releases his grip on the unfortunate and goes to his bag to try to find and empty jar or similar "Help me find what it was that Polzeath flicked from his hand. Don't touch it, but I should like to collect it to study."

"I also want to check on Polzeath, I've never seen him react like that!"

"I'll try t' overtake your man an' persuade him t' come back," says Maggie, "Do you have a care 'til we return."

The tall lass gathers up her skirts and departs in pursuit of Polzeath, long legs flashing in the dim light.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:00, Thu 26 Jan 2023.

"Hhh...hhh..'m alive...name's Timothy Sa- no! No! Jesu-!" the young man held down by the Vicar abruptly goes entirely quiet as though a door has been shut. The other men stand impassive, doing nothing.

[[Give me a Spot Hidden, Doc. You too, Vicar, if you'd like to help.]]

Polzeath is easy enough to find, crouching on the tallest boulder they'd scrambled over and within shouting distance of the rest. Indeed, as Maggie lopes up he's straightening to full height up there, hands cupped to shout what his master and local clergyman hear as a distant:

"Do come away, zirs, please! She'll find yez!"

It could be considered charming yokel superstition, if the terror in his voice or the urgency of his action were less evident. Maggie can see the valet scarcely heeding her presence for his concern, his face working and his throat gulping and gulping over again, as though he were still out of breath or needing water. He looks like a man barely sane, gone grey-green from paleness.

Cecil looks around at Martin's suggestion but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Upon hearing the whispered name and godly invocation, he returns his gaze to the Young Man. Drawing his rosary from the pocket of his waistcoat, he begins to intone the traditional prayer:

"In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

O God make speed to save us,
O Lord make haste to help us,
Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.

Holy God,
Holy Almighty,
Holy Immortal One,
Have mercy upon us."

[[16:09, Today: Reverend Palmer rolled 87 using 1d100.  Spot Hidden 50.]]
[[16:32, Today: Reverend Palmer rolled 73 using 1d100.  POW 60.]]
This message was last edited by the player at 21:44, Fri 27 Jan 2023.

There's nothing more from the youth than laboured breath, though Cecil can feel the trembling of a great amount of energy or struggle through the hand still resting on the stranger. The convulsions are scarcely more than sharp twitches now, like a dying thing, though his breath remains steady.

At the point where it seems the youth has surely returned to his former state, a great shudder of effort runs through him, fresh tears sweeping through the dark fluid, and he manages to raise his hand of his own will and grasp the Vicar's wrist. He holds on mutely like the shipwrecked, eyes calmly closed but a knot of intense human feeling in his brow.

Cecil clasps the Young Man's hand in both of his and continues his prayers. "I absolve you, Timothy, of your earthly sins, commend you to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator. May you return to Him who formed you from the dust of the earth. May the holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints meet you as you go forth from this life."

The doctor casts about trying to find a sample.

[[23:10, Today: Martin Lovelace rolled 56 using 1d100.  Spot hidden (60).]]

The youth's hand grips hard, trembling, then gradually slackens in the Vicar's grip. Timothy - or whatever has taken Timothy's body in his stead - is still a moment, then stands with that uncanny sleepwalker's shift of balance and treelike ground-up strength. He breathes, serenely as one deep asleep, little more than his own fluids glittering on his face.

Following a faint shine from bramble to leaf litter, the Doctor is intrigued to find the glob of fluid flicked by Polzeath has somehow decreased in density and is trickling, even soaking into the ground; he darts to get some in his open vial, crumbs of loamy clay and all. The substance is green-black, and even with the Doctor's caution he catches some of that wet green smell of thick rot before wedging the cork down hard.

"Zirs, please!" Polzeath calls out from afar.

Maggie let’s her skirts down to modest length and stares up at the man in his distress.

"Polzeath, come down. Come back to yer master who need you. What makes ye take on so?”

Catching a bit of his fear, she glances about into the trees and undergrowth, seeking any threat and a stout stick to beat it with.

The woods seem as they ought to be, shaded as they are, a cuckoo calling out in the distance. A dropped branch just a little way off looks fairly sound, should she want to crack something over the head with it. Polzeath starts a little at Maggie's urging and looks guilty as well as scared, but remains where he is, havering on his rock.

"I don't dare come down, Miztress Yendale, She's took scent of me, I know it....like a pit as knows yer name. I come down an' go by those men, She'll send 'er ink for me, seein' as I tried to push it out of that fellow there...whether She'd burn out my heart or make me such as they are I don't know, but I don't care to. I don't dare be on the ground, She tried to put it through my skin." The affected hand jerks in demonstration or simple memory of the imposition.

Looking up at him, Maggie realises Polzeath is actually shivering, something she hasn't seen on even the coldest days of winter. He swallows, swallows again, apparently unable to will himself even slightly towards descent.

"I have some of it" Doctor Lovelace says "I can try it on an animal and see if they behave the same as the ones we observed before. This is perhaps a common cause and if so, then it wore off on at least one of the animals."

Cecil steps to the doctor's side. "We must place our hope in God's mercy that Timothy has found his way to his eternal reward." Glancing at the vial, he remarks, "Such a miniscule amount might unbalance the humours of an animal, but I'd think much more would be needed to unbalance a man's." He smiles hopefully at his companions. "Perchance there are limits as to how much of this substance can be produced, and stores that can be destroyed."

The young man in question stands as though he'd never briefly broken free, as calm as the other captives of the dark stuff currently thinning and spreading itself up the sides of the vial. Maggie doesn't seem to have persuaded Polzeath down off his rock yet. The ivy restraining the Old and Tall Man has already blackened and shrivelled somewhat, as though its moisture were borrowed away.

Maggie scrambles up onto Polzeath’s rock and sits beside him. The man is odd, but if he sees reason to fear contact with the soil…

"So, Polzeath, d’ye b’lieve Doctor's in danger? An’ Vicar, too? What can we do t’ protect ‘em?” Her face is creased with worry. "An’ how will ye get home without touchin' ground?"

She cranes her head about, trying to get a glimpse of their companions.

"I...don't know," Polzeath admits, scooting aside to give Maggie enough space to find herself a comfortable spot. "Was thinken maybe to go along by rocks as far as I can then run for it, 'ope She can't think both ways to work out where I am, runnen...I don't like to leave the master, though, an' I don't like that they're poking about with those fellows afull of Her stuff, neither..."

He looks over, clearly upset about all of it. "I called out to them to get away, don't know as there's much more I c'n do, not from up here. Stay ye by here, too," he urges, flicking a glance to where her naked feet are tucked under her skirts.

"I don't really think that they should come back with us, just in case they might suddenly do more than just stand about. I mean, the lad was hard enough to restrain when he got agitated."

He looks at them "By the looks of the wound to the chest on that one, he should be dead, so I think they'll come to no further harm than they are in if we just leave them here until we can decide what to do with them."

"Shall we return with the jar of... whatever it is? I can investigate then."

Cecil nods in agreement. "It would certainly ease Polzeath's mind were we to depart." He considers the three men a few moments longer. "Mayhap we could build a small enclosure and coax them into it, or just build one around them." Cecil sighs, a long exhalation, then changes the topic. "You recollect the pigeon which flew down my kitchen's chimney, yes? I wonder if these men wrote the note I found attached to its leg, ere whatever befell them, or if they are those 'odd types abroad in the woods'' the note mentions."

Maggie nods at the man, her face pensive.

"Aye, if her influence spreads through th' soil, like some great mushroom, then rock should be a barrier. That's well reasoned, Polzeath. I think she's more harmful t'men, p'rhaps, than to women. I'll go along back to our gentlemen an' hurry them as best I can, passin' on your ideas. Do you bide here an' I'll bring them to ye when they're ready t'turn homewards."

Maggie jumps dwon from the boulder and, with a wave to Polzeath, disappears back into the foliage. She quickly returns to the mazy men in time to hear Vicar's idea about an enclosure.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Reverend, but buildin' some fence 'round these three is th' work o' more hours than we've daylight left. Better t'get some hands out from Scorch Norton in th' mornin' t'do somethin' like that. May be we c'n herd 'em closer t'gether then.

"Doctor sir, Polzeath ran off 'cause he feared that black stuff as oozed outta that one. He figgers it's The Lady's substance fer to control these men an' feared she'd take him th' same way. He's fer stayin' on th' rocks as far as he can an' settin' off t'run when th' outcrops run out. He urges you gentlemen t'do th' same, in case she works through the dirt like."

She looks at each of the mazy men in turn. "They's dead, ain't they? An' she's brought 'em back with her foul arts t'serve her will, aye?"

"Maggie is right Reverend" Doctor Lovelace says placing the jar into his bag and taking it up as well as the now loaded pistol, "It would take too long and quite apart from whatever has put these unfortunates into this state, there is the fact that someone camping hereabouts put a hole through one of them."

"No, we should make haste for Scorch Norton, and have our wits about us as we do so."

He starts back the way they came "And no Miss Yendale, in all ways discernable, they are alive, not dead. Even the one with the hole through his chest. He shouldn't be, but he appears to be alive."

"Were it not for the fact that it seems to have left them soulless, I would say that whatever has done this is remarkable!"

He strides off to find Polzeath and head home.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:11, Tue 07 Feb 2023.

Maggie isn't quite sure how soulless doesn't equate to dead, but she keeps her counsel. Not for her to correct an educated gentleman like the Doctor.

Cecil strokes his chin whilst glancing between the three mazy men. "I would opine quite the opposite, my good Doctor. It is their volition, their God-given free will, that has been stripped from them. Their very souls lament that which ensnares them. Whatever evil keeps them in this state, they cannot act to relieve their own suffering, nor that of their comrades."

The doctor does not stop, but responds over his shoulder "Soul trapped is a better description perhaps, but my point is the bodies are no longer their owners', if you will."

"I've never seen nor heard the like, so I have no better description."

"Polzeath come down, let us get back, and keep your wits about you!"


GM edit: confusing typo
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:24, Tue 07 Feb 2023.

"I don't dare come down, zir, Her from the Wood knows what like I am..." Polzeath calls back, clearly feeling wretched about it. He's crouching by the time his master comes level with his rock, flat-footed as a West Indian or Irish peasant and visibly out of sorts. He gestures the way they'd come.

"I'll do my best to stay by, zir, only I can't...my 'art fails of goen down an' stayen on a piece of ground even so long as might soak up in any crack of a shoe, I-I-I...that Her don't see, exactly, but what she does do in that wise, it was Her and she did see me, I know it." The young man is shivering badly, despite the lack of edge to the leaf-scented breeze.

Having no better plan short of fashioning stilts there and then or carrying his servant back to Scorch Norton, Doctor Lovelace aquiesces to the compromise. The little party collect themselves and head back, going swiftly as they might. All of them remain alert, and all try not to think about how little recourse any being would have, should the gentle moisture of the ground turn against them.

---

Left under the shadows of the trees, the strangers stand stock-still, merely breathing.