Cecil pulls on a fresh pair of breeches as he replies to the Widow Sexton. "I made her a homey little place in my fishing creel," he says with a laugh. A clean shirt and collar come next, then the jacket which matches his breeches, and finally his spare pair of shoes. He gathers his hair backwards and secures it at the nape of his neck. He gives himself one last inspection in the mirror before opening the door. "I left it near the back door, as I recollect."

Widow Sexton hands him a pigeon. "Right. Well, I'll go see if it's escaped the unpleasantness and check our guest hasn't pulled himself together. The study would do to shut 'er in, if ye didn't want her kept up here." She gathers up the pile of left laundry, folding in anywhere still-tacky blood might mark her clothes.

The bird is small and warm if fidgety in Cecil's hands. Temperance breaks from her plunge into the immediate moment's needs at the top of the stairs and remarks with an effort: "We'll have to report the body sooner'r later."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:07, Sat 18 Mar 2023.

Cecil acknowledges Temperance's words. "Yes, as soon we're able." He follows her downstairs, finds the wicker basket fortunately intact, and sets the pigeon inside. Closing and securing the lid, he strokes the bird's head through the small hole in the top. "There, there. Back shortly with a bit of food." He steps to the hearth, gathering the iron ash bucket and shovel there, then proceeds to trowel Edmond's remains, such as they are, into the bucket. He places the bucket in an out-of-the-way corner and, closing its lid, stacks a couple of heavy items atop it. "Safest place I can think of to keep our guest," he tells the Widow Sexton. "At the very least 'tis easily replaced."
This message was last edited by the player at 21:04, Mon 20 Mar 2023.

The Vicar's words are largely lost under the shuddering { {{WRNCH}} } of cervid muscle and scraping hoof hitting the door. A bolt pings from the lower hinge into the brickwork of the hearth, the whole fitting tearing loose from the frame.

Distracted, the Vicar fails to notice the hand he'd left resting on the bucket of warlock is getting rapidly hotter until searing pain tells him he's been burnt, like grasping a pan-bottom straight off the fire.

[[2 damage for Cecil.]]

In the blind instant where thought is stabbed out by pain and awareness of a high, weird whinnying and crashing outside, the Vicar misses Widow Sexton's movement. Then he has breath to gasp and attention for the world and sees her pick up the salt store and hurl the contents across the floor for no reason he can at first determine, at least until he sees how fast the dark leavings of his scraping at their 'guest' had run, raindrop-swift, for the dead body in the room and the blood under it once the temporary circle was interrupted.

The darkness halts, turns back at the salt drift, and starts making its patterns again, incomprehensable natural glyphics on ordinary kitchen stone. Widow Sexton arranges the salt to make sure no gap remains and looks at the Reverend wth concern, perhaps not yet realising his injury.

Cecil stumbles backward in pain, howling and clutching his left wrist, yet somehow avoids tripping over his own feet. He grimaces at his left hand, fingers curled inward as they were on the handle of the ash bucket when he was burned. "Ah! Merciful Lord, that smarts!"

"Stay there but a moment, Vicar - and mind the dark stuff on the floor, it's not a natural thing," the Widow Sexton says, grabbing her skirts and running upstairs in the best haste she can make.

For a moment Cecil is left alone with the smell of blood and leaves and singed flesh, the heavy breathing of the deer outside and the sounds of pigeon anxiety. His hand hurts, even if the Lord hears his complaint. Still, he draws breath, and the thing in the bucket does not, at least as yet.

Cecil mutters a prayer to himself. "Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen."

Praying with the words of his God made flesh brings its usual sense of divine proximity, fleshbound though he is. The ritual rhythm of the words and an discomforted snort from outside largely mask the Widow Sexton's pounding down the stairs.

She appears with the teapot, grabs a spoon and dumps the boiled tea leaves into the sink, giving them a pump of cold water and testing that they're no warmer than skin before giving them to the Vicar to lay on his burn.

[[she got you a HP back, huzzah!]]

"Do you know where there's clean cloth t'be had? Better bind that so's you can use the other. I'm sorry I didn't warn ye about him an' the shovel - didn't see what y'were about whilst I was putting the laundry through." She pauses, eyeing the damage to the sturdy oak of the back door. "So...shall I see if the big fellow comes around the front if I open that door and shut it like I've gone out?"

Cecil reaches up the left sleeve of his jacket and produces a handkerchief. "I thought to procure another after... soiling... the one I had earlier," he tells the widow. "I fear I shall make a muddle of it, however, should I attempt to bind it myself."

Widow Sexton looks puzzled a moment, nearly comical in these weird circumstances, then fishes in her apron for her version of every woman's little roll of pins. "I was meaning us together, Vicar, now let's see here..."

She comes in close and takes the kerchief, smelling it for any irritant oils before carefully bringing his hand to her favoured working position in the lamplight and setting to bind it. She smells of kitchen smoke, woman and woodsap and a little of iron at the moment, though that might be the hot bucket behind them. Temperance works firmly though gently through her pinning, and makes sure her Vicar can move the wrist and fingers to some extent without sticking himself. The cloth gently soaks cool across the back of Cecil's hand, the tea leaves already drawing the worst of the sting from the wound.

The stag outside scrapes an antler against the door, then commences to scratching against the stonework. The pigeon settles wedged in a corner of her creel, occasionally giving an upset *whuw* whenever stronger sound or motion might indicate the return of frightening things.

Cecil echoes Sooty's *whuw* as he sags against the table-edge. He asks the Widow Sexton, eyeing the wrongness that stains the kitchen floor, "Any thought what might get that out? Out of the wood, out of my home? Exorcism? Replacing the floorboards? A thorough scrubbing with hot water and lye?"

"Could be any of those, or none - my thought's that it'll go with him-" she nods at the bucket, "-seein' as it came with him. It doesn't seem minded to seep under the flags, that's good, an' I'm not for diluten it...we could try putting ash or flour down to soak it up an' sweep it onto some cloth or paper or wooden thing to throw out. Only we don't know we can get out, saving we throw it from upstairs. Don't want nor need that stag in here."

Cecil nods in agreement as he contemplates the back door. "Someone would doubtless welcome our antlered friend into their home, provided they had assurances it'd only be from the neck up and mounted for hanging on the wall of their den or study." He steps to the sink and gives it a pump. Cupping the cold water in his right palm, he flicks a few drops at the ash bucket to ascertain whether it is still hot. "Would it be uncharitable of me to pray we could carry our bucketful of 'guest' to some high, lonely place where nothing grows nor ever has and build a cairn over him so he can never trouble anyone again?"

"What a queer thing to think of doing..." Widow Sexton marvels at the notion of preserving a head and neck, taking the lack of voiced objection as permission to head carefully into the pantry for some soaking matter, "-but then I'm sure you've seen stranger things in gentlemen's cabinets or the 'dens' of Irish folks, as you put it."

The droplets hit the bucket with a faint pssh but no evident steam, indicating that even if there were no will - conscious, comprehensable or otherwise - behind the heat, use of a teatowel or other thick soaked cloth would be sensible should he mean to pick it up. His burnt hand feels hot and raw rather than painful at present.

Widow Sexton comes back with a sack of bran and experiments with scattering that on and around the uncanny ichor on the floor. "Might as well pray him an' all this mess straight to Hell, if we're wishin'," she observes. "Don't know how long he'll stay down, but I wouldn't make any plan as needs a mason."

Cecil takes a seat in the nearest chair and sighs. "This has been a very, very, very long day, and I fear 'tis far from over. I should make a start on poor Elsie's eulogy, but my heart just isn't in it right now." He rests his elbow on the table and his chin in his uninjured palm, silently staring at the body for what seems an eternity before sighing again.

"Ye might see to the living yet," Tempe says, nodding over at the pigeon as her hands work. The substance seems confused under the bran, absorbing some and briefly stacking into new patterns before lapsing into the same loops, like the jumbled writing of a dream.

Seeing the Vicar more inclined to sink into the dazed mire of his own ache, she sets the sack on the floor a moment and comes to ease a hand onto his shoulder to grip and knead a little if he'll let her. "Come on, now, Vicar. Help me."

Cecil gratefully pats Temperance's hand. "Yes, of course. Forgive me. Meant to feed our wee sooty Colombe before I set her on her way come morning, which clearly did not work out as planned. What shall we see to first?"

Tempe lets her hand stay whilst she considers, her skin rough from decades of work yet not so much as the country men's, alive and there. "See to the bird, set 'er somewhere quiet and dark - poor creature can't understand our trouble. Then we make sure the "guest" is as contained as he might be, and after that we work out if one or the both of us can leave to go for help and set to all else that needs be done."

She stays by his chair when he rises, however, raising an arm in offering: "...less ye'd like a moment held, to start."

Cecil nods as he rises to his feet. "Bird, guest, help, yes." He curls his right arm about Temperance's shoulder and gives her a fatherly embrace. "With the stag at the kitchen door, we can maybe sneak out the front and make for the church. Once inside, we could ring the bell. That ought to catch some attention."

Widow Sexton doesn't go halves on hugs; the Vicar gets a firm press back, Tempe's warmth and strength confirming that even if nothing else in the world makes sense, they two are alive. She lets go when he seems to want and listens carefully.

"All right, but if the stag comes round the house, we split up - go ye straight for the church, I'll make away amongst the houses. Can't get both of us."

Cecil rounds the table and steps to the breadbox. Not much caring for appearance, he pins the partial loaf under his left forearm and tears off a small hunk with his right hand. Returning to the table, he tears the hunk into smaller hunks then gathers them by the handful to deposit through the creel's small flap for the pigeon. He retrieves a teacup from the sink and fills it with water, then carries that and the creel into the study. Placing the creel on the floor, somewhere out of the way, Cecil opens the lid just enough to slip the cup in whilst preventing the bird's escape.

The Reverend feels the soft brush of feathers against his hand on balancing the cup in the corner and leaving the handful of turnip greens Tempe had pressed upon him. It strikes him how little there is to a bird: a little life wrapped in fluff and air with a lace of rolled-ribbon bones, and yet the small life endures (and is thirsty, apparently).

Widow Sexton is crouched near his fortified bucket holding a stray breastfeather on the palm of her hand when he returns, explaining when she sees him: "Seein if there's enough heat that it might cause the air to shift like at a stove, Vicar - I put the soaked stuff in there with him an' swapped off the thick board for a couple clothes irons. Don't want t'leave him with anything flammable in reach, though She never did like fire for her own part. She'd pull a man straight into the ground, they say, anyone bringing a spark into the Wood."

She levers up. "Ngh - what's to do with him, then? Leave him there, set 'im in something that locks, out the window? Take him with us, even, though I don't know we need burdened with that and the wet towels to hold him..."

"The privy perhaps?" Cecil uncharitably remarks.

"I'd not want him crawling out of there whilst I was about my contemplations, Vicar, besides that the bolt's on the inside," his company replies with cast iron sensibility.

Outside there comes a distinct shift on the part of the stag, and a heavy breath. A faint jingle indicates Trugred still present, yet watching, both beasts alert. Listening very carefully might catch a smatter of light footsteps in hurried flight - running for this place, it seems, this very house, and quite unaware of the visitors.