---

At the Carpenter's Shop, ~10am Saturday May 4th, 1771


It was a bright, cool midmorning, the shop's sawdust scent mingling with the damp-earth smells of recent rain and the undefined but certain scent of late, green spring. Andrew's father would have taken his pipe outside to greet such a day, and a small part of him felt perhaps his father lingered there yet, so long as Andrew did not go round the front to see him gone. Sunlight through the window glass and hide panels alike brought the motes of dust to dance.

The carpenter leant against the bench and surveyed the young men before him during a lapse in conversation: Long Tom Bees, less fortunate still than himself, and Martin Easom, who might help in fixing the former's roof. In all likelihood the Bees siblings' visit was motivated more by hunger than being keen to cost out the project and assign a time, since it was known that though they would not leave their father's spot or Tom his father's job the orphans struggled on their own. Not for want of money, as the Fox family would pay expenses, but Tom had never learnt to cook and Lucy was still half a child, long motherless to boot.

Tom himself was somewhat listless and distracted by thoughts of Polly Durbin: not the sweet thoughts of longing and kisses and the scent of her skin mingled with apple blossom, but dark ones, of abandonment or accident or worse. He'd put this errand together mostly for Lucy's sake, though the roof did need fixed, if it could happen this summer. Some unfixed flaw of thatch he'd not known to look for had spread rot deep into three beams, leaving the plaster blooming with rings of mould and their upstairs space with a stink of rotting hay whenever hard rain passed through. Last night, feeling particularly alone in what had been his father's bed, the damp stench had invaded even his dreams.

The thatcher shifted and counted something out on his fingers, calculating. Lucy and Robin were preparing a soup of spring greens and sorrel in the kitchen, giggling over something with the easy humour of young friends. Andrew's mother came through with a platter of fresh bread and grease warmed over in the oven as though to whet appetities for soup to come, keeping up the silent pretense that Tom might have broken his fast four hours earlier, presumably on some sample of Lucy's hoplessly dense, uneven bread.

"Here's some pickings for you," Widow Sexton announced. "-and while you're gathered, I think you lads ought to know that John Collins is thinking to make a more organised search for Miss Polly, seeing as he's had no word of her from any of the coaching folk."

During the discussion of Tom’s roof, Andrew’s thoughts had gone to Robin. Seeing the Bees’ roof put right would be a good task for the young man to have a hand in. With Martin doing the thatching, his apprentice would gain a good sense of how it often took more than one craftsman to finish a proper repair. Despite the distress the foul scent of the mold had doubtlessly caused, three timbers truly wasn’t much of a hardship. A day’s task at most if they were diligent. He’d said nothing about his recompense for his efforts and did not intend to. He trusted Tom to settle with him whenever the family was able to do so.

He left Martin to his figuring for the moment, fully prepared to assist his friend in gathering the sedge and straw for the thatching. His attention was drawn to his mother as she entered and he gave her a grateful smile. ”Thank you,” he told her. Earlier in the day, his thoughts had naturally drifted to his father and the many mornings that the two of them had greeted together within this shop. But recent months had helped him understand that throughout his life, both before and after his father’s passing, it had been her who was the source of strength in the family, the unshakable foundation that had held all of it together. His mother’s was a quiet strength, still and unobtrusive, but always present.

Nodding thoughtfully, he said, “That is troubling that there’s been no sign. I’ll seek John out later today. Make certain he knows that he can call on me when he’s ready to make the search. Perhaps if enough of us go looking, we could come across something the others have missed.”

Thomas was immersed in the thought of the food and did not catch the the comment about Lucy and the search party that was being prepared. It took a few seconds for the idea to sink in before Thomas added "I will volunteer, once we are done here... I will call on him so he knows. Let us go together..."

On top of everything the roof had just been another worry to add to the already expanding pile of worry that he had to deal with.


-
This message was last edited by the player at 06:10, Fri 16 July 2021.

Martin Easom stirred himself with a grateful sort of grunt and nod to the bread's arrival. "Mmh. It's a good idea, sure. They ought to have picked her up running by now - or floating, if it came to that. Best for everyone to confirm she's not in a field or a barn, lest there's somewhere was too far out to check the first or the owner's not saying. See if any horses're gone, too."

"It'll probably be even' before John calls the meet, but it's as well to let him know. I wouldn't quite blame the girl to run away, all considered, but with so little with her? I can't-"


"Wait, dON'T-!"

         "AHHHHH! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! HYIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"


The cry from Robin in the kitchen was almost simultaneous with Lucy's scream; Widow Sexton turned and ran towards the sound with her skirts bunched in her fist, not even thinking to hesitate. Lucy's screams continued even when the men reached the kitchen, child-shrill and hysterical as she turned to show the newcomers her hands turned bright scarlet with fresh blood, blood that spattered her face and bodice, the chopping-board and the floor.

Robin was pointing at the gap under the sideboard, his face drained of colour. Blood smeared across the flags towards it. "Unner there! It went under there!"

Widow Sexton checked the girl's hands and middle, moving quickly. "There, now, there. You're not hurt. Where's all this come from, eh? Lamb?" Lucy looked up at her and wailed. Andrew's mother gave up and simply enfolded her into a hug, holding her close. The screams broke and shattered to sobs of shock. "Ssh ssh ssh..."

Thomas was up even as the scream echoed around the room. He burst into the room and raced to Lucy, but was not as quick as the widow with a large table in the way. Instead he made for where Robin was pointing to try and grab for the fox or badger or whatever else had managed to make its way into the house.

Thomas ended up on his side as he looked under the sideboard.



-

"Right under the knife, it went!" Robin tried to explain. "In the window, and it stuck itsel' right under the knife! Like it meant to!"

Blocking the means of escape for whatever beast had vanished under there by the sheer length of his body, Tom peered under the furniture. A smell of blood and damp fur reached him before he finally spied movement.

Andrew had snatched up a length of wood at the sound of the cries, following his mother and Thomas almost without thought. Pausing only to release a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when his mother declared Lucy unharmed, he joined Tom at the sideboard. As he did, he listed to Robin’s words, nodding to the lad to assure him that he was believed.

Thomas removed the heavy gloves from his belt that he used when clearing the hives or moving them. They were his fathers and even though they are thick they are soft and supple. He then makes a grab for whatever has taken up residence under the piece of furniture.

"Andrew should it run smack it, hard."


-

There was a brief scrabbling and an unnerving girl-like shriek before Tom managed to lay hold of the animal and draw it out in one big hand. The young rabbit lay in his gloved palm like something already badly butchered and discarded, no more than a huddle of bloody fur, a broad pink gash from throat to chest and a mass of dying terror, too weak to kick. It lay and quivered, struggling for painful breaths as it stained his glove deep red. Lucy hid her head against Mrs. Sexton so as not to see.

[[Spot Hidden to notice a thing, lads.]]

Thomas was quick to put the beast out of it pain and suffering and then took it outside. He used some rain water from the barrel to clean his gloves before returning them to his belt. As he worked he looked around seeing if he could spot anything that had chased the rabbit.

Thomas Bees rolled 62 using 1d100.  Spot Hidden = 45%



-

19:35, Today: Andrew Sexton rolled 69 using 1d100.  Spot Hidden - Spot Hidden 50%

As Tom took the rabbit outside, Andrew stepped over to Robin. ”Are you well, Robin? Hurt at all?”

He glanced back at the sideboard, then returned his attention to his apprentice. ”Can you tell me what happened? I know you’re a truthful lad. I will believe you.”

"No, not hurt...we shouldn't eat that, should we, master Andrew?" Robin asked, looking towards the door to the hall whence Tom had gone. "It was a suicide."

"Lucy, it weren't your fault, it was a suicide," he tried to reassure his friend, reaching forward to touch her shoulder. Robin looked concerned at Lucy's upset, then turned with knotted brows to his master, seeking to explain. Description, however, had never been Robin's strong point. "It come in fast by the window, sir, and it went to go under the knife, so I told Lucy stop. Only then she looked at me and...and she chopped it, right down - it jumped when the blade went in and the blood got all over. She didn't mean it any, master Andrew. How it jumped did that, and then she was screaming so, I didn't know what to do."

Martin the thatcher went to pump up water with which to mop the blood. "Best wash the herbs again, and do away with anything that's been right in the blood - some disease in that rabbit, I wot, maybe the like of scrapie in sheep. Gone mad."

---

Outside, Tom laid the bedraggled little body aside and looked for the tracks of a predator. None presented themselves, though it was possible that the animal might have fled from a buzzard or been driven to a panic by wandering into the village in broad daylight unaided. Still, there were quieter lanes, and to reach the window the little rabbit had had to choose to leap onto the exposed surface of the bench there, careen off the thicker parts of the honeysuckle growing up the wall and deliberately drop through the casement from the sill. Yet there was not a stoat- or cat- or terrier print to behold.

Looking up from cautiously turning the rabbit's little head aside on its new-snapped neck to check for previous bites, Tom noticed something else.

"Ah... you might want to come and see this ...."

When those with an interest in what he had said appear Thomas will point to village green and it's very unusual guest.

"Now that can't be a good omen."

edit: formatting fix



-
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:34, Wed 21 July 2021.

Martin leant up across the counter to the window Tom had spoken through. His body went still of a sudden, but he gave no report, merely motioning the others to go out. Robin looked to Andrew for permission and Lucy went quiet at this new thing, though did not let go of Andrew's mother.

”Remain here just a moment,” Andrew instructed his apprentice, uncertain what it was that Thomas and Martin saw. He approached the window, peering out at what had prompted Martin to become still.

Martin started slightly at Andrew's touch, but let himself be moved aside, going out to join Tom whilst Andrew took his spot at the window. From inside it was difficult to lean enough to see what held Tom's attention out there, but at last he got the angle that let him see past the end of Martin's house, past the village cell, and enough of the green to spot what he'd first taken to be part of the shadow under the trees at the back. He felt himself freeze in an attempt to process the sight, even as Martin had. Lucy whimpered something behind him.

Out on the village green stood a great black stag, his head up, standing still as stone in broad daylight. Flickers of distant colour suggested people not in the fields were coming out of their houses to look.

"Lucy stay in the house, I am going to take a closer look. Andrew would you come with me ?" When or if the other man joins him Thomas will begin to approach the green and the stag.

He had a mind to tell people to return to their homes as it might be safer, but that was not his job and he did not have the standing within the village to do such a thing so instead he tried to get a head of the crowds.


-

Motioning for Robin to remain inside, Andrew gave his mother a concerned look, then moved to accompany Thomas. As they approached the green, Andrew took in the appearance of the stag, its dark form almost unreal to him, like a figure plucked from a dream.

"What is it?" Andrew's mother asked. "Andrew, what...?"

Seeing her son had drifted out, focused on some distant thing, she gathered the girl and the apprentice. "All right, you two, your job would be to keep smart and out of trouble. If I hear any harm come to them outside I'm going out with iron and your job will be to listen, 'case it's something that enchants by looking, all right?"

There might have been more, but Andrew was outside and away from the window by then. Martin joined them and all three went striding into the green morning, Long Tom's tousled head like a banner before them. The people were quiet. Pacing on behind there was such an air of ceremony Andrew had the feeling they lacked flower crowns, or some kind of offering.

The beast was definitely solid and alive, and seemed aware of them, antlers stark against the blue sky, flanks blending with the shadows of the green. Those coming up could smell the wet bracken and animal scent of him, warm hair and hide and brute masculinity, and some thin thread of ditch-scent, sodden rot that seemed a blasphemy around something so clearly in its prime. The stag breathed, heavy and even, and watched them come.


[[ How close do you mean to get? ]]

Thomas stopped short of the grass "Keep clear, it might be sick." was what he said to those crowding around. The small was off putting as if the stag might have something to do with the rabbit or vice versa.

He was still of the mind that this was not a good thing.



-

Neither Long Tom's voice nor his high gangling shape caused the beast to spring away as it should; the stag simply stood, pulling down breath away on the green. No village dog barked, no bird sang. The hush lay thick when the wind was low. Widow Sawyer, who kept house for Arnold Swanton and Bartholemew Phippin, took some time getting voice to reply, only managing a murmur that if that was so then he stag ought not to stay on the green, where it might meet their children and animals. She made no move to drive him off, however. The stag only watched.

Andrew moved to join Tom, careful to avoid any fast or sudden movements, his gaze fixed on the improbable figure of the stag. The animal’s scent immediately unsettled him, the damp smell of corruption rendering the creature’s sudden appearance even more like something unearthly, rather than a stray beast that has wandered out of the wild.

”I have never seen its like,” Andrew whispered to Tom, ”I wonder if it could have come from the Wyzenwood?”

“Should we try and scare it away? It doesn’t seem as skittish as most of its kind.”

"Nor I, let us approach and see what it does. As for its home you are probably right, though deer do bed down in any available copse or the like, especially the males."

With that Thomas will approach with Andrew and see how the deer reacts.




-
This message was last edited by the player at 00:29, Tue 27 July 2021.

Andrew matched Tom’s careful pace, approaching the stag alongside him, his gaze never wavering from the strange beast.

Martin Easom let the other two go and Widow Sawyer did not try to detain them. Tom and Andrew paced away from the villagers onto the green, and the stag stood still before them.

The rain-softened earth gave under their feet. The scent of damp and stag and spring increased and his attention swung and settled on their approach, nostrils flared as he pulled in breath. When they were perhaps five paces away he dropped his head and sidled, circling two paces before stopping as though a tether had pulled tight and raising his head again, turning it back towards his flank to regard them with one ink-dark eye.

[[You lads can go closer or give me a Spot Hidden at this distance, as preferred.]]

Thomas was not going to get within touching distance, but he was intrigued as to how far he could get until it bolted.

Thomas Bees rolled 32 using 1d100.  Spot Hidden = 45%.


-
This message was last edited by the player at 22:39, Wed 28 July 2021.

It did possess courage for its kind, Andrew thought as he cautiously drew closer alongside Tom. Or perhaps courage was the wrong  description. Apathy might be more apt. A disconnection, an absence of concern, about its surroundings and the creatures within it.

06:59, Today: Andrew Sexton rolled 54 using 1d100.  Spot Hidden - Spot Hidden 50%

The beast stood, uncertainly half-lowering his head then raising it again, circling slightly. Each breath was drawn deep, and this close the men could see the ribs rise and the coarse hair prickle over them, the flared nostrils and the paler tips of antlers well-used over the last rut. The stag stood, and did not run.

Thomas stood very still, there seemed to be to many conflicting truths with this beast and Thomas was unsure what to do next. He got the feeling it wanted to run, but for some reason could not. It made Thomas unsure of himself and his probable actions..

He turned to Andrew "I do not think it is right... in the head. It looks unwell and it seems to have run a long distance to get here."

"I am loath to touch the thing to move it on, but at the same time do not want to provoke it into a charge by going at it with a stick or the like."



-

Andrew considered Thomas’ observations, gazing steadily at the stag as the beekeeper spoke. Illness. Might that account for the animal’s troubling scent? And if it had fled from the forest it called home, what had it sought to escape?

He nodded. ”Motioning at it with a stick or the like is probably unwise. Even if it didn’t charge the two of us, were it to panic, it could trample one of the others who are watching. Still, I don’t think we can allow it to remain.”

OOC: Since everyone had been gathered at Andrew’s shop, might he have anything like gloves, an apron, or anything of the kind with him?

The stag turned his ears to the talking, took a staggered step back and stood as before, nostrils flared. The men became highly aware of sharing the same air, treading the same ground.

[[A period carpenter will have a brown apron as part of his working "uniform" - all the mediaeval trade coding that now persists only in butchers' stripes and chefs' whites would still be in use at this time. Tom has gloves with him, Andrew might have a gouge or so in his pocketses.]]

Andrew untied his apron and slipped it off, cautious to avoid any sudden movements. Wrapping the garment around his right hand, he addressed the stag quietly, his voice touched with honest compassion. ”You are quite a way from your home, aren’t you? It is easy to become lost when you’re afraid. When your only thought is to run from what seems threatening.”

Slowly, he crept forward, reaching out to gently touch the stag’s shoulder with his wrapped hand, continuing to speak to the animal even as he hoped his touch would prompt it to move. ”Here, in the middle of all these people, it isn’t a safe place for you to be. People here, they will fear you, and make rash decisions because of that fear. You need to go. To find a safe place in the forest to hide. To rest.”

The stag stood and let the carpenter approach. Those watching might have abated their breath for the depth of quiet, the speech-like rhythm of a distant woodpigeon's call sounding loud in the hush.

Close to, Andrew could see the lines of muscle about that heavy body and how well the beast's hide covered him, how the dark hair worled over muzzle and neck. The big lungs pulled down air and the antlers rose like winter's branches above the level of Andrew's head. The black stag's eyes rolled and came to focus as the carpenter reached for his shoulder, yet still he stood.

[[Luck roll, please, Andrew.]]

Thomas watched the exchange, but did not intervene or move in anyway. He did watch the stag though ready to get out of the way should it decide enough was enough and bolt.


-

06:52, Today: Andrew Sexton rolled 45 using 1d100.  Luck - Luck 35%

For Andrew, the next forty seconds or so were a confused blur: he stepped forward and reached towards the stag, heard the animal's breathing suddenly quicken with awareness, and then the beast lurched back, was standing like a man - just an impression of the dark body, tall, inhuman, and the antlers rearing, ramiform, against the sky - then he was off his feet. The carpenter was aware of his aproned arm tangled in antler, taking the worst of it, and antler in his free hand also. There was a strange shearing sensation in his chest.

Struck but not yet needing to breathe he stared at the point that had punched through cloth and shoved under his skin, seemingly suspended in Time just as he was, in that endless second, kept from the earth. Pain did not yet exist. Tom, leaping back before his thought to start forward again, was only a slow blur at the periphery, as were the cries of the distant crowd: here was only the stag and the blood starting to ooze around the horn with every beat of his heart, mirroring the speeded breath of the beast.

Then the ground came up and his hands released their hold at the blow, easily four feet from where he'd stood. The stag's hooves were around him, the mingled musk and dankness of the creature coating every breath that now came hard, redness seeping from the groove rent where antler had glanced off bone. The stag's head stayed low a moment, then of a sudden jerked up, the unnatural calm shattering like a pierced soap bubble as the animal scrambled about in a dangerous thrash of horn and hoof that scraped up bits of sod and made for the trees at the back of the green at a leaping run.

[[Andrew, you take 3HP damage, but are too shocked to take any SAN loss from your extremely close up insights into strange wildlife.

Long Tom, optional Spot Hidden to maybe catch some of those, if you like.]]

Tom got out of the way and tripped in the process as he went down onto his thigh and used his hand to steady himself. By that point the beast was in flight and Andrew had been knocked asunder.

It was only once Thomas had approached that he saw the blood and could see he had been gouged. He turns to the crowd, "He has been hurt, fetch the doctor."



Thomas Bees rolled 32 using 1d100.  First Aid = 30%. So close.

[[GM edit: name confusion.]]
-
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:42, Sat 07 Aug 2021.

Maggie ran up to set down Bart alongside Andrew and Tom. She fairly leapt away then: "The doctor! Fetch the doctor!"

She gathered up her skirts to her thighs and practically galloped back across the green, intent on reaching the doctor's house to bring him back, heedless of any who got in her way.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:52, Sun 08 Aug 2021.

Despite the pain beginning to flare in his side, much of Andrew’s focus, at least momentarily, remained on the form of the retreating stag. He couldn’t shake the questions that arose, unbidden, in his mind. It came to seek someone out. Who? Why?

Unthinking, having experienced his share of injuries in a carpenter’s shop since childhood, he struggled to rise to his feet, his gaze still fixed on the trees at the edge of the green. Reflexively, his hand went to his new wound, the deep ache of it finally finding him.

”Did it hurt anyone else?” he asked Tom, ”Trample anyone in its rush for the forest?”

Andrew found himself gripped in the arm by a strong hand and forced to stillness. Looking across, it seemed Bart Phippin had somehow flown from the tavern to this spot, his old red coat barely splashed with mud. Bart caught his gaze and held it, looking for focus with eyes of an undecided dull green-blue. "Don't get up, lad, and don't exert yourself."

The legless veteran heaved himself a hop closer and gently pried Andrew's hand away from the injury, blood bright on both their fingers. "No, no, no, everything away from it." He peeled the damaged cloth carefully aside and pushed the carpenter to resume a flat position. "Back down, and here's sharp before sour."

Some rummaging in his coat produced and unscrewed a flask, and Andrew came to experience the 'sharp' part, a stinging bloom across his chest. "Maggie's gone for the doctor, you stay still and keep the blood in. Stag's off for the trees."


[[Bart actually does have a little First Aid from spending considerable time in military hospitals (and also injuring people), so...
18:47, Today: Bartholemew Phippin rolled 2 using 1d100.  First aid? So Andrew gets...1HP back, and I skip rolls for mundane horrible infections. Yay!

Maggie, feel free to go hammer on the doctor's door on Thread 1c there.]]

"Here's doctor!" Maggie sings out as they arrive at the green, "Make way! Make way fer doctor!"

Andrew gritted his teeth as the burn of the alcohol invaded his side. He let out a long, slow breath as the worst of the pain receded, grateful that Bart was there to do what needed to be done with the wound.

”I thought giving it a touch would prompt it to flee the green,” he told the soldier, his throat thick as he formed the words, ”It worked, I suppose, but I wasn’t cautious enough. I know how quick they can be to panic.” He nodded to Bart. ”Many thanks for your help.”
This message was last edited by the player at 20:12, Wed 11 Aug 2021.

"You bally well weren't now, not by half, Mr. Sexton, were you? A good thing that Mr. Phippin was on hand. A wild animal is called as such for a reason. Not a trained pony now, was it?" said the doctor, not quite breathlessly. He may have set the pace, but wasn't having as easy of a time keeping up as was Yendale. He only chided the carpenter very mildly, his tone still being genial and pleasant.

"Come now, come now, let's have a look shall we?" He pulled out his medical kit, and began examining the carpenter's wound, time allowing making a spot check assessment on the man's general state of wellness.

OOC:

Just narrowly avoided botching my first roll

14:01, Today: Martin Lovelace rolled 73 using 1d100.  Medicine vs. 75%.

Rolled low on the wrong one, but there's another hit point for you, old Andy:

14:08, Today: Martin Lovelace rolled 1 using 1d3.  Hit Points Recovered.

This message was last edited by the player at 20:28, Thu 12 Aug 2021.

The reverend arrived a few moments behind them. After watching for a few moments, he realized that the injuries didn't seem too bad. Which was a relief.

"Mr. Sexton, you know I will take your confession even if you're not about to shuffle off the mortal coil, so there's no need for this extra drama."
It was a small attempt at humor. Cecil would've loved to include more of it in his sermons, too, but he found that his congregations didn't appreciate it when he less than somber. His predecessor seemed to have had no sense for humor at all.

With Andrew already kept still on the ground and the wound washed out it was easy enough for Martin to determine the source of the worst bleeding and apply pressure correctly. This did not make things any more comfortable for Andrew, but Bart did at least pat his shoulder in a way that said he understood both the action and the thanks before scooting himself back and crawling over to Maggie.

"Did well, girl, now heave me out of the dirt again," he said quietly.

A small crowd had gathered about the action now, with Widow Sexton forging her way through it in time to see Dr. Lovelace and Tom Bees helping Andrew to sit forwards without lessening pressure. The strong scent of wormwood and juniper gin would surely keep the miasma off, Martin could tell, and since the dressing would need changed after a few hours it was as well to bind over the clothes.


[[I...thought I had sorted period medicine rolls, but I am too tired/brainless to arrange them now, so we'll call it +1 for proper equipment present and give Andrew his other HP back. Aren't we glad that wasn't a deliberate attack roll for [checks] d4+2d6+2 damage with the potential to impale? ^_^ ]]

Maggie squats and pulls Bart up onto her back again. She stands and watches Mr Lovelace tend to Andrew's injuries.

"The bleeding will stop soon if it hasn't already, but we'll need to keep the pressure on and change the bandages every two hours or so. Get some rest, drink plenty of small beer. Something to eat - meat preferably. Drink some gin if you've got it. I do say...a brandy flip wouldn't hurt either," he said as he put his things away.


[[GM edit: not poisoning Andrew.]]
This message was last edited by the GM at 18:20, Fri 13 Aug 2021.

Andrew's mother crouched by him as the doctor backed off, offering her shoulder and strong back if he'd like help to stand. She said nothing to him of the dangers of skittish animals - they knew those well enough, all the moreso perhaps twenty paces from where his father died - though the colour returned but slowly to her cheeks.

"Come now, Vicar, he was but seeing off the stag - who knows but it'd have stood so 'til Doomsday if he'd not gone to shoo it. We had a rabbit climb in the window and put itself right under the knife...something strange's about this morning, for sure."

"Oh, we had a pheasant try to climb into the oven this morning," John Collins put in. His youngest, George, waved to Bart and Maggie from his father's back, doubtless stowed there to run.

"Huh. Coveys, we 'ad, tryin to get in our top window," Mrs. Criddle said, sounding startled to find someone else had shared strange encounters with gamebirds.

Andrew gave Palmer a wan smile. “I believe he may be in the right, mother. I think I’ll truly owe you a confession soon, Reverend. I’m afraid that bit of foolishness went against ’Ye shall not tempt the Lord your God’.”

He listened to the doctor’s instructions in full, nodding in understanding. ”I suspect my mother has a bit of brandy tucked away somewhere, though I doubt this is the sort of occasion that she wanted to draw it out for,” he said, carefully rising to his feet, ”I’m obliged to you, sir. I hope I didn’t keep you from any other folk in need of your attention. I’ll certainly buy you a beer the next time you come round to the Hare and Sheaf.”

He nodded gratefully to Margaret. ”Many thanks to you, Miss Yendale.”

For a moment, his gaze went to the trees where the stag had fled. Silently, he wondered where it had gone. He could still see the beast perfectly in his memory, its color like that of the night sky.

Returning his attention to Lovelace, he asked, ”What do I owe you for your timely help today, Doctor?”

"It was strange, sure enough. At one point it looked as if the stag wanted to leave.... but couldn't. Reared up and made a noise of the like I've seen when I spooked them on my morning rounds...."

He stood with the rest and would take the load when Andrew was fit to be moved.



-

"He's right, at that - looked like the beast tried to bolt'n then just stopped up there and came down again," Bart said, having nodded to little George in greeting.

[[Dr. Lovelace, do you want to give me an Appraise roll for the precise worth of your services, should you be stuck on that? ...or mention any weird wildlife behaviour, since that's under discusson. Vicar?]]

"For now, just take care of yourself. I'm sure I'll have a surprise repair that I need soon or late and I'll know who to call," he told Sexton.

OOC: Assuming a barter economy is fine for this type of exchange, I think I'd prefer that to running a 18th century healthcare sim mini-game.
This message was last edited by the player at 00:39, Tue 17 Aug 2021.

"Mornin, Miz Temp'rance." Maggie says quietly and bobs a curtsy made awkward not only by the rough ground underfoot, but also by Bart on her back. She finds herself somewhat tongue-tied at Bart and the doctor's conversation. She shifts from foot to foot eager to get her rider back to the inn and off her back.

"My man Polzeath thinks the stag was possessed by the devil. Of course, we had a hare that came into the house which he also believes was similarly possessed. The hare behaved strangely as well, making the most peculiar sounds, which sounded strangely like human laughter. The Reverend was about to weigh in on the subject of said devilish possessions when Miss Yendale called our attention to the goings on out here," he said.

The Reverend slowly bobbed his head to the left and the right.
"I don't know about possession. There was certainly something off about the hare and - by the sound of it - that stag, but the Adversary is not known to run. Especially when barely threatened. It might be a ruse, you can never be too certain, but maybe a lesser servant of the Prince of Darkness? Maybe a summoning gone awry? We would certainly need to know more to be certain."

”It did seem as though there was something…within the beast. It was as if it was sent here, compelled to come to fulfill some purpose,” Andrew said. The carpenter paused and shook his head. ”Or that might be nothing but the fear of the moment speaking. It just seemed that the stag wanted to run, but…couldn’t. It was as if something kept it on the green.”

He looked to his mother. “Are Lucy and Robin well? Not too frightened, I hope?”

"In the absence of a particularly comely doe, I don't see what it could have wanted here that it couldn't have had somewhere with far less people around," he mused.

"Mornin' Maggie," Widow Sexton greeted Maggie over Bart's uncertain _{"Hey! Hey! Hey!"} at the bobbing. "Well, Robin and Lucy will be hid down as they was told, seeing as I'm out here set to save you from the Fair Folk or the Devil or both, hearing all that," she replied to both her son and Maggie's unsaid question at once.

"Seems someone's summoned half the woods here," Martin Easom observed from the crowd. "Mazy animals all over the place, sounds like."

"Not laughing, though - and Goodie Westcott's not here," Sam Smith the smith observed from somewhere nearer the back.

"Maybe she's taught Mistress Durbin the trick of it, going about being a hare," Mrs. Criddle suggested with some small shot of poison, and got a sharp look from Widow Sexton in response.

"-or being a maiden sacrifice," some old inn-guest added as though in on a joke, which brought out a general mutter of uneasy speculation.

Thomas was uncomfortable with such talk and speculation, so he stayed silent and helped his friend as best he could. Which as it was, seemed not much at all.


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This message was last edited by the player at 10:37, Fri 20 Aug 2021.

Maggie was struck by the absence of the wise woman.

"Mayhap someone should go let Mercy Westcott know about th' goings-on," she ventures, "I'll go, an I c'n drop ye back at the Hare, Bart."

"Best place to set me, I'll give y'that," Bart allowed, then dropped his voice very low in her ear as Sam and what sounded one of the Ragge siblings made noises about following on to witness.

Widow Sexton looked torn, since a current was growing among the villagers that was set to go interogate the older woman about the morning, for better or worse, and yet the young people were still hiding in the house she'd left, maybe worried for all their lives.

"Come on, all you, there's no need for everyone to go see if our curewife's a hare-" John Collins began, but some young voice piped up from the back:

"-what if she was tryin t'cure all this happnin, sir? An' if the black stag got her first?"



[[a quick summary here for the sake of clarity: current options are to encourage villagers to disperse and listen to anything John says as a before-you-go, which'll be an invitation to heh, meet in a tavern, or to go hunt down check in with the village definitely-not-a-witch with more or less of a crowd. Or some other player-created option, naturally.

Oh, and Dr. Lovelace, Appraise rolls are for barter: utterly failing one would be more likely to result in going blank and requesting a frog than misjudging a monetary amount. ...and I still need to fix the doctorin' rules - remind me to attend to that Sunday, will you?]]

Maggie nodded at Bart’s advice and sloped away as the others began to debate the best action. She went swiftly to the inn and deposited Bart on a bench in the tap room. She snatches off his hat to buss him on the top of his head and ruffle his hair as she might an old, favored dog.

Then she ducks out through the deserted kitchen, gathers up her skirts and fairly runs along the path to Mercy’s cottage.

The fussing got Maggie flailed at with oath-like noises, though none of it truly serious. By the time she slipped through the kitchens, avoiding the sound of Nancy fetching something elsewhere and tantalised by the smell of mutton stewed up in curry she was pretty sure she'd been called a teapot and a basted leg of lamb.

It didn't matter, anyway, now she had a mission: Maggie hustled across the turning yard, vaulted the fence at an angle that both avoided the end of the tannery ditch and threw her forward for a run on soft grass on landing.


[[Since no-one can see Maggie taking a back route there, I will get her her own mysterious and unseen thread to be on in the morning. Carry on!]]

"Now hear, I'm sure that the solutions Mr. Collins can provide are far more scientifically sound than some others we might come upon in the village," he said.

"There are matters that we have been empowered to resolve on our own through our study of the natural world around us, and matters that can be entrusted to our Creator. For the former, we can study and for the latter, we can pray, and anything between those is pure superstition or needless."

"Now, there is much in the study of animal behavior that might cause the behaviors we've observed, and much which we might yet learn. Best I think rather than focus on finding more mystical solutions to the problems, we can deal with these animals the way we've always done. A hunt for that peculiar stag perhaps, and any hares exhibiting strange behaviors is in order. But first, perhaps at least for me, a drink. What say you to that, Mr. Collins?"

OOC:

Martin searches his mind for anything he might know about animal behavior that could provide a rational explanation for what he's seen.

13:29, Tue 17 Aug: Martin Lovelace rolled 35 using 1d100.  Natural World 50.

"I think that sounds like a very good idea, Dr. Lovelace - the drinking part at least, and getting warming food into your patient here."

"Oh, you can't hunt hares in the village, nor anywhere in sight of the Wyzenwood, my Mum says," put in Hessie Collins, having come quietly up behind her father and brother at some point. "It's terrible bad luck, maybe cursed. Sir." She flushed slightly at the attention on her, having spoken up.

"Hm. As for explanations, I don't believe women turn into hares, be they witches or otherwise. I suspect the animals have met with some kind of poison, and as for Polly's disappearance...well, I've become of a mind to get searches organised, since we've not found trace of her in separate wise. We can discuss that in the pub." The landlord nodded that way. There was some murmuring as folk made excuses or tried to show willing, most fumbling in apron pockets for whatever they'd left off to come look.

"Well, I'm going to check up on Goodie Westcott - that Mags has run off," Samuel Smith said, and squeezed past Tom for a more direct route with a "'scuse," that said he honestly resented a man taller than him.

"Well for my own part in this I have seen animals, especially wild ones do all manner of strange things be it bird or beast. That being said this was something else, something darker perhaps." Thomas rubbed his chin before adding "Yes a drink to steady the nerves. Lead on...."


-

Andrew grimaced at a brief twinge from his wound, mindful that it would likely be tremendously more sore on the morrow. He would likely need to watch himself within the shop, not attempt anything that was especially taxing. Even so, he reminded himself, he had much to be thankful for.  Most especially, that he was alive and didn’t bear more grievous injuries from the stag.

Hessie Collins’ words drew his attention, his thoughts briefly drifting to the Wyzenwood and the fear that it commanded. He couldn’t dismiss the lingering suspicion that he had that somehow, it was those woods that the stag had come from.

“I can come with you to see to Lucy and Robin,” he told his mother, “but I think I should go over to the Hare and Sheaf shortly. If there are some that are going searching for Polly, I want to be among them.”

Thomas turned back to Andrew, "Do not worry Andrew I will get you to that wood one way or another. We can use my cart for the approach."


-

"Wh...which wood do you mean?" Hessie asked, though by the quiet brought by Long Tom's words and the bright white showing in her eyes it was clear enough everyone knew which wood was meant.

"Won't get a horse up by there," Martin Easom observed, but didn't query the notion to search where no local would willingly go.

"That, we can talk about inside," John Collins said, uneasy but accepting the prospect all the same. "Come along, you who're coming."

"You go on, I'll fetch the young ones out," Andrew's mother said quietly to him, though she rubbed his arm in letting him be, assuring both of them he was untrampled, his bones uncrushed and safe.


[[Unless anyone has anything of great urgency to add in here, I'll start a thread where you can all...well, meet in a tavern this evening.]]

"Well, far be it from me to question the wisdom of your mother, young lady" he said politely to Hessie. "There is wisdom in the words of mothers more of us ought to hear. If we aren't to kill the hare here, we could trap it and release it far away somewhere." Or do the deed somewhere where superstition held less strongly.

"But there is also truth in drink, so let's go have one of those at the pub - and we can discuss plans for searching there."