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.




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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%.


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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.]]
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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? ^_^ ]]