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At the Doctor's House, ~10am Saturday May 4th, 1771


Doctor Lovelace sipped his hot chocolate from the comfort of his well-padded lion-footed chair, the sunlight angling in across the room to touch the pannelling of the study walls and lie in long losenges across his desk and carpet. A warming fire burned low in the grate, spicing the sweet warm-milk and chocolate scents with smoke: although his man Polzeath seemed virtually impervious to cold himself, his observations as to his master's preferred temperature for any given activity were generally spot-on.

Right now the activity was lounging about mostway dressed with his dressing-gown over the top and contemplating a ride, and the room was as pleasantly cosy as though summer had already come. Yesterday had been long and tricky between Gaffer Ragge's gout (with harassment from his son Henry, who clearly thought himself more learned than the physician in terms of his father's health) and Mrs. Durbin's hysterics, or possibly histronics, though either way he'd had to find some wise-sounding remedy to merit his presence, if not the modest fee he might be expected to charge anyone of proper standing.

In fairness, the Durbin girl did seem to have vanished into thin air. She'd taken her cloak and favourite buckles, was what he'd ascertained between the wailing, but she might have simply left the latter on her shoes from the May Day revels the day before. Mrs. Durbin had looked on the point of offence that would have half the village riled against him if he'd inquired further about precisely when her daughter might have left, so he'd cautiously removed himself and wound up entangled with the hard-drinking crowd at the inn. They were toasting to Master Fox's upcoming marriage, though young Miss Criddle's family had agreed to set it by a week that morning, given the distraction of Polly's disappearance. John Collins had been musing on forming a dedicated group of searchers, noting the many empty places left while regulars sought their own leads and turned up nothing and nothing at all.

Martin had found himself pressed to a little too much cider and had found it hard to wake, though the groom-to-be had surely been in the same boat and likely came off worse, given he had no Polzeath to come rescue him and roll him home. Martin sipped, and forgot the village's troubles for a moment in sweetness and warmth. A runaway young woman was about the height of excitement around here, and that was nice.

A knock sounded at the door downstairs, interrupting Martin's idle musings and rousting Polzeath from whatever he'd been doing in the kitchen. "I'll ze to 't, sir!" he called up in reassurance he was on his way.

---

Reverend Palmer had passed a most instructive morning, striding through God's green hills and fields towards and then around and away from the sunrise that made the new shoots golden. There had been pheasants drifting across the landscape, and distant deer; fat woodpigeons at roost and one avenue of trees that rang so loudly with the sonnets of blackbirds it was a wonder the whole country was not awake. He'd spotted spreads of primroses and what he thought were red campion, and a hare, and when the land had warmed the rooks sifted themselves like cinders over fields to pick out insects or remnant grain from the rows.

He'd also found a heap of post, and close by, a sack. The latter turned out to contain his own correspondence with Reverend Whitley, and once he'd combed the soggy collection of letters and a vandalised parcel of some kind of glassworking tools back into their container to take along, he'd found a spot on the ramparts of Kennick's Camp to read about 1100s land divisions.

After that by purest chance he happened to spot a letter for Dr. Lovelace whilst gathering up the post he'd spread out to dry beside him: taking it over personally once the rest was left at the inn seemed a bit of gentle entertainment, and the doctor would surely be up by now. So the Reverend had wended his way back to the village, greeting those out early, dropped the sack off at the Hare & Sheaf and at last come to his friend's door like a post boy, the letters tucked into his coat. The doctor's man Polzeath answered his knock.

"Hm? Good mornen, Reverend." Polzeath dipped his head with a graceful motion, since his unusually broad mouth and ill-favoured features produced a smile that took many aback when he tried to be cheerful. "The master's up in his study and there's still milk in the pot if ye'd like to join 'im with the cocoa."

Polzeath showed Cecil up the stairs towards the back of the house, and into the study, announcing him in the proper fashion: "Reverend Palmer to ze you, sir."
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:40, Sat 17 July 2021.

Martin had been preparing to greet whoever was coming to visit that day, but he was pleasantly surprised to find his good friend, the Reverend Palmer. While Martin himself may not have possessed the most sincerely held faith, not that he ever would admit such a thing, he nevertheless found the Reverend to be intelligent, well-read, and astute. There were certain matters where matters of science weren't of the most help, and the man's skill set certainly complemented his own for the village's benefit.

It helped him to shake off the strange ruminations he'd been having about his even stranger dreams from the night before. He should have known better than to have that last cider. He set down his cup of cocoa and rose to his feet.

"A good morning to you, Reverend. Please, come in, and do sit. A cocoa? Polzeath here can whip one up for you if you'd like. I must say, it is absolutely sovereign when one's had a bit much of the good stuff the night before - but delicious even otherwise. To what do I owe the visit?"

Cecil nodded his head politely.

"A good morning and the Lord's blessing to you, too, Doctor."
He scratched his ear at the mention of cocoa. The Reverend had a bit of a sweet tooth but did feel a bit guilty about it ever since Father Clement in the seminary had condemned the use of sugarcane, chocolate, or any other plant that had come over from the New World for being ungodly.

It would of course be impolite to refuse.
"I would love a cup, thank you Polzeath."

He waited for the manservant to leave the room, then with some fanfare produced the letter. "Today, I am not only a messenger of the Lord, but I also bring more mundane messages. I thought I would take it upon me to have this seen safely into your hands."

Once he had given over the envelope, a thought occurred to him.
Hopefully it's good news.

After a little squinting at the scrawled address Martin determined that the letter came from his friend and mentor Doctor Boring. It promised an interesting read - Doctor Boring being vexed by the mere notion of nominative determinism, besides insisting that his ancestors must have been in the business of making holes - but rather perplexing was how it came to be in the hands of Reverend Palmer, or in a generally clammy state.

Cecil had time to fit himself cosily into the duck-footed armchair nearer the fire and receive chocolate with a pinch of nutmeg from Polzeath whilst Martin skimmed his correspondence. The valet had also thought to bring up some marchpane picking-pieces on a couple of saucers and enquired as to how the master would like his shoes arranged that day before taking them down for blacking.

It had to be said that grown by heathens or not, the chocolate was very good indeed. Polzeath reappeared shortly after Martin had finished his skimming, unobtrusively but with his long, oddly-proportioned fingers uncharacteristically stained with a smudge of blacking. He looked distinctly perturbed about something, but waited until called upon to speak.

"Mundane messages indeed. Despite being from Doctor Boring, it does promise a rather interesting read when I have the time for it, on the subject of treating snake bites. He thought it might be helpful given that I'm now in serpent country."

He set the letter aside for later consideration - a cursory survey was well and good, but it would be impolite to read the whole thing in the Reverend's company.

"Strange, though...any thought on how this letter found its way to you, Reverend?" He paused in taking a sip of his delightful beverage - a smooth, creamy beige facade leading to a darker liquid underneath. His eyes caught the queer expression on Polzeath's face.

"Something the matter, Polzeath?"

Polzeath shifted his weight and took a deep breath, perhaps taking the time to pick the most precise words he could muster: some took the man for being dull-witted at such times, though Martin knew he'd learnt English from scratch somewhere around ten years old, being raised on nothing but Cornish and some strange remnant tongue specific to his hamlet, and was quietly sharp as a razor.

Though somewhat prone to superstition, he'd usually laugh at himself if Martin caught him destroying used eggshells or murmuring something over new clothing or the like, qualifying his actions with a "just in case, sir, just in case". It was somewhat surprising, therefore, when after sincere thought Polzeath came out with his statement:

"Well sir, I don't know there's aught to do exactly, but it seems the Devil is stood on the village green, and it could be you'd want to know."

"The Devil? On the village green? Why, I daresay we'd be interested. This is our good Reverend's province of expertise. Could you perhaps provide us some further detail on the subject?" Martin tried to be respectful and understanding, though at times he couldn't help but find a little humor when these things arose. He was having perhaps a tiny bit of fun with Polzeath here, but was also curious as to what specifically concerned the man and how he might set him at ease.

Polzeath's shoulders set, though he kept his gaze down. "Well you might ze 'im for yourself, sir, if you'd go to the bedroom or down in the kitchen. I never saw the like of such animal, and never saw a natural beast act so neither. He's stood there calling folks out to him, looks like, and they go - you should move 'im on, vicar, before's he takes someone off to Hell."

He glanced over at Cecil with this irregular appeal, too concerned to heed that he'd been a bit more than properly direct. Whatever was on the green, Polzeath was pretty sure it was infernal, and a present threat.

Well, that was interesting.

Cecil, with some reluctance, put down the cup of cocoa, and got up to his feet.

"Why, I think it would be best if I take a look, then. Perhaps the window from the kitchen would be best?"

He certainly wouldn't want to invade the privacy of anybody's bedroom.

"To the kitchen then. We wouldn't want him taking anyone off to Hell now, would we? Come, Reverend. It appears that Scorch Norton could use your aid in saving another soul from damnation at the hand of the devil himself." He lead the way to the kitchen, looking to see what might be apparent from there.

The men descended to the kitchen. Polzeath was the last down for once (he had paused briefly to set a saucer atop the Reverend's drink to keep the heat), his step sounding reluctantly on the stairs behind the gentlemen as they leant up to the window. Martin opened the casement rather than squint through the mazy panes; a fresh rush of cool spring air ghosted over his fingers as he looked out and saw the black horned shape on the green.

It was a black stag, clearly alive but standing motionless as people began to converge around it. The gravity of the waiting presence was almost felt as a weight on the world, a point some unseen second air twisted and converged around like a heavy stone dropped into water. Peering around his host, Cecil could see Long Tom Bees the beekeeper heading in a determined stride towards the beast some way ahead of the others, and was struck by the quiet of the scene.

For all there was to hear, the window might as well have been shut: no breeze, no birds, steps muted by the grass and not a sound from those who watched, as yet. The folk should be chattering, but even Martin felt that would be wrong, somehow, as though to open his mouth in this Presence, this quiet, might be to gulp something in.

Master Bees stopped at the edge of the green, wavering. The great creature that stood there held his head up high, his antlers cut so sharply against the pale of the houses across the green it was as though the air itself were loath to touch his dark shape. The stag breathed and did not bellow, only watched.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:47, Thu 22 July 2021.

Something unspoken existed in this moment that was partially an unexplained fear and simultaneously a feeling of exultation and a moment pregant with expectation that something momentous was afoot, a silence that even the loquacious physician seemed loathe to interrupt. That itself didn't sit right with Martin. He could only keep himself silent for so long.

"The devil, you say, Polzeath? I see but a beast of the woods, if a magnificent one."

Martin sounded loud to himself, though he had spoken normally. Of course, the village dogs and geese should be giving strident opinions on this newcomer, yet all was still. Polzeath remained some paces behind, though he had picked up Martin's unblacked shoe and the grease cloth as though not to be found idle if later men should find him struck down where he stood. He made some vague effort at continuing to work blacking into the leather whilst responding, shaking his head:

"He's not right, sir, not right at all. What he b'saying to them I can't tell, but I can't think it's right preaching." He hesitated.

"See you the beasts about the place, sir? Well, they're waiting and not right either, I got a rabbit and three partridge trapped alive under a box in the scullery, they come in the back door with that'n." Realising Polzeath was pointing at something, the doctor followed his man's indication and suddenly became aware there was another creature in the room, breathing this same strange air. A live hare looked back at him from beside the salting urn, sat calmly by the scullery door as though it, not he, had right to be here.

"She's not mazy like the other ones, won't let me catch 'er," Polzeath explained. The hare only watched in perfectly still silence, golden eyes unreadable. For some reason Martin believed Polzeath's linguistic assumption that it was a doe hare without question, though the skull shape and size might as easily be a young male's without looking underneath. "Won't leave, either, though, and the back door's propped open her width and more."

Cecil looked back and forth between the hare and the stag.
"Well... this is quite interesting. There have been many reports over the years of the Adversary appearing as a goat or speaking through black cats. But I don't remember any story of a stag or a hare. It's quite perturbing. Here, let me..."

He looked around, then motioned at a bushel of carrots, as if to ask permission, then grabbed one.

Cecil crouched down and held out the carrot.
"Come here, bunny, come here..."

Polzeath looked a bit protective of his master's early carrots, gift from the Fox greenhouses that they were (Martin had put the elder Fox in contact with a friend for the purpose of exchanging books; the younger, current resident of the estate was passing on thanks in the common country form of foodstuffs). Seeing the doctor only amused he endeavoured to fix his expression just as fast, already distracted by his concern over the invasive wildlife.

The hare regarded the finger's width of red-purple root proffered to her for several seconds, one ear then both turned towards the sound of Cecil's voice. At length she deigned to take a long hop forwards, then another, sending Polzeath stumbling out of the way as he realised she might cross his feet, and ending with a little hop, close enough to touch if the vicar leant a little further. Her fur was still winter-thick and tawny gold, as though she'd carried the ghost of harvest plenty all through the lean months.

She angled her head, leant and carefully nibbled on the root like something tame. Cecil could see her nails against the flags, grown long on the soft wet mud of spring, the whipcord muscles of her limbs and the tiny intimate flash of pinkish tongue as she worked her way steadily up the offering, very close. Polzeath clutched something hung about his neck and stared, unable to say why his skin crawled at the sight.

"There, there..."
The Reverend put out two fingers and drew a quick cross into the air adding a "May the Lord bless you and all His creatures."

The hare paused, chewed, and halted her chewing, the gold of her eyes as rich and intense as the sunrise over ripe barley. Then she opened her mouth and laughed like a woman, yanked the remaining carrot from the Reverend's hand and was but a streak of powerful leaping motion, over the crock by the scullery and into that room and out of the door before Polzeath's startled exclamation had left his mouth.

[[Huh. I didn't know she could do that. Time for a SAN check (0/1), I suppose!]]

21:53, Today: Reverend Palmer rolled 100 using 1d100.  SAN check.
I feel like... that's bad.

The reverend stared after the animal, the fingers that just signed the cross trembling. He seemed to be at a loss for words, which was a rare thing.
He slowly got back up to his feet, gathering his thoughts.
"Well." He started, then stopped.
That bunny laughed.
He shook his head, as if to clear it.
It must have been a trick of the ears. Echos in the kitchen.

He nodded to himself.
"Well, I think it really liked that carrot." It was meant as a joke.
Maybe a gust of wind carried in the sound of laughter from the open window?

Yes, that must have been it. Cecil smiled and briefly chuckled at himself for being so easily tricked. Polzeath's superstition must have gotten to him.
This message was last edited by the player at 07:36, Wed 28 July 2021.

Polzeath gradually let his breathing even and his hand slide from what he clutched. He gave the others a look that was blankly querying, a fearful confusion without a question.

[[Sure, you can lose 2 SAN points for being super-disturbed. :D  Mark that on your sheet and write the IC effect accordingly - editing the reaction into the post above would be ideal, since I much prefer posts on IC threads to have some IC content, even if it's "for a moment [Investigator] didn't know what to do", kind of thing. Thanks!]]

"Begone, you foul devil!" he cried, aiming a futile kick at the hare as it departed, though his reaction came too late.

"Polzeath, I'm sorry to say that I doubted you. If ever there was a denizen of hell masquerading as a member of the animal kingdom, surely we have just now encountered it. We should only be so lucky that it should have chosen such a relatively harmless form. Reverend, would dispatching such a creature from this earth rid us of its demonic presence, or is it best left in the form of a hare?"

OOC:
16:02, Yesterday: Martin Lovelace rolled 25 using 1d100.  SAN vs 85.

"I think the vicar ought shoo the Devil off the green first, sir," Polzeath said after a nervous swallow and a slight bow to acknowledge his master's change of thought.

"Will shooing be sufficient, do you think, Reverend? I rather thing a good smiting might be in order, but on all matters spiritual I must defer," he mused, though very clearly deferred to the Reverend.

While it seemed to him entertaining enough to go along with the ruse if others seemed to think this the best explanation, Martin did not actually believe that any of these animals were incarnations of the devil here in the village. Based upon the best reason he could summon on a moment's consideration of the matter, if a being of supernatural power and harmful intentions upon the souls of mankind were to evidence itself, the various forms here taken seemed least likely to do the trick. Still, he did have to admit that based on his studies of biology and animal behavior the responses he was witnessing were certainly unusual.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:15, Fri 30 July 2021.

Outside there came an abrupt general cry of alarm, shattering the late morning quiet to bits; looking out, Dr. Lovelace could see the black stag heading for the trees and the carpenter suddenly no longer in view.

"What is it, sir?" asked Polzeath from the stoveside, eyes wide to hear so many voices startled and afraid.


[[The Reverend can be considered in the Land of Over There Somewhere for now. I hope he hasn't got the 'flu or the 'ronis.]]

Cecil had needed a few moments to collect himself. This had been quite rattling, but he wasn't sure why. Like that creature - he wouldn't allow himself to refer to it as a bunny or rabbit anymore, but also wouldn't quite so easily jump to "spawn of the devil" as well - had grabbed a piece of his soul and ran off with a thread of his sanity.
It was very unnerving. He would have to meditate and pray on this, later.

The cry of alarm shook him out of his contemplation and brought him back to the window.
"Where is it going?"

A hammering at the front door and Maggie’s rough voice: “Doctor! Doctor, sir! Ye’re needed quick! Andrew Sexton’s gone an’ been gored by stag! Doctor!”

"Polzeath, my things, man, quick!" he said, moving to the door to answer the woman. He quickly got his coat, as he opened the door.

"Miss Yendale," he said in greeting, politely, recognizing her. "How bad is the situation?" He did his best to gather some history while waiting for Polzeath to return with his medical bag.

Polzeath moved past Martin with the lithe focus of an eel after prey. Moments later Martin's bag was in the hand he stretched out for it and Polzeath was shoeing his master like a horse, tucking the doctor's house slippers under his arm.

When finished, he stood back and gave the vicar an anxious look, unsure if the carpenter might not need spiritual healing as well. He dusted the slippers off in preparation to set them away, however, saying nothing.

Maggie stared a moment at the immaculate man standing before her, then scrunched her eyes tight closed to concentrate. Her words come out in a rush.

"'Twas great black stag a-standin' in th' green, unnatural-like. People went down t'see. Andrew Sexton went right up to 'im. Stag reared up an' gored Andrew. He's layin' in th' grass. Bart Phippin's wi' 'im." She nodded once and opened her eyes and took a breath.

"Stag run off," she added.

In a moment of tension, Martin realized that he had been much too broad with his question, the answers to which provided only conclusions he'd already arrived at. Now properly outfitted with footwear and with medical bag in hand, he began the short jog out to the green. He gestured that they move along; he had no doubt that the stout woman could keep up with him.

"I mean how bad is the injury, Miss Yendale? Where on his body was he struck?"
This message was last edited by the player at 15:44, Tue 10 Aug 2021.

Maggie loped alongside the physician.

"Aw! Dunno, doctor. I jus' set Bart down an' come t'fetch you."

If her exertions have tired Maggie at all, you can't tell by her breathing.

Cecil threw a disappointed glance at the cup with the cooling cocoa, but there was no use.

"We should go and see about his injuries." He gestured at the door.
"Lead the way, Miss Yendale, I'm sure Polzeath will be about with the doctor's bag momentarily."
This message was last edited by the player at 20:25, Thu 12 Aug 2021.

Guessing the vicar's mind when his gaze was cast back towards the stair, Polzeath bobbed slightly and spoke with a reassuring tone: "I'll set it down on the stove and covered for you, Rev'rend."

The doctor and Maggie had by then left at a fair trot, leaving Cecil to hurry to catch up. By the time he'd rounded the corner of the house opposite they were in the middle of the green, and Martin was bent over the patient amidst a knot of villagers.

[[You may join them over on Thread 1a.]]