Saturday, October 24, 1868. Afternoon.
Phillips Harbour
After their talk on Wednesday, Yotee left to see Miss Pau. Somewhat to Randall's surprise, the coyote even came back that evening, bearing a map from the woman with a list of names and locations on it. She down on it Penelope Everchild, at a townhouse in Phillips Harbour, Herbert Shaft on a houseboat that he moved out to harbor every night (thankfully, always to the same point or calculations would've been a true nightmare), Rae and Gustav Mikkelsen at the Red Flag in town, Rev. Hale at and Phillipe Girard at a townhouse. According to her notes, she believes Phillipe Girard withdrew from the Game on the 15th and she's not planning to include him in her calculations. She's doesn't think the Mikkelsens are Playing, either -- neither one appears to have a Companion and her attempt to divine their intention turned up nothing -- but she's not certain. Hale, Shaft, and Everchild are certainly Playing and definitely Closers.
On Thursday, she stops by briefly to get St. John's location from him. Randall had noticed that morning that a lot of smoke was rising from Phillips Harbour, and she confirms that there'd be a fire before dawn. "It was centered on Mrs. Everchild's place," she tells him, soberly. "She perished trying to escape. Mrs. Stephenson said six houses were destroyed." She also warns him that more clergymen have come to town, apparently witchhunters. She doubts that they're Playing and it's too late for their presence to affect the calculations. But she does expect them to cause trouble in the Game. "The best we could hope for is that they spend their time hunting for St. John, and even that is hardly good news for us."
Randall thinks that Yotee planned to speak with St. John. By Thursday evening, he's got the distinct feeling that something went badly wrong with whatever Yotee was trying to do that day. Unfortunately, the same hunch tells him that the best thing he can do for Yotee is not try to find the damned critter. It would've been more useful to have this premonition when he saw the coyote on Wednesday.
Plagued by the sense that their combined map is missing at least one Player, Randall spends Friday combing his notes for anyone else that might belong. After coming across his notes about the woman and horse he and Yotee saw in the woods on the third, and juxtaposing the staff she had carried with an entry about Oldman's staff, Randall suspects she's a Player. Unfortunately, he did not get her name at the time and Yotee hasn't mentioned her since.
Based on her description and the staff, he attempts to divine her location as he did St. John's, but without a name divination is especially difficult. He's just finished cleaning up from his latest failed attempt when he hears a noise in the kitchen.
On creaking open the door from the den to the kitchen, Randall is greeted by a sight unusual even by his current standards.
It's the sort of surprise no one wants, like finding the severed head of a horse beneath the sheets of a bed. A warning, a message, sent in the form of a beloved pet that has been murdered and given a few days to season. Only a few things are wrong with that immediate impression. Yotee barely fit the definition of a companion and love was not the feeling he evoked. He makes a passable corpse, if that is him. Filth, composed of dried blood, mud and maggots still clings to the tattered pelt. In places where the fur is visible, it's a distinctly different colour. There are white scallops patterns along the sides of his chest, his right ear is distinctly russet coloured and the near eye swollen shut. A dark jagged pattern crosses his back, similar to a jackal's or german sheppard's, and his muzzle seems a lighter shade. The coyote's body language is strained, barely ambulatory, standing seems to be an effort. He twitches all over, from random muscle spasms and the insects he's collected.
This apparition instill doubt, but how many coyotes are there around here? It must be him. It stares silently back.
"You've looked better", Randall says slowly, as he carefully peers out the open backdoor. Placing the rifle on the kitchen table, he drags the battered first aid footlocker out of a cabinet. "Sit, collapse, don't stand there, it looks like it's more than you can do."
Collapsing takes an effort too, some limbs just don't seem to bend right. He falls over, jaw chattering, legs continuing to jerk as he lies there. He whines, Food?.
Randall nods as he starts dragging supplies out, it'snot the first time he's had to use it, across the years. "Give me a moment, let'sget some water going, and get something warmed up." The kettle clangs onto the stove, and he stares around, figuring out what he can sacrifice to clean the filth off Yotee.
There's a small worn kitchen towel hanging beside the sink.
The revenant varmint lies there patiently, breathing in shallow gulps with small rattling noises. St. John is a skin dancer.
Randall glances at the towel, dismissing it as far too small to be of use in removing the far too large amount of filth. "If I had any doubts it was you, that would have removed them. Now I ask 6 more questions to understand what a skin dancer is." The last bit is muffled as he digs around in the den and returns with some burlap sacks. "And unless you feel you won't make it through the next hour, lie back, conserve your strength, and let me get you cleaned, patched and fed."
Yotee seems content to lie there, and is uncharacteristically quiet. No struggling, no snapping or comebacks, a few times he's still enough it looks like he has expired.
Randall has managed to get the coyote clean and most of his injuries bandaged -- there are puncture wounds on the coyote's side, along with bruises on his legs and a gash on his head that looks like it should've been fatal ... then again, perhaps it yet will be. Still, it looks as though the animal has partly healed from all the wounds. Randall goes outside to butcher a chicken. As he's finishing, he hears an unusually strident birdsong growing louder but pays no attention to it until he steps back into the kitchen with the chicken in hand for Yotee. Then a much smaller bird zips through the open door behind him, narrowly missing the man's head and chirping with vocal agitation.
The twitch makes it obvious that he was thinking of throwing what was at hand at the intruder, but instead Randall puts it on the counter. "Friend of yours?" He asks the coyote, as he drop about half the meat into the refilled kettle.
Yotee looks somewhat better once he's cleaned up, and it's a bit disturbing what was scrubbed off him. A lot of dried blood, bits of decaying flesh, leaves. The stark lamplight of the kitchen is unkind. He's a lot thinner, more than a few missed meals would account for. His fur is drab, a darker grey in some areas, lighter tan in others. His ear flicks, and his head shifts towards the bird. Yes, He answers randal with a slow exhale. I'm listening.
The bird had circled Randall once or twice, looking as though debating what else it had to do to get his attention. On seeing Yotee, the nightengale abandons the man and flies to a perch on the seat of a chair near the other animal. She twitters at him, wings fluttering.
He likes things that are long dead. Yotee pants quietly, not moving much at all. His ear flicks as the little bird chirps in it, his nostrils flare in anticipation of the chicken. Miss Pau has vanished. She's in trouble, you have to search for her.
The bird's eyes dart from Yotee to Randall. The little animal has an almost indignant look as it chirps a reply to Yotee.
Other than an occasional glance over at the bird, Randall pays much more attention to the bird in hand. A small sharp knife makes quick work of shredding the chicken from the bone. "I see. Been a very busy two days for you, hasn't it? I'm tempted to ask a lot of questions about how you got into this horrid state, but I'll let that slide. Tell me about St. John and Miss Pau, please." Setting the plate on the floor next to him, Randall starts feeding small pieces to Yotee.
Yotee nibbles at the pieces, making a feeble attempt to chew them before swallowing them in a motion that is equal parts cough. St. John is a woman who puts on a wolf's skin, or a wolf that puts on a human one, then dances around. It's a neat trick, I'll have to show you sometime. The coyote clenches up, his stomach reacting unpleasantly to the introduction of food. Miss Pau needs you, I think, now?
The bird chirps again, nodding her head for emphasis of Yotee's words.
"Skin dancer, shapeshifter, werewolf, all that means is that she's the wolf at the door we've been worried about." Randall doesn't seem to be dashing off to rescue anyone, as continues to slowly feed the coyote. "The bird can show me where to go? What does she need me for? Remember, details."
The bird flutters off the chair and flies in a circle around the kitchen, chirping.
The coyote struggles to sit up. Sides shuddering, he pushes to more of a uprightposition. The white stag works with St. John. Miss Pau is gone, for hours now. Mrs Stephenson's gone. The humans at the farm are acting strange. Oh... the horse, its name is Slate, and there's a plan to slaughter forest creatures. His one good eye blinks slowly, Maybe... the townsfolk are going to round up and burn all the strangers too.
The nightengale perches on the towel rod before the sink, and adds another twitter to the end of her long chirping monologue.
"Roight, I was afraid of that." Randall mutters at Yotee's mention of the stag. "Who's planning to slaughter forest animals? And is St. John responsible for your current state?"
Another alarmed chirp emerges from the bird, whose head pivots from side to side in dismay.
Yotee growls, forcing himself the rest of the way up with a couple unpleasant cracking noises. At the door, no more. St. John and the Stag are dead. The woods rejected her. The lads have that plan, but the woman with the horse was uncertain about it. Something is after the Openers, and will come here too. We should go... get Mother... hide. While the coyote is looking a bit better, he's not making much sense, must be that crack on his head.
The nightengale flits to the door and perches on the knob, bobbing her head at Yotee.
Slaughter the forest brothers and sisters, rip a hole into the next world. Yotee sways, looking unsure about walking.
"Hiding won't help, not if it means losing my tools and research. Blast, it sounds almost like this Game is unraveling, badly." Randall is still sitting on the floor, and after a moment, he shakes his head. Tapping the floor, he adds "Sit back down, you aren't going very far like you are."
I... I don't know. Maybe that was St. John's plan? Yotee tries to keep track of the little bird, and that's quite a task for him right now. Randall. You need to find Miss Pau, or it's just us left. Go look? Where would Miss Pau go?
"It was just us when I got here, and there are a lot of unanswered questions about Miss Pau. Why did she vanish? Why do you think she needs my help? What's her motivation for Opening the Gate?" Randall eyes the bird grimly, as he rattles off the list. "From what you and Miss Pau have said, I doubt St. John wanted the Game to sink out of sight below the waves, like a floundered ship, but I can see a Closer working to that end."
There's a crow too. Very persistent. Peck, pecking. Yotee seems to have forgotten the food, another first for him, his eye closes. Open the Gate, so we can go home. Oh Mother... I have to.
The bird scratches one taloned foot against the door, her other foot clinging to the knob. Feathers bristle around her head as she chirps.
crack Randall's knuckles rap against the floor, sharply. "Sit down, before you fall over."
The bird calms a bit as she finishes her latest speech. She circles the room, pecking at the shuttered windows as if looking for a way out.
I'm an Opener. Opener. Opener. Yotee pants, still looking like he wants to move, though his trembling legs slowly give out and he lies down as commanded. That's what I say. Randall she needs you to help her find Miss Pau.
How was St. John killed, who brought her back? Yotee wonders.
The small bird takes a deep breath, puffing out her chest. She releases a comparitvely slow series of chirps this time.
"So, we circle back, again. Why you, you two rather, think Miss Pau needs my help." Randall leaves the plate on the floor as he gets up to stir the chicken broth cooking. He points a finger at the bird for a moment and says "If you can understand me, you'd better work at getting our scruffy friend to explain things to me. I don't go charging blindly off, with no idea why or where or what to do."
She doesn't know. Miss Pau never goes without telling her. She's a bird, she can't find her alone. The farm is crazy. The coyote struggles, Rush off blindly. That is my lesson to you.
"The farm is crazy. Let's work from there. And sit down, have I said sit down?" Randall tries to find something shallow and stable, then gives up and puts a plate of water on the floor. "Sit, drink, rest. Or collapse, rest, don't talk."
If I was full of whiskey, could I walk? Would the hurting stop? Miss Pau is with us, and missing. Some humans killed St. John, maybe her. Once they have, they'll come here, for us. They know. Just... try it, and I'll try hiding with the tools. Yotee whines.
The bird eyes Yotee, and then Randall. She makes a disgusted chirp.
After that, the bird makes a determined but not-yet-successful effort to get out through one of the shutters in the window, making little cheeping noises.
Randall tries to follow Yotee's stream of thought, and shakes his head. Opening the back door, he waves the bird out. "That much I can understand, even if I don't understand anything else, so sorry to have kept you."
The bird pulls her head back through the shutters and soars through the open door without a backward glance.
It's not whiskey, but water is a start. Yotee lays his head in the plate. He's almost drinking, he gets wet at least. Open the window for her? I'm sorry, I can't help. Oh... gone now.
"Slate. That's a start. If I could get the woman's name as well, that would be better." Randall sticks his head out, and looks around, before closing the door again.
With the bird gone, the world outside his back door looks quite peaceful. So does the inside. It's remarkable how much noise one small bird can generate.
Yotee lets the water soak into the fur of his head, and gurgle into his ear. He also laps at it as best he can. The Openers are being killed. St. John, the Stag. Miss Pau is missing, when she's dead, they'll come here. Followed. You, me, the bird. Everyone has been through the barn.