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Encounter

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The world was full of monsters.

At some distant point in time, Wisely had believed in them all, but as time went on, he had come to weigh them against his own sense of rationality and dismiss them as fiction, the products of minds afflicted by fear or alcohol or fumes.

Granted, Wisely had never really gone past the city limits, so for all that he knew, the countryside could be crawling with monsters such as hags, werewolves, swamp dwellers and people-strangling trees. Of course, if similar things existed, then Wisely would put his money on that they were the same type of monsters as the ones Red hunted in the night.

Reminiscing about it now, Wisely could not help but wonder if he was not supporting the actual origin of the spring-heeled jack, some monster that attacked the Londoners with its metallic claws. Granted, while relatively thin, Red was nowhere near tall enough to fit the description, and in addition to that, he also lacked the rather distinct 'eyes like balls of fire'. But, knowing just how easily and just how quickly word of mouth could get warped or embellished beyond the point of recognition.

And speaking of recognition−

"They're here! I saw them go down that alley!"

And to think that in the end, it seemed as though it was they would fall to actual people as opposed to monsters posing as such. Then again, were they not basically the same anyway?

Cursing under his breath, Wisely scanned his surroundings for a way out. There was none, save for a tall wooden fence. Red alone could probably have cleared it, at least normally, but Wisely?

Red let out a breath. It sounded remarkably much like resignation, and Wisely was so shocked that he let go. Red did not seem to focus much on that though, because he was looking up at the fence now.

Precious moments passed, and they likely both knew that time was up, but even so.

Red hopped over to the fence, clearly favouring his healthy leg; Wisely felt cold inside as he saw the blood leaking sluggishly from the other. "Come on," Red said at last, positioning himself against the fence, leaning slightly against it. "I'll give you a boost."

Wisely didn't want to, but he did it anyway. For once in his life, he did not stumble, and while he hit his knees on the edge and tumbled over the fence in a rather clumsy fashion, he landed with no injuries save for those he had had already. But−

Raised voices. Footsteps.

Wisely felt a sense of panic flare in his gut.

Having deep down feared the prospect of getting left behind, he had never adequately prepared himself for the opposite.

Even so, he got up and kept quiet, even as he heard what was happening on the other side.

'Don't run,' he reminded himself as he kept moving, feeling a sudden lump in his throat. 'It'll make you look suspicious.'

He managed to keep walking for a solid five minutes before he broke into a sprint, unable to take it any longer. He was no sprinter, but even so he ran, as if some part of him believed that he would be able to escape it all if he just put some additional distance in-between himself and− and−

He finally came to a stop in the middle of a street. It was a stupid place to stop, but for some reason, it felt as though he couldn't take another step without keeling over himself. Only now did he really notice the blood, the blood all over him. Forget running, he was covered in blood and that was insurmountably more suspicious and− How could he have missed it? And how could he have−?

Then suddenly, Wisely felt it and snapped his head up, and nearly immediately spotted the carriage heading his way at high speed. 'Oh,' he thought dimly. 'This is−'

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Dear Mr. Cunningham‒

Though we have yet to meet in person, your friend Red Herring has made me aware of the situation that you and your fellows are facing.

Tidings of young Thomas and of young Charley's illness have also reached my ears.

I would offer my condolences, but if you are anything like young Mr. Herring, then I do believe you would view my words as empty.

As such, instead of my condolences, I would like to extend an offer to you, Mr. Cunningham‒

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"Holy shit."

'Holy shit' was one way of putting it, and while they would not have been his personal choice of words in this situation, Sheril simply had to deem them adequate, given that he had no better alternative to offer straight off the bat.

Then again, it was an unfortunate stroke of bad luck; completely unavoidable of course. But still, they had attracted a bit of an audience, and Sheril wagered that he himself might be a bit too recognisable to simply continue onward without first dealing with… this.

As expected, Tyki had been the first to disembark and to have a closer look at what – or in this case who – they had managed to hit, all while Sheril had been forced to deal with the coachman, who sputtered something about it not being any of his fault and all that.

Even so, even without taking a closer look, Sheril had noted the red hair. The sight had awoken a feeble hope within him that he might have accidentally done away with that very stray he had been hoping to eliminate all along. But, alas, as he moved closer to where Tyki was crouching down, he noted, with no slight amount of disappointment that this was not the bane of his peaceful lifestyle but rather an unknown, face slightly bruised but unscarred. And it was alive too, which made this all the more troublesome.

Sheril was half a mind to simply dump the body in the carriage and have the coachman take it from here. But… in addition to being filthy, the urchin had a bit of blood on him as well, and fresh blood at that, and Sheril would rather not get any blood on the seats, even if he would not have to clean it up himself. It was a matter of principle; it was as pure and simple as that.

"Uh… Sheril? I think you should have a look at this…"

He looked, not because he thought it worthwhile, but because Tyki had specifically−

He looked, and blinked, and looked again.

There was no change, and that in itself was enough to fill him with a chilling sense of realisation. He quickly dismissed it though, snapping his head around. "Get a blanket. A thick one. And be quick about it."

The coachman scrambled to obey, and Sheril turned his attention back to the situation at hand.

There was little mistaking it.

'Holy shit' indeed.

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