Laughter. Companionship. Joy.

G.H. mowed down a piece of steak, devouring it in an instant. Those around him marveled at the speed, voraciousness, and ferocity. When he had torn the last scrap of meat from his plate he turned and politely requested another in the most overly formal and strange way they had ever heard. Laughter erupted.

Dame Vasilisa had stood up on one of the tables, her sword in one hand to mirror the shield in her other. She stomped down hard and shook her makeshift platform as she mimicked a battle, her sword slashing through the air in a beautiful twirl. Her voice never wavered, full of passion, energy, and excitement. Her story finished with a powerful stab and after a moment of shock and awe, the table exploded in excitement.

Men and women clapped him on his back, congratulating and awarding him with their respect. Children with sparkling stars in their eyes ran up and asked how he did it. A woman whispered in his ear before giggling away.

A mother and her son approached him. They had given him gifts; delicious food just for him, clothes, and tried to offer money. He of course couldn't accept it, primarily because he didn't have an "account" to transfer "Lien" into, whatever any of that meant. After some convincing he finally agreed to take some paper lien, carefully placing them in his bag. The woman and her child were the family of the seamstress he had saved.

But now it was done. As amazing as it was, it of course could not last. As happy, thankful, and marveled as these people were they had lives to return to, and in the morning those lives would be normal once more.

G.H. wished he could say the same.

Deep in the night, long past festivities, G.H. lay dressed in new, non-bloodied clothes in his new non-bloodied bed. It was delightful. A somewhat firm but shaping mattress held his body dutifully, while soft fabrics hugged his form lovingly. The pillow was, amazingly, not a rock or a particularly soft spot of dirt. It was more comfortable than he had been in his entire day of being alive.

Yet he could not find purchase in sleep.

His body was exhausted, his mind was numb, his tongue still swirling about with the vapors of alcohol - and yet the sweet relaxing void would not come to him. His mind while numb still raced with a million thoughts, a billion ideas.

In the excitement of the day, in his giddiness to be happy, he had ignored and discarded those questions about himself. In the cold of night with nothing else to distract him, however, it was much of what kept him in the world of the wake.

Who was he? Really? Did have a life here before he lost his memories? If he did, why was there no one who recognized him, no one around when he awoke? Was he truly so reprehensible and so unfortunate that he had no one?

Was his closest companion his cold reflection in a lakeside?

Was he truly mad?

And, most importantly, most vital of all, what kept him so desperately awake: Did they have any more pie downstairs?

It turns out food was even better than he had hoped. The innkeeper, as strange as she was, was a delightful chef. When he lived here properly he would eat here every -

Well, that was a bit more than hopeful. Maybe a little too idealistic.

You know what wasn't such a wild fantasy?

More. Pie.

G.H. sat up. He was sleeping in the tavern. The tavern just hosted a party. The pie was practically free during said party. If he were to find some leftovers, well, it wouldn't be stealing, would it?

No! If anything it would be more like showing just how much he enjoyed the complimentary pie.

His feet lightly landed on wood. As he moved to stand, the cord of the nearby lamp was suddenly caught by his blanket. In slow motion he watched the lamp twirl and be pulled by its own cord; it shook, shaked, and tipped off the side of the bedside table.

"No!" He hissed, disentangling himself from his disloyal blanket. Leaping forward he snatched the lamp from out of the air and pulled it close to his chest. He skidded across the floor while protecting the fragile shade with his body as you would a child foolish enough to abide by the laws of gravity. For just a moment he stayed there whilst cradling the poor lamp.

Placing it gingerly down he brought himself back to his feet. A small act of clumsiness wasn't nearly enough to dissuade him. As he quietly made his way towards the door a loud thump caused him to jump.

A blue jay had crashed into his window, breaking its neck. His face softened at the sad sight and he stood in the dark and silent for a moment, taking it in, wondering if it were some portent or warning by the cosmic universe.

Maybe it was just an unlucky night for them all.

"Know now young one that should I open I'll do so with a creak." The door warned him. "This is because too much weight rests upon my right - lift it up and you'll have a much quieter time." G.H. nodded his thanks to the now silent door and did as it suggested. Stepping out into the silent upper floor he considered the topography.

The second floor wrapped around the edge of the building and the connecting square hole let one from the first or second floor peek into the other. He peered down into the darkness, his ears and eyes straining to hear anything.

Perfect, he thought as a mischievous smile found its way to him. He slipped down the stairs as silently as could be and peered around in the darkness of the first floor.

He knew vaguely its land - rows of rectangular tables against walls and their own section, round tables for smaller groups that make up the majority of the inn, a small stage for performers, and the bar itself. He had noticed the kitchen door behind it and had wondered where it might lead.

He had just managed to step through the kitchen entrance when a light in the main room flickered on. Shit! He ducked to the side, crouching in the darkness. The door still hinged open just slightly. He began moving to subtly close it when he heard them.

"Really? This is where we're having our top-secret meeting. The inn?" A rough and gravelly voice spoke from the entrance to the inn. It was incredulous but amused, mirthful but serious. "Isn't this literally the place where he's sleeping?" G.H. paused in his movement, still stretched across the darkness towards the handle.

"'G.H.'," the familiar Vasilisa carefully and overly pronounced the two letters as if she didn't fully believe that was actually his name. "Is fast asleep. Trust me Branwen, he was exhausted. As he has every right to be." There was a pause as chairs scraped against wood and armor and weapons settled as four people found their seats. G.H. slowly retracted his outstretched hand - he was sure they wouldn't mind if he listened. "And besides you are well aware I am trained to detect auras. If he were here I could tell."

A third voice spoke up. "Well, that won't help. The kid hasn't unlocked his yet." It was Garlin. Not a huge surprise, really.

There was a pause in the darkness before the first voice, 'Branwen,' spoke again. "Excuse me? See, now I'm getting confused. You both were just telling me of some horror beast of a Grimm - and now you're trying to pull one over on me and say some kid killed it with no aura?" A disbelieving scoff penetrated the darkness like a knife in flesh. "Really? Garlin, if this is some weird attempt to waste Oz and my time -"

"Shut it, Qrow," Garlin growled the visitor's first name. "It's not. I might've left Beacon but even I wouldn't call just to see your ugly mug."

Dame Vasilisa let out a hefty sigh, one tinged with the annoyance of having to deal with such unprofessionals. "Gentlemen, can we please get back on track?" A chair scraped the wooden floor. "Ser Branwen, I can assure you that what Garlin speaks is true. I peered through his aura after our talk in the clinic for I was incredulous as well. I saw everything he saw. …felt everything he felt." The compassion was palpable. "The boy has no active aura, and the beast was…" There was a shudder that seemed to quiet down the 'Qrow' man at least momentarily. "And for posterity's sake I can sense even subdued auras. He would just have to be close enough or not behind thick enough material - and I don't see any walls around us that 3 and a half hunters wouldn't notice a boy scampering behind." The 'and a half' statement got an annoyed grumble from Garlin.

G.H.'s breath caught. Lucky lucky, he knew he was. Or maybe the others were unlucky.

Qrow cleared his throat hard, as if he were also trying to clear the very settled atmosphere. "So what the hell do you want me to do? Tell Ozpin some kid got lucky?"

"Tell Ozpin that the Grimm are evolving somehow. That it was cruel and smart. And tell him there's a boy here who…" Vasilisa struggled and looked to Garlin for help.

"Tell Ozpin we might have the start of trouble," Garlin grumbled. "The kid was blood lusted, Qrow."

"Even experienced hunters get caught up in the heat of battle -"

"No, Ser Branwen. It was different. It was dangerous. He might be a sign to another Adderslight event." There was a pause. …or maybe even another Damask."

The fourth voice finally spoke up reminding G.H. that they were even there. A light, breezy tone with a hint of sadness. The innkeeper, a strange and older woman he had only briefly spoken to. "Adderslight was different. The madness, the bloodlust, it wasn't temporary. It was a disease and no cure existed - besides mercy." There was no mention or rebuttal of this 'Damask.'

"Still." The one word from Garlin held heavy implications.

A heavy silence fell upon the four and weighed even greater upon G.H. Was he dangerous? Neither they nor he knew.

"I'll do what I can. If old Oz decides he's worth looking at," There was a shrug. "Then he'll send transportation in probably about a week or two. I clearly can't take him with me." A heavy, exhausted, almost desperate sigh escaped him. "No one has a single clue as to what's going on lately. With this shit piling on with White Fang, whatever the hell a "Healing Church" is that Oz has been working with, brazen dust robberies, weird freaky holes in the ground leading to ancient ruins and way more. It almost wasn't a surprise when this shit started happening too. Wish it was." G.H. froze, his blood running hot and freezing cold at the same time. The Healing Church. Why did that name terrify him so, vilify his very soul?

He had to stop himself from breaking something. Born from fear, true, but in there broiled hate. And this man, this leader, "Ozpin" was working with them? Following them? Worshiping them?

No, he had to focus. He pushed the thoughts and feelings down, deciding to deal with them later.

Qrow grumbled something under his breath before continuing. "This isn't the first Grimm in recent times to be like this, you know. Headmasters have taken to calling them anomalies. I get it. Feels appropriate, y'know? Freaks of the freaks. There's only a couple through-lines - the things are stronger, more dangerous, and typically more intelligent than your average Grimm." The chair creaked and the table groaned as he leaned forward to emphasize his next words. "The worst part? They leave bones. Skeletons. And blood." He added on at the end. "Gross, sticky shit. Ozpins got no idea what's going on - or at least he's not telling me." There's a hint of annoyance tinged with trepidation. G.H. could tell he almost hoped this 'Ozpin' was just withholding. The idea that he was just as in the dark scared Qrow. "Adderslight was the peak and after that things looked… some kind of good for a little, but everything's starting to ramp back up again."

"You're implying that another catastrophe is on the way?" Vasilisa was quiet and steady, her voice betraying no emotion.

"I don't know what I'm implying, lady. Just that I'll take this seriously." He stood, seemingly deciding the conversation was over.

"One last thing. The kid's got no memories." Qrow looked to Garlin and shrugged as if asking how that was his problem. "Hello? No past? No family? Even if the headmaster takes interest, what the hell are we supposed to do with him for two weeks?"

"Not my problem."

The door shut, and, for a too-long moment, there was silence. Wood scraped on wood as the others stood. "Watch him."

"I most certainly will." The innkeeper replied.

"You most certainly will not," G.H. growled. The fractured moon shone above, surrounded by its sparkling twin brethren. His new shoes padded down on soft soil and softer grass. Said shoes were one of his new favorite things he had recently been gifted, only behind his new pants which were only behind his new shirt which was only behind his new hat. His new gloves were fine, he supposed. Really he could take them or leave them. Sturdy yet somewhat fashionable, these new garments protected by an outer shell of dark gray leather felt delightful and his gratitude knew no bounds for the kind people who had given him them. Once they heard that the cheap, torn, and very quite bloody rags he wore into town were his only set of clothing it's not like they would have accepted a decline regardless.

But as stated his favorite part was the hat. It wasn't a terribly nice hat, nor was it protective nor even really went with the outfit or his general vibe. Atop his head proudly rested a white 10-gallon hat with a red sash tied just atop the brim, a brilliant splash of crimson color. He had learned not of the gifting man's name, status, nor even vocation, but G.H. quite intelligently surmised that he was likely a man with very little liquid. Who else would so frivolously give away such a fantastic hat but one who had no need of it anymore?

No, the hat itself was, objectively, mediocre and certainly not for him. Really his excitement came from having a hat in general and once he found one that fit his groove a bit better he'd no doubt exchange his current.

All of this and much more raced through his mind as he raced through the dark forest. Intrusive, distracting thoughts made it quite difficult to mope about the place he decided. If he were to be a proper sulker he really must get better at focusing. What was he even upset at again?

His foot caught a stray root from a bully-like timber sneering down at him. A yelp in shock and the dismal reluctance to abide by gravity overtook as the tree silently cackled, its devious and rather uncouth trick causing G.H. more undeserved pain. As he lay in the dirt nursing his bruised noggin and 10-gallon hat he couldn't help but wonder if it truly were undeserved. If he really was some portent for calamity it would be more apt to call it divine judgment or preemptive punishment if'n such a thing were to exist.

Hm. For whatever reason the idea of invisible higher beings that sulked about the place making their own nigh-inconceivable decisions and changes didn't sit well with him.

He tried to pull himself to his feet but during the trip there he decided the ground was more comfortable and, for lack of a better word, plopped back down. He sighed while pulling his knees inward and pulling off his new backpack. He was exhausted. His body ached and screamed at him to sleep, to rest, to return back to that comfortable bed. "Why?" it asked. "Why are you even doing this?" He tried to formulate an answer, a rebuttal, but he honestly didn't know. The small amount he had heard scared him. Shook him. Angered him. They spoke about him like some kind of villain, like some kind of double agent. They promised to send him away to some mysterious leader who would tell him what he could or could not do, who would try to control and hold him. Who would hand him over to the Healing Church? No, he would not let that happen.

Besides, G.H. had been fantasizing about staying and maybe even living in Red Springs. He thought the people would be grateful to him and that they would come to understand him. Maybe even that he could come to be one of them.

But they were just planning on pushing him off on someone else. Someone he didn't know. Someone who could be cruel.

His breath caught in his throat. His voice hitched. His body trembled. Even here. Even here in this new world, he was still alone. Still ostracized. Still a pariah.

He knew he was being unreasonable, emotional, selfish, and a hundred other things. He knew that as he sat silently crying in the dark that he was doing this to himself. He knew it was his own downfall; his far too high hopes, his desperation to fill that endless loneliness, his need to calm that fear that lay bare in his soul. He knew that it was all his own fault, his own hubris, his own foolishness.

Yet despite that knowledge the tears still came and his choice was still made.

That next morning he had woken early and sourly due to the extreme discomfort of so many bug bites. His body itched all over and he certainly did not yet have the self-control to not scratch like hell. Grumbling to himself with dark eyes and busy fingernails he made his way even deeper into the forest. Now that his emotions were calmer he found himself reconsidering his options. A bug-filled night beneath a mossy tree wasn't too pleasant and he hated to think about what he'd have to endure when it rained. He had been lucky enough that he hadn't yet turned back when he had found the physical answer to his metaphorical prayers. Before him with old pride stood an abandoned church that had only just begun to rot and fall apart.

Wood and stone blended together into this somewhat large and imposing structure while its darkened materials accentuated large and shaped glass windows then coalesced into the towering steeple that erupted and pierced as high as it could to break above the canopy of trees. The grounds now old and forgotten were once well-trimmed and properly manicured in order to impress and comfort the inhabitants known now only by neatly labeled rows of gravestones. G.H. marveled at the old church - from where he was he could see no large nor terrible holes in its infrastructure nor could he discern any one particular religion as it seemed time had eroded away most or all of the more delicate symbols and carvings, leaving only brutalist shape and functional form. It was perfect.

Something tickled the back of his brain.

The double doors so dutifully standing guard creaked and moaned with harsh complaints at being forced to move once more, yet still held firm and well despite its time in the elements. The inside was nearly perfect - large glass windows let in beautiful streams of light that revealed floating specks of dust. Old pews still sat calmly awaiting the next homily to grace the halls, though some had old blankets and pillows draped across them. Boarded up broken bits of window and roofing convinced G.H. that he hadn't been the first to seek shelter in this place and he was grateful they had been considerate enough to fix it up a bit for his arrival.

The reason for their departure was clear however. The inner church was, again, only nearly perfect for his purposes - and the reason for that nine-out-of-ten score was less than 30 feet away. Facing towards the altar and away from him sat huddled a barely stirring pile of dark flesh and fur. A Grimm - though no true form was discernible in its current position of what could only be described as some vile mockery of prayer; short and shallow breaths trembling through its form every few minutes were the only sign that it was actually alive. G.H. ever so slowly pulled Garlin's axe from his bag, gripping it tightly; was it best to fight? To flee? Was the shelter worth a conflict with another one of these beasts? His gut quite confidently told him that it was not but as he slowly stepped back and out of the church he saw them.

Piles of bones and discarded clothes torn to shreds. The bones lay picked clean of flesh yet the Grimm apparently could not suck the dried blood from stained clothes. The sight of innumerable deaths was horrible enough but one article of clothing stood out to G.H. more than any other.

A darkly stained white ribbon. His mind pulsed. His eyes swam. His heart throbbed. For a moment he saw the dark brown stains of blood become vibrant and fresh, crimson and dripping. A face ever so briefly flashed through his mind - a young girl, one he had tried to save and instead led to her death. He felt immeasurable guilt and pain and as he watched the Grimm deep in prayer he wondered if it were begging for mercy as he once had. If it truly did seek mercy then G.H. had no recourse but to provide. With his axe gripped tightly he stepped boldly through the door and continued in his stride directly towards his prey. This beast was a curse; a disgusting and pathetic thing. It didn't deserve to live nor did it deserve to have ever existed. The greatest mercy upon this creature he could grant was its swift and brutal end.

He made no attempts to hide his presence nor efforts to step lightly and as such the beast stirred from its supposed ruminations. A deep unearthly cautioning growl rumbled from its now outwardly spreading form; 7 long and gangly limbs began to emerge from the slumped mass of fur and flesh as its white-plated humanoid head creaked and cracked in a full 180 turn to his direction. 7 humanoid hands to match the limbs gripped onto any surface around it; pews, rafters, window sills, all were fair game for this horrid thing to hang from and in its excitement for new blood it began a terrible chittering and clacking. It was going to have fun, it was going to feast, it was going to -

G.H. stepped forward with all his weight while swinging the axe from below. The metal glinted with sunlight as it arced beautifully through the air before a sickening crunch signaled it finally coming to rest deep within the mass's back. Squealing and crying filled the air as it writhed in pain and confusion while black ichor erupted from the gaping wound and sprayed over G.H. The beast reeled and some of its hands fell from their places causing it to almost collapse underneath its own weight and pain. G.H. gave a sickly smile as he licked his black-stained lips - he was yet to be done. The beast was low, confused, in pain, and now had a gaping entrance to exploit. His right hand raised, tensed, and finally plummeted into the open wound tearing apart flesh and bone as it did. The scream the Grimm unleashed was deafening and held such power it became a physical force; G.H., needing to grab onto something or be blown back grabbed onto what he assumed was the closest thing to a spine the creature had. The malformed bones within the creature cracked and shattered beneath his blood-tinged grip as he placed his other hand against the screaming creature for leverage. With one hand pushing against the creature the other pulled as hard as it could to tear the creature's spine apart and free it from the rest of its body.

With a sickening crunch, a disgustingly wet plop, and an ear-bleeding scream, G.H. quite literally tore the creature's spine out.

The now spineless beast fell to the ground writhing and screeching, black blood and flesh beginning to dissolve into mist; G.H. unceremoniously dropped the spine to the stone floor and crushed it beneath his heel while watching the Grimm's pain and death in morbid fascination. The dissolving flesh of the still writhing creature quite comfortably told him it was to be done and gone so he turned to cool off outside while it finished dying.

An elongated limb crashed into him as he turned away and blinded him with searing white pain as he heard and felt several of his ribs pop and crack. He was thrown to the side and tumbled through once-preserved pews, his destructive path causing wooden splinters and dust to explode outwards. He finally rolled to a stop while silently crying in shock and pain, trying desperately to suck in the air whilst his head swam in confusion. The creature was not dead meaning his hubris had cost him once again. His vision cleared enough to see the creature raising itself up once more. 7 terrible limbs congregated on a single mass of lumpy flesh and pouring blood while 16 twitching and swirling red eyes danced in their sockets. A semi-humanoid head marred with disfigurement and grotesque features peered out at him while twitching and spasming uncontrollably. A far too large mouth with clearly no hinging jaw drooped and drooled in hunger and hatred, a lolling tongue lazily poured out from its sharp teeth.

G.H. pulled himself to unsteady feet, realizing too late that he had left his axe embedded in the back of the creature. "Oh dear." Was all he managed to force out before diving to the side and beneath an outstretched limb sweeping across the pews. Its limbs, while normally less than 10 feet long while resting seemed to be able to stretch up to 20 excruciating feet while retaining plenty of power and speed. Its attacks tore through wood and even burst through stone. The one saving grace seemed to be a lack of control once the attack had started meaning that if anything it was somewhat telegraphed. He'd have to be smart and fast to survive this.

His dive transitioned into a roll as the creature let out another angry screech in frustration at losing sight of its prey. He crawled forward on hands and knees underneath the pews to make progress under cover. A limb crashed down next to him practically vaporizing the wooden pews in a line and acted as a fantastic reminder to G.H. to not get hit.

He dragged himself forward while his ribs ached and bellowed at him to sit down and stop moving to let them rest and recuperate. They were, of course, unaware of the horrible darkness creature trying to murder him, so they would have to grumble on unhappily as G.H. continued to survive.

The beast roared as G.H.'s madness began to speak from its maw. "I am an atrocious creature with terrible strength, but your preemptive strike has torn open my defenses. Focus on -"

"SHUT IT!" G.H. roared at his own mind. His madness did indeed "shut it" but his eruption also alerted the beast to his general location. It struck down at him and his attempt to dodge was so nearly successful. His body managed to roll out of the brunt of the attack but his left arm was too slow and with a mind-numbingly painful crash he felt the bones crumble and break. A deathly rasp escaped him still, despite his efforts to hold in a much worse scream. The Grimm's rattled noises sounded suspiciously like a laugh as it struck again with a second limb. G.H., despite being in unbelievable pain, was more prepared for an attack this time and rolled back towards the first limb which was now rising back into the air. Wrapping his one good arm around it he gritted his teeth as he rose into the air. As he rose he couldn't understand - why was it still broken? Why was his body slowly being destroyed? When he fought the other beast the blood had seeped into his wounds and -

Oh. He had no open wounds. All of his injuries were internal. He was coated in quickly drying beast blood but none of it was getting into his system.

The Grimm cackled in glee while its twitching head peered at the feeble flesh-thing hanging onto its terrible limbs. Blood still poured from its horrific back but it had fought and killed huntsmen before - this little creature was spent. No aura, no weapon, no hope. Slinging its arm backwards it threw the boy through the altar at the church's stage.

G.H. couldn't keep his grip as the limb whipped itself across the room sending him sailing through the air. Twisting his body to try and cushion his mangled arm and ribs he crashed through the podium splintering wood and bruising him even more. He tumbled to the stage as something long and black sailed past the corner of his eye.

Now that he knew what to look for he noticed that the small cuts and scrapes across his body would pretty much instantly seal thanks to the foreign blood seeping into them. When they did it provided some small manner of relief but the openings were not nearly drastic enough to help his more grievous wounds. He shook himself to focus. It wasn't the time to think about this. His one good arm did its hardest to drag him away from the cackling beast that had now turned to face him. He caught a glimpse of the glimmer of his axe still buried in the back of the creature disappearing behind it. His one weapon. He had thought that ripping out an absurd amount of presumably vital internals would kill the creature but that might've been a mistake he'd only make once. He gasped for air while pulling himself up. His body's pain was beginning to overwhelm him and as he rose his knees failed and he fell once more. The Grimm laughed even harder at his pain and suffering, a noise G.H. was quickly growing exhausted by.

He had almost given up when he saw it. A simple, unadorned metal cane with a sharp, bladed edge. A spark of recognition rocked through his bones and his unsteady hand grasped it as you would an old friend. Where had it come from? It was the object that flew past his vision when he crashed through the podium. Had it been stored inside the podium? What was this church?

Questions would have to wait. The end of the threaded cane clacked against the ground with a satisfying clonk as gripped the familiar handle and pushed himself to his feet, staring down the accursed beast all the while. He lifted the cane and pointed it towards the Grimm - before turning it on himself and slicing deeply into his mangled arm. He grit his teeth and ignored the pain as the staining black ichor seeped into his wound and began stitching him up from the inside. He could feel his bones clicking into place, reforming, resetting. It wasn't perfect and it certainly wasn't enough but he could actually use his body now.

Three limbs roared forward crashing and bouncing off of the floor and walls towards him in a trifecta attack. The beast was done playing with him. He dove towards the beast and through a small opening between the three cascading limbs, rolling across the stage before rising up with the bladed cane still too far away to actually hit the creature. An issue simply remedied. In his smooth arc upwards he clicked the small latch on the side of the cane and the blade's metal unlocked, transforming from a simple sword into a whip-like flurry of death. The metal screeched as it tore through the air and tore through flesh in a blindingly fast movement. In a blink, the beast had lost two of its limbs and its flesh had been ripped open, blood gushing from multiple wounds. It screeched in pain as it dipped its body closer to the floor in order to attack it with two more of its remaining five limbs.

G.H. cracked the blade whip back into place and latched it into the shape of a cane in one smooth motion while leaping above the swinging arms. They had crossed over each other and he used his now sore-but-usable left arm to prop himself up and over before flipping midair and plugging his blade directly into the beast's skull. The cane sunk fast and hard and even with the piece of metal piercing its noggin the beast managed to let out one final screech as it fell to the ground in a heap.

Covered in blood and panting hard, he took a good long moment to just hang over its decaying body, his cane still plunged in its head. When the flesh and fur had finally begun to deteriorate to the point he could no longer stand atop he staggered away towards the pile of discarded clothes. Dropping to his knees the threaded cane clattered to the floor, seemingly as exhausted as he was. He fell even further then to his hands, his body aching and crying as he sought his prize.

The small white ribbon. He clutched it tight, squeezing his eyes closed in a strange cocktail of pride and humiliation. "I did it," he choked out. "I did it." He repeated his words as if to convince himself.

It was there, with the abandoned ribbon in the pile of forgotten clothes that he passed out.