The Gravedigger

The gravedigger's cart didn't actually sound different from any other, but there was something about the way the horse stepped that couldn't be mistaken. Those regular hoofbeats were like a heartbeat, inescapable and inevitable. There was a faint creak as Clayton Pyre set the brake, and then there came the regular clicking of his approaching boot-steps. 

The Gravedigger was a vital part of the life of the town, but it was small wonder that people feared him and considered his presence bad luck. Sheriff Black knew that was backwards -- he came in the wake of bad luck, he wasn't the cause of it -- but the belief was hard to shake. 

"Hell below," remarked the older man, looking down at the corpse. He sniffed at the air, then knelt down beside it. His eyes went immediately to the mangled ankle, then lingered on the gouges in the torso. He pulled a small glass vial off of his belt, poured a bit of salt into his hand, and then sprinkled it over the wounds. 

Nothing happened, and he nodded at that, then sat back on his heels. Looking up at Doc, he said: "Corpse is safe enough. Whatever did this ain't infectious."

Doc nodded to him. "Good to be sure, though. You know what did it?"

The gravedigger shook his head. "I've got silvers set aside. I could put him safely in the ground, Guessin' you'd like a look first."

Doc grunted. "You're certain it's safe?"

"Certain's a strong word," Clayton Pyre told him. "You want a look, I'll come with you."

"I'd 'ppreciate that," Doc told him. 

The Gravedigger rose in a smooth movement, pivoting to face Sheriff Black. "Most likely we've had shifter slip in. Maybe a beast, but the shield should prevent that. If it's a curse, we're lucky -- it'll be done and gone."

The Sheriff nodded. "As soon as you to take the corpse off, I'll start checking for strangers and anybody new back in town."

"When's the last time you walked the city limits?" asked Pyre. 

"Two weeks ago," Black told him. 

"Arm yourself with silver and check 'em again," the Gravedigger said.

"Was planning to," said Sheriff Black.

"Then Doc an' I'll be out your way and let you get to it. Don't mean to tell you your business, but you're new here."

Sheriff Black offered the Gravedigger a friendly smile. "Ain't as new as all that," he pointed out. "And Needhaven ain't the first town to have these sorts of troubles." 

Clayton Pyre stopped, considered that. "Fair," he said. "Just be careful an' be safe."

"Will do," Sheriff Black replied. 

Music: Coffin Nails

Lucero:

December, busy, and tired

It's most very definitely that time of the year: the time when I'm when I'm overwhelmed by All The Things and would very much like to be hiding under a blanket with a good book. Or, y'know, just sleeping. 

Secondborn has broken the screen on his laptop, and I have now -- reluctantly -- ordered him a new one. We're still struggling to get him through school, and the part where his English teacher has managed to stretch a pretty basic essay into a semester-long ordeal is not helping. Beautiful Wife has a pretty good job doing interesting things with a good team, but her boss (the CEO) is deeply in need of therapy and borderline abusive, and so the whole team is now conspiring to A) fuck with him, and B) find jobs elsewhere. There are also Big Grownup Things that I need to do relating to my father's death, and at the moment I haven't had -- and still don't -- the spoons to deal with those. 

On the plus side, I think we have the Christmas presents largely sorted out, and my own job is still vastly better than the one I left behind a bit over a year ago. And as cranky as Secondborn was this morning over having to review for an upcoming test, she had a good day yesterday and was actually very cheery. 

 ::sigh::

We're coming up on the big end-of-year upgrade, and honestly? I'd like to just sleep until then. 

A look'at the corpse

"Well," said Sheriff Black after a long moment. "That's a bad'n."

Doc nodded. "Knife fight would've been cleaner, and there's no shot from a shotgun. Flesh is torn, like something bit or clawed."

The sheriff swallowed. "Any bits missin'?"

Doc shook his head. "Not sure yet. Wanted you t'see it the way I found it, before I moved it t'where I could look."

"That's good of you, Doc." Sheriff Black stepped forward, then stopped. "Y'see that ankle."

Doc turned his head, blanched, and the said. "Yeah. I see it."

The Achilles tendon had been cut -- or bitten through, more like. Not that kind of thing that happened when folks fought with other folks, and they both knew it. "Damn it," said Doc. "Now I'll need Pyre to look it over before I take it back t'the clinic."

The sheriff nodded. "Yeah. And I'll have t'look for strangers in town, or anyone else as might've gone missing." 

"We wait here," Doc said, resigned. "'Least 'til the Gravedigger arrives. Make sure nothing changes, nothing comes back. You've a mold for bullets?"

Sheriff Black grunted. "Don't need it, though. Not for this. Gravedigger brought me a box of silver shot when I first came to town. Said he hoped I never needed 'em. I'll load up as soon as I go back." 

A killin' In Town

"Sheriff! Sheriff!"

Sheriff Black straightened at his his desk and sighed, wishing he'd had time to finish his mug before whatever-this-was broke loose. Coffee wasn't easy to come by out here, and it was a damned shame that this cup of it seemed like to go to waste. 

There was an enormous thud on the porch outside, and then a brief pause before the door opened. The man looking in was Dan Brighton, the town's cobbler, and from the sound of things he'd tripped on the porch and crashed into the door before he managed to open it. He was red-faced and breathin' hard, but he managed t'say, "Doc says y'gotta come! A feller's been killed."

Sheriff black sighed again and stood up. "Where? How?"

"Outside the saloon," Brighton told him, bending over to catch his breath. "I was passing by, and Doc said to fetch you right quick. I didn't see much, but... the feller, he was torn open."

Yep, this one's going to be an unholy mess. He stepped around his desk, put a hand on the cobbler's shoulder. "All right, Dan. Good work." He sighed again. "Now... I'm going to need you to do one more thing. I know you've got a shop to run and all, but I need you to walk -- walk, mind you, slow and careful -- up the hill and fetch back the Gravedigger. Can you do that?"

Brighton's face went through several expressions in the space of a single breath: objection, understanding, acceptance. He knew as well as they all did that whether this was a simple murder or something more, they were going to need the Gravedigger to help with it. He nodded slowly.

"Good man," said the Sheriff. "Catch your breath first."

"I'll see to it, Sheriff," Brighton said, breathing more easily now. "Just give me a minute. Got a little... over-excited, I think."

Sheriff Black shrugged. "Well, we don't see dead bodies in town just every week -- and thank the Great Spirit for that." 

StV: Meet-Cute

"Are ya new here?" asked a girl's voice, and Blackhand spun around so fast he nearly embarrassed himself. 

He'd come to the Self-Defense class after the more ordinary academic classes, under the theory that it wouldn't hurt to keep in practice, or to see how Saint-Vincent's School for Exceptional Youth was training their students to fight. 

The girl was maybe a year younger than he was -- hard to be sure -- with long blonde hair and pale blue eyes; her accent was pure Midwestern. Kansas, maybe? "Didn't mean to startle ya," she said easily. "It's just I don't think I've seen ya here before."

Blackhand rolled his shoulders, forcing them to relax. "Sorry," he said. "It's my first time at training." 

"Oh?" she asked. "I only started last month. Maybe we could practice together?"

He shrugged. "You any good?"

"I mean, kind of..." She blushed. "Took first place at the Tae Kwon Do championship in middle school. But the way they fight here is... different."

"No, that should work," Blackhand said. "I take it we don't use powers for this?"

She drew back. "Wow. You really are new here."

He made a vague yes-and-no gesture. "More of a temporary guest," he said. 

"Oh! You're one the Hounds, then."

Blackhand didn't deny it. "Call me Blackhand," he said. "Or... Shit. Call me Mike. Pardon my French."

She laughed softly. "Robin," she said. "I'm not strong enough to have a code name, or a call sign, or anything like that. It's nice to meet you, Mike." 

Music: A Christmas Carol

Tom Lehrer: