"Baron Morlond was burning bodies, it's Crown policy. We should too."
"It's not exactly my reasoning," says Ioco. "But I'm glad we have the same opinion."
Alice starts stacking the bowls in a small pile. "Was there anything else before we lost half the participants?"
"One other thing. Although I'm not sure it needed to be shared with the abbot." Ioco rubs the stubble on his chin. He seems to have only gotten more prickly on the last day. "I've heard some patients talking about miracle cures being sold on the market. You know how that usually works."
"An opportunistic merchant who needs some gentle guidance," remarks Alice. "Francis, perhaps our new acquaintance Lucia can help with this task. They can certainly take care of themselves."
"As for me, I intend to visit the cemetery," says Ioco. "Maybe I can see how to change some minds there."
"Behind the abbot's back?" Alice asks, eyebrows raised.
Ioco raises an eyebrow in response, but doesn't say anything else. The meeting seems to have reached its natural conclusion.
You yawn and excuse yourself. The moderate comforts of a dorm bed await.
Time to sleep
You thought you'd memorized the shrine dormitory arches and passageways, but locating your room is proving to be a challenge. A series of wooden doors stretches out in front of you, each as plain as the last. You take a few more steps, turn around, only to find another row of evenly spaced entries.
Just as you're about to start randomly knocking, you see a figure in plague doctor robes crossing an intersection in the hallway ahead. Something flutters from her arms.
"Alice? Yoco?" your name is.
The dropped item is a small piece of parchment. You take. The wrinkled surface is covered in dense symbols that you don't understand; they seem to squirm under his gaze.
Looking up in confusion, you see the figure again. It's Alice, in her fox mask. She heads toward you, dropping more pages as she moves. The mask flashes. You see the fox's head open its mouth, wide. Wider. Impossibly wide. Skin and skin peel away, while boar-like fangs protrude below.
Her mouth tries to form a question, a scream. But nothing comes out. The figure melts into ether, and the runner begins to twist and squirm. Something firm and prehensile wraps around your ankle. You stumble and try to steady yourself on the undulating walls. A new form, dense and boundless, takes viscous form on the ceiling above. Panic rises in your chest.
You close your eyes, trying to block out the fear, the grip, the lurking horror. Strip away each sensation, piece by piece, layer by layer, until all that remains is you and the source of this overwhelming vision.
His technique is methodical, eliminating the sources of his restlessness. But then, a violent hum, emerging from the base of his spine, creeps into his thoughts. Try as you might, you can't force it, and the hum and ripple turn your attention to the advanced form of the unknown. Panic returns, like a thorn piercing his concentration. His eyes open.
a familiar voice