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Once you get yourself situated, you return to where the gull lies on the ground, stunned. The perpetually shifting white then gray then black then grey then white Stains actually make it difficult to get a good look at the bird, so you concentrate on those Stains. Once it gets to a point where your eyes are actually starting to ache, the glyph switches off, and you are able to get your first, up close, unobstructed look at the beast. The first thing that you notice is that this bird is missing a lot of its feathers on its breast and belly, and what feathers that remain look rough and unkempt and … oddly enough, pinkish. They are not pink, to be sure, they are far from being pink, but they do not look like the crisp white that a grown Hook Gull’s belly should be either.
As the bird’s breast rises and falls as it labors to breathe, you catch sight of something briefly in one of the bald spots – possibly an injury, or perhaps a lump or a growth, you really are not sure. You relax your eyes, allowing Strange-Staining to activate again, and check the progression of the Strangeness on the cobblestones underneath you. You are relieved that the spread has been negligible, though immediately after, you get frustrated with yourself for not thinking to salt under the gull to retard the spread. As quick as you can without running – or dislodging too much of the salt that you have rubbed onto your hands – you return to your cart and grab what you judge to be enough salt for the job. You hustle back to the bird, taking the opportunity to check your surroundings again. You are not breaking any laws but dealing with an injured wild animal is patently unclean, labor fit only for Lepers, so if someone was to see you messing with the bird like this, they would remember.
But there is no one here. After all, this is not just a quiet back alley, this is a quiet back alley on one of the Lower Terraces – and more than that, you have to be at least two or three streets away from the Chip’s switch-backing thoroughfare. Families and shops had already been moving out of the Lower Terraces when the Cavity was finished, and as soon as the lifts turned what had been a fifteen to twenty minute walk up or down the Mount into a three or four minute ride the foot traffic dried up, especially once you get off of the thoroughfare.
As you gingerly cradle the gull while you get the salt down, careful to keep yourself away from the bird, and you find yourself distracted, idly wondering just how far the Chip is going to deteriorate. Obviously, you are not going to be around to see any of that, as you are going to be leaving – tonight, if you can manage it – but as you have called this city home for the past eight years, it would be impossible to not care about it a little. On that note though, there are a lot worse things that could happen around here then just a new slum cropping up. The mess from the Refinery, or from the Morgue. Or from these poor birds.
