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With a crash of undergrowth, the others emerge from the forest behind you – Elle, Ariel, and now Dunham too. The magistrate has her gun drawn and immediately takes aim at the dishevelled man, only for her to pause at the sight of his raised hands. The silence returns, stretching out for an eternity before Dunham lowers her gun. Taking a pair of iron cuffs from her uniform pocket, she cautiously approaches the old man.
“Keep him covered, Pale,” she orders, before looking at the villain, “No sudden movements now, okay?”
The old man doesn't move, doesn't say a word as Dunham roughly jerks his arms down and snaps on the shackles. She starts to lead him away when you step forwards, knocking aside his jagged wooden crown as you push the muzzle of your revolver up against his head. Just one pull of the trigger and you could blow his diseased brains all over with this forest. Just one pull, and-
“Pale, stand down!” Dunham cries, “We need him alive!”
“Isambard, what are you doing?” Elle adds, “You can't-”
With a grunt, you force your arm down and away. Your hand trembles as you carefully lower the hammer on your revolver and holster the gun. You're not sure what came over you. Maybe you've lost more blood than you thought...
“Get him out of here,” you tell Dunham in a low, uneasy voice, “I need a doctor.”
-
You wake from an obscene dream, a wild fantasy of cavorting fauns and satyrs that entice you with offers both repulsive and alluring. Dim echoes of those offers haunt you even as the rest of the dream fades and you allow the dim mundanity of reality wash over you. One by one, you take in the various sensations – white ceiling above you and white sheets around you, scents of medicine and disinfectant in the air, distant murmurs of conversation from adjacent rooms...
The infirmary. You're in the infirmary.
With that realisation, you slowly sit up and look around. Elle sits dozing in the chair beside you, a book lying open in her lap. Her dress is somewhat worse for wear, as a consequence of her using it for emergency bandages, and you can see a wide crescent of pale flesh from where her thighs have been exposed. You let your gaze linger, too exhausted to bother with social niceties.
Eventually, you let yourself slump back in bed with a low grunt. That slight noise is enough to rouse Elle, her eyes fluttering open. “Good morning,” she murmurs, “Um, is it morning?”
“I don't know, you tell me,” you mutter, “I just woke up.”
“Well, um...” Elle looks around in confusion for a moment, setting aside her book and finally noticing her shredded dress. Her eyes widen at the sight, and you can sense her urge to retreat – to flee like a startled deer. Instead, she makes a tiny adjustment to her hem and smiles at you. “We're both awake, so that means it must be morning,” she decides.
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