Silver Hound, Black Moon

Ink

Havelock tested, tinkered, and toiled. The nurses had pooled all of their alchemical equipment into one place, and he had set up all the things he needed to begin working. After selecting a patient, one with no family to object, he promptly named him "Frank" and started to see what made this sickness tick. The transformation was beginning to worsen, in just the short time he had been away, they had started to lose hair, all of them, all at once. No matter how he approached, they always laid still and silent until given the opportunity to attack. There was a sinking feeling slowly dawning on Havelock, a sickening realisation that hadn't quite made it to his head yet.

"Do you need anything else Mr Havelock?" one of the nurses, Alana, asked him

"No, I'm fine for the moment... the usual concoction I use is mixed with a separate concoction, one that spikes adrenaline. This batch here doesn't have it, I think I'm going to mix it with a depressant, see if it can at least mellow them out,"

He looked at "Frank" who had a needle stuck in his arm, being administered a small dose of Essence directly into his bloodstream, ichor in his veins. It wasn't working, he was expecting something from him, some revelation to occur by now, but his mind was clouded. There were chemicals and formulas floating around in his head, but he couldn't get to them, they were currently being smothered by the memories of a big, fluffy, wolf lady. He hoped to God, who he now prayed was real and wasn't that thing in the sky, that she was just lashing out at him because of something he had accidentally unburied. If she was telling him the truth... if she really thought those things... Well, best not to think about what he would make of himself. And to think he pulled a gun on her, how weak was he that a little shouting match was enough for him to threaten blasting her head off.

"Havelock, any progress?" Lancard asked as he woke from a power-nap

"Some, but not a lot... I can't get it to stick,"

"The body refuses to accept the powder?"

"I think so, its a foreign material so it just gets processed instead of integrated,"

"Like a rejected organ," Lancard said, provoking Havelock to look at him quizzically

"You seem to know a fair amount for a soldier,"

"You think? Well I suppose I know a few things, my husband is a doctor,"

"Oh brilliant, why don't you bring him in?"

Lancard pointed to a bed in the far side of the room "He's lying right there,"

Havelock lowered his eyes back to his work "I see... I'm sorry,"

Lancard put his hand on Havelock's shoulder

"No, I'M sorry for giving you a hard time earlier... this just matters to me, quite a lot... still, I have faith in you, you're a good man Havelock, and I trust you can find a way to fix this,"

Havelock spent his time pacing back and forth as he waited for water to boil, for powder to sift and for his brain to iron out all the kinks in his ideas. He'd taken his vest off and left his coat on the table, his shirt probably would've left him too if there weren't nurses pottering around, for some reason, he did his best work hunched over and nearly naked. His patience was wearing thin and his patients were getting worse, their jagged bones and thin skin wearing tight. While he seemed to be able to make mild improvements to their condition, none of it was permanent.

He looked out of the stained glass window, out onto the inky streets swathen by shadow. Sif was smart, probably smarter than he was, she probably would've figured everything out by now... if she cared.

Sif slammed her claws into the surface of Lothorns wall, making impromptu handholds with brute strength and willpower. She looked down, feeling the breeze and vertigo all at once as she mentally calculated how high up she was... a choice she regretted as soon as it became an expression of distance instead of a meaningless number