Before his downfall from the graces of life, he always was an itinerant man, traveling from town to infested town on foot with nothing more than the belongings and the ambition he carried on his back. An unexpected change in conditions would not halt his work in the slightest, although truthfully, death managed to sorely hinder any progress. But he did not risk escape from his confinement within purgatory or even crossing over for only research. No, his vendetta extended beyond the unresolved desires that consumed him when he was still flesh and bone and blood. The good doctor had long since tracked down the wretched evil's hideaway. He found it appropriate to reference the well-worn phrase: once a coward, always a coward.

    Isaac smirked beneath his aged mask at this. Like the stray cats he so commonly dissected in his past years, he cornered the rat in its nest. But he would not attack. As he learned, reaching claws into the mousehole would result in a nasty bite and the rodent's escape. Patience would ensure he could finally wring that lying bastard's neck until his head popped off or perhaps strap him down and excise his corroded organs, forcing him to remain conscious and observe the mutilation -- ahem. The spirit recollected his thoughts, stifling a cough as he lifted his head to scan the homely swamp he found himself in. Not an ideal location for those preferring cleanliness over the muck and grime, but Isaac never objected to burying himself elbow-deep in unsavory work before. The minor annoyance of mud paled in comparison to his profession's archaic methods of treatment.

    He paused in his stride, lifting a gloved paw to examine the dark mixture sticking to the unsightly rubber before his attention turned to the paw itself. The canine form he had taken upon arrival to the living half of the veil served as a temporary manifestation, reflecting the wildlife present in the snowy valley he abandoned. Yet his presence stabilized since then, adjusting to the strain of projecting his apparition among physical creatures. Isaac figured it would be safe to adopt a new form, one better suited to his tastes. The looming stature of the hound faded into shadow, writhing for a moment before a new figure appeared, only to be quickly engulfed in the smothering cloth of his black uniform. The ghastly doctor shook himself free of his now-oversized coat, revealing an owl where a dog once stood. Glancing at his chest to admire the iridescent plumage covering his tall frame, he outstretched his new wings, only to find the limbs were still constricted by the rubbery gloves he was required to wear. Isaac clicked his beak in irritation, swiftly tearing away the restrictive accessories to free his wings before neatly folding and storing them within one of the pouches on his uniform's belt as an afterthought. An avian form seemed to suit him better; he carried an affinity for birds after all. In his distant youth, he always envied the chance to escape that a bird's flight provided, spending the days before his research with his elbows on a crooked windowsill and eyes glued to the grey sky. No wonder he clung to the bird-like mask given to him even after it failed to shield him from the plague he once ached to cure.

    After a couple of experimental wingbeats that stirred the grass tufts around him, he returned his focus to his discarded uniform. To be seen without the garment would be disastrous, even if the inflamed sores marring his body could not be inspected without parting his feathers. Isaac quickly slipped the overcoat over his head, wrestling wings through its long sleeves. Eventually, he accepted defeat in that endeavor, instead using his sharpened beak to rip the sleeves off at the shoulder. The hem of the coat's dragging tail was soon to follow. He would repair the seams later. Finishing his old-fashioned ensemble by securing his herb-stuffed mask around his face and placing his hat back on his head -- he couldn't quite cover the feathery tufts that identified the owl he mimicked -- Isaac fluffed out his feathers and resumed his traipse into the bog. Flying would not be an option until he taught himself, but this did not keep the spirit from occasionally breaking his stride to jump and flap his wings for a brief distance.

    As if the mocking deities of the heavens loathed his existence, a fat raindrop plummeted from their cloudy residence and plopped right on the bridge of his mask's beak. Isaac swiveled his head to glare at the storm clouds hovering about the treetops. Perfect timing. His arrival always was a bad omen to the poor town and its people he could not save. A drizzle hastily developed, morphing into a hellish deluge as the plague doctor continued treading deeper into the swamp's territory. Rainwater soaked into his feathers, his talons slipped in the mud and his hat's brim only directed the rain to drip onto his mask, yet he pressed on, eventually wading in swamp water the further he traveled. Stormy weather would not impede his mission. However, the native fauna might.

    Isaac hopped on a gnarled root jutting upright from the earth, talons gripping the slick bark as he miserably shook out his feathers in vain. A splash from behind effectively snagged his attention, and as he spun his head around to face the source, he straightened in instinctive fear when he caught a glimpse of the yellow eyes locked on him. Although he easily recovered from the instinctive flinch, wide eyes behind tinted lenses traced the oblong silhouette lurking beneath the rain-spattered lilies. Of course, an alligator.  "Wonderful," the doctor grumbled, shoulders tensing as more dark shapes surfaced from the murky waters, gradually swimming towards his partially submerged perch. Harsh rain continued to beat down on his apparition and by now, Isaac was most certainly drenched, feathers clinging to his bones. Tanglewood's impromptu welcoming committee advanced, and while the spirit knew he was not in any real danger, the effort required to re-materialize did not appeal to him. Nor did the sensation of being shredded apart by ravenous alligators. "Shoo! I assure you, I won't be tasty!" Isaac hoarsely yelled, waving his waterlogged wings in a desperate attempt to discourage the creatures. So far, this decade was proving to be quite abysmal in the kindest of terms.

One single water droplet struck a gray, hunched neck, dispatching a shiver of sadistic proportions down its possessor’s backbone.

Hardly a moment passed, and that single water droplet had evolved into a vicious thunderstorm. If a lone raindrop caused a tremor within the hound, then a whole downpour created an earthquake - leaving Leroy quite shaken to the frail bone. His body temperature decreased with every coming second, inadvertently birthing a surge of intermittent convulsions, and eagerly pushing the notion of finding shelter through his mind. If equipped with a failing body, such as the guardsman’s, one must preserve it as much as possible if they wished to prolong their existence. Merely idling outside in all this rain served as a hazard to his wellbeing, thus getting out of it proved as the best course of action.

The rain angrily battered his facial features, chiefly his eyes, partially blinding the partially blind mongrel. Leroy yearned to put the pedal to the metal and get the hell out of the precipitation, yet with such a fuzzy sense of vision at hand, to break into a sprint was simply self slaughter at this point. Harming oneself while hot on the trail to sanctuary was entirely counterproductive, so he’d continue to helplessly amble about neath the thundering clouds above.

Each pawstep led the canine through another lukewarm puddle, his leg subtly twitching whenever his pads gripped the clammy muck of earth. As one foot fell totally numb, a sharp exhale would mark the occasion. Being the only discernible object in view, his eyesight fixated itself solely on the ground ahead.

A voice, clad in the tone of distress. One foreign to his folded ears. Caught in the deluge, no less, the same as he.

"Whatever’s botherin’ him, ya better back off!" Leroy called, changing his course to match the particular voice’s whereabouts.

There was no possible way for him to ward off whatever ailed the stranger, so he hoped that shouting was enough to point him in the wolfhound’s direction.

    A wavering voice broke through the downpour, miraculously reaching his ears -- although, perhaps it was not a miracle at all, considering the creature he replicated possessed hearing superior to that of many species in the animal kingdom. The owl swiveled his attention from the impending alligators, pinpointing the direction of the nearby speaker with a slight tilt of his head. He could only assume the shout belonged to one of the swamp's inhabitants, one unfortunate enough to be ensnared in the sudden weather change in a similar fashion to the disgraced doctor. Isaac adjusted his footing on the perch keeping him elevated above the reptilians' jaws. A sigh filled the aromatic inside of his mask, clouding the tinted lenses as he cast a glare below him, one alligator daring to snap at his tail feathers only to fall back with empty teeth. It would be more logical to simply allow the gators a meal of nothing but ectoplasm and false feathers, but he always loathed the sensation of pain.

    His wing gave a circular motion, producing an empty vial crafted from glass in his grip. Clicking his beak at the inconvenience of wasting his supplies, Isaac tossed the vial a distance away from him into the shadowed water before disappearing in time with the distracting splash. While he could not quite determine whether or not the horde was tempted by the baited vial, the doctor materialized moments later on the same bank he identified as the voice's source, fussing with the clip on one of his belt pouches. Granted, he could have employed his unearthly methods sooner, but there was no use in continuing to stumble through muck and cattails without any sort of guide.

    Sunken eyes peered at the grizzled figure standing behind a veil of both lens and rain, a hound based on inference. The cloaked owl approached with his head upright and stature austere, talons sinking into the viscous mud with each stride until he could properly gaze upon the wolfhound. Scanning the guardsman, Isaac tipped his head to the side and spoke, words muffled by herbs and cloth, "I take it you are a resident here, correct?" Scarcely pausing for a chance to respond, he dipped his head in greeting, ebony wings lifting from his sides to resemble a respectful bow. "You may refer to me as whatever you please, but I prefer Isaac; I am here to join your ranks. Might I know who you are? the plague doctor inquired, a thunderclap accompanying his final sentence. Despite his soaked condition and unfamiliar presence among the marsh, years of habit kept his speech professionally to the point. Isaac knew what information the other wanted, namely his identity and reason for arriving. In turn, he knew what information he sought to uncover from the stranger. To fill the exchange with irrelevant chatter was never efficient, after all.