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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.
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.