The angry crowd turns the group's way, pointed implements at the ready.
"That's usually bad," Q says.
"Ain't you Pops Beaulieu's boy?" one of them asks, and they lower said sharp tools. "Why didn't you finish this fucker off?"
"Okay, that's usually good," Q says.
"Hey!" another one shouts, and points at Martin. "Why's he still an animal? Ain't he cured?"
"And back to bad," Q says.

"Yes, um," Martin tries. Datehl would look very poorly upon a liar...

"That is an...unrelated...condition," he stammers. "Ahem! But what is more important right now is that you are all cured of the curse and that the Descoteaux reign of terror is over! Now we can all breathe easy again and go back to our lives in peace."

His look sweeps the crowd as his face contorts into a sheepish little smile.

"...right?"

"We kinda want to kill the old cuss," another says, and they part to show old man Descoteaux - now just an old man, albeit one pinned under the debris of his porch. "On account of turning us into beast-people and enslaving us and all."

Martin ponders that.

"Well, considering my earlier attitude, pleading for you to spare him seems hypocritical at best," he says. He looks around. "Anyone else have any objections?"

"Martin's a tiger because he fucked the wrong supernatural creature, right?" Ozzy thunders. "So if you lot don't bone any magic were-people, you ain't got naught ter worry about on that front."

Then, in an aside: "Sorry, you were bein' vague and education's important fer folk."

Ozzy looks at Descoteaux's sad predicament, then around the crowd. "Ain't my swamp. I ain't yer dad. I ain't the one turned you lot inta creatures. You shouldn't give two shits 'bout wot we say. Do what you like, just make sure you can live wit' it."

"Sir Oswald," Martin says, keeping the smile plastered on, "your zeal for education and way with words remain a daily inspiration to me."

Red turns to look at Ozzy, and stares bemusedly at the big lummox for a few seconds before shaking his head and addressing the crowd.

"Hell, I think it's down-right perfect. 'What goes around comes around,' you know?"

Most of the small mob shrugs. "Well then."
They then turn around to face old man Descoteaux. "Fuck's sake, get on with it already," he says.
A handful of the closest ones plunge their spears and knives into his back, and with a shout, the old man dies.

"Well, that's over. Who's hungry?" Q asks.

Martin's whiskers twitch.

"White-tail deer in the grove over there," he says. "I should like to share, if there are any takers."

Anton stares after the crowd for a moment as they mill about the old man after the shout. His old boss always said you couldn't be too emotional when it came to payback--for better or worse. Any mercy Descoteaux had earned by being old and pathetic, he'd lost with what he'd been up to that had left him in that position and surrounded by a mob he'd been oppressing. He shrugs and turns to Martin. "Venison sounds good right now to me."

Red tries not to look in the crowd's direction. He's kinda happy the people here had a chance to show Narcisse that they were human, not merely prey, but he's also not ready to deal with more people he knew turning up in the dirt right now. Even if he never did like them.

"Right, hunting sounds nice right now."

Ana watches the scene with a sort of dispassionate detachment - this is not the first time she's watched an old man who crossed the wrong enemies die at their feet, though part of her can't help but criticism your technique. She nods at one of the villagers.

"Don't twist your wrist going in. Can get your blade stuck."

Her nose wrinkles at the prospect of hunting, and she looks for all the world like Ozzy or Red just made a particularly cruel joke. "I will pass...I'm rather looking forward to my feet being dry for the first time in days."

“You bring it back, I’ll cook it.” Ozzy’s face shows more tired relief than pleasure in vengeance or shock that people oppressed would snatch at the chance for some of their own. Relief that those people did in fact change back, and relief that Ozzy and his group didn’t have to be some sort of externalized conscience for them.

Finally, relief that they might actually be leaving the swamp, although Ozzy didn’t share Ana’s optimism about dry boots.

In the high school of the swamps around the Descoteaux mansion, Sprite was the head cheerleader of the three-year does. She had that long-necked, sharp-eared look, those "oh my, you are looking at me, aren't you?" eyes and, above all, them thicc gams. When you saw Sprite lower her head and drink from a stream, it was so good you'd feel refreshed yourself. And it was completely impossible to run into her and not have the sun silhouetting her from behind.

But today, Sprite can sense things are not going to be totally awesome for her. There's something in the air today, something like the reek of the humans but not like it and too close besides, something that just plain does not belong in this swamp. She cranes her long neck from side to side. Nervous isn't a good look on her, though, so after the moment passes, she bends back down and snacks on some lichen.

(Martin Wits versus Deer: 2d8 v. 1d8 = 6, 8 vs.

To be entirely fair to Sprite, she's already darting away when Human/Rakasta/Tiger/Cosmic Plaything Martin comes bursting out of the scrub, claws out and belly empty. She may not have seen that coming, but she felt it, and wouldn't you know it, Sprite's a good runner, too. Her hooves know the soggy ground well, and the trees that rush past her are no strangers to her, either. If this nice chase scene had only lasted ten or twenty seconds, why, Sprite would've gotten away clean, gotten another win, cemented her position as the swamp's fairest. Unfortunately, there's one thing Sprite doesn't have: good cardio.

(Martin takedown: 2d10 v. 1d8 = 5, 2 vs. 2)

It may take him longer than he'd like, but one advantage of the Rakasta shape is that Martin's rocking a good compromise between tiger ferocity and human endurance. Sure, that deer is fast, but he's dealt with fast before, and all he has to do is keep up with the turns and twists and the odd vault over a fallen tree trunk before the deer slows down from exhaustion. Sprite, maybe, senses that the end is nigh, and in one final twist, she digs her dainty little hooves into the marsh and bounds over a little ravine for the promise of safety in the scrub on the other side. Martin, however, takes the high road, by which we mean he digs clawed hands and feet into a tree, scrambles up through its thick branches and then kicks off from the crown, pouncing upon Sprite just when she thought she'd kept her lucky streak intact.

Well, in a sense, she did get lucky. It's over quickly from there. We shall not dwell on details, but we're eating good tonight. Fifteen minutes later, Martin emerges from the swamps, his fur caked with mud and blackwater, with a few trails of dried blood running down from his mouth over his chin and down his neck. The doe he's dragging with him is quite sincerely dead, but aside from a snapped neck, exsanguination and dislocated front legs (from dragging), the body's still looking pretty intact.

Martin wipes a bit of muck and sweat from his brow as he lets the body drop to the ground. "I do hope one of you has seen fit to gather firewood in the meantime."

Red is just putting the finishing touches on the fire - being the least likely to get lost or mind getting swampy, he went and gathered the fuel.

"We're just about ready," Red replies as he looks up. "Nice! Let's dress her over there." He starts guiding Martin away from the wood pile, adding in a low voice "Oswald has enthusiastically volunteered to light the fire."

Ozzy nods, and puts on a bit of faux instructor swagger: “You see, all wood wants to burn. It’s gotta do with entropy and wotnot, right? Yer just help it along is all.”

He enthusiastically lights the fire.