Encounterlogs
Deans Odd Encounter Sr Calista 240828
Dean, a seasoned mercenary and bartender, receives a cryptic phone call during his early morning shift at a run-down bar. The call instructs him to track down a supernatural predator responsible for the death of a man's clandestine lover. The man, a member of the Hand, valued his lover highly and sought retribution. Dean, motivated by the promise of payment, gears up, leaving the bar's duties to a colleague, and sets off on his motorcycle to the crime scene. Upon arrival at the forest near the motel where the incident occurred, he effortlessly picks up the scent of the gruesome scene and follows it, leading him to the woman's savagely mutilated remains. The encounter sets the stage for a dark and somber hunt, reflecting Dean's grim acceptance of the task at hand.
As Dean tracks down the predator, he discovers a young, inexperienced werewolf hiding in a tree, clearly overwhelmed by his actions. Despite the werewolf's attempts to intimidate, Dean, clad in medieval armor and armed with a crossbow and a claymore, remains unfazed. He approaches the werewolf with a chilling detachment, executing his contract with a ruthless efficiency befitting his reputation. Dean's method of choice—a crossbow bolt driven down the predator's throat—is both brutal and ensuring prolonged suffering, signifying not just the execution of a job but a perverse lesson in responsibility. Leaving the incapacitated werewolf to the forest's scavengers, Dean coldly finalizes his task, sending the victim's earrings back to the grieving lover. Dean's journey back from the woods is marked by a casual, unsettling mirth, underscoring the duality of his existence as both a guardian of his town's supernatural inhabitants and a merciless harbinger of death for those who stray.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRCalista):SRCalista)
[Mon Aug 19 2024]
At the Bar-and-Stage at The Alley
Carpeting stretches across the laminate flooring here, stained by footprints
and years of use, creating areas for lounge seating. Set up in front of a tiny
stage and a corner bar, here visitors are invited to grab a drink together, to
socialize, and perhaps even take the stage where a karaoke machine is prepared
for all those brave enough. The bar itself has seen better days, its counter a
gouged and scratched remnants of its former self, and almost all of the tables
and chairs in the room are similarly in need of either repair or replacements.
The corner bar displays a select assortment of draft beers and liquor - though
a good look behind the bar might cast the legitimacy of the liquor licenses in
doubt. Though dingy, the stools set up around this corner of the establishment
seem to be newer than any other furniture, featuring genuine ruddy-red leather
bar stools, and are actually pretty comfortable to sit on for lengthy periods.
It is morning, about 73F(22C) degrees,
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
It's an odd time to be at a bar, at thi time of the day. Morning even. A stack of spent buckets signify the wiping down of the nightly residues, the cleaning of the bar and the tables. However shoddy that may be in such a seedly location - or how scarcely it happens when it happens. Dean, standing behind that bar counter, is currently busy with the most menial of tasks. Preparing the endless necessity of garnish with a bucket of ice at his side while he peels, cuts, squares nd quarters lemons to other assortment of cheap fruits for cheap drinks. Not that the drinks themselves -are- cheap - just the price. At any rate, he's working, staying active, and in total, utter silence, too.
It's the Monday morning after a weekend of the full moon. Supernatural predators everywhere are waking up to the nasty or pleasant surprises of lunacy induced activities from the night before when they became more beast than woman or man. This is particularly true of one entirely unfortunate individual on the outskirts of town who had his midnight snack on the wrong person at the wrong time.
Sometime late last night, a beautiful, dark haired woman of middle-eastern descent exited a motel room that she was sharing with her sometimes lover. Though lately, it had become more than sometimes and whole lot more regular. A small flicker in the night from her lighter as she lit the end of her cigarette, she considers the words of the man still in the room she left behind. "I am going to leave my wife." How did she end up here in this horrible cliche? Why does she like it. A long drag is taken and the smoke exhaled up and off to the side. It's a cooler night but still a little balmy from the humidity. Is it ignorance or distraction that has her forgetting that the moon beaming down on her with more lumins than the streetlights around this motel is full and there is danger afoot? In just her robe she wandered a little off from the asphalt onto the grass beside their end unit room. As she looked into the black of the forest with her poor human eyes, something unseen peered back at her. If he had only been faster, and she hadn't screamed maybe this would have turned out differently for him.
The man in the hotel wasn't just some shmuck who worked part time bagging groceries. He is a proud member of the Hand. And that side piece he was enjoying on a regular basis was a particularly good one this time. He liked her more than some of the others. She had exotic tastes. And he did not take kindly to having his fun cut short with her. Pulling strings is his specialty afterall, and after a few phone calls and texts he arranges a hit on this predator. "I know just the guy," his contact tells him confidently as the conversation ends and he hangs up without thanks.
Back in the bar, after business hours begin - because no one else is in a hurry to see this done before 9 AM on a Monday, Dean's phone would begin to vibrate in his pocket, interrupting the silence of the bar. Given the contact's number is familiar to the inked up man, he would likely answer it - smelling the sweet smell of cash emanating from this call, as this is where those side jobs usually come through from. The man on the other side sounds bored, as he explains. "Some newbie killed the wrong man's whore last night. Off the 32 heading north. The motel there is called King's Court. We need you to find them. Take care of them. Got it?" There's no more instruction. No room for argument. They expect the job to be done it seems. Either total faith in Dean's ability, or no real care for whether it actually happens, so long as they did what they said they would. And now, in the terribly heavy and boring silence of the morning in the bar, Dean has been given an opportunity to go on a hunt. A legitimate one. Maybe less thrill that way, but then again, maybe not.
The phone call is short and sweet. Dean doesn't speak through it. Possibly because the conversation topic is not so sweet. But, money is money, and a merc would be stupid not to take the Hand's money. He's not stupid. The burner flip phone just for these sorts of deals is shut, and Dean delivers it exactly where it was - under the bar, out of sight, possibly taped under a slot. Who knows how many he has scattered across town at this point - but at least he's grown from the habit of breaking them.
Work, then. Dean dunks the rest of the ice in the container waiting for it, finishes up, and that's all it takes before he's walking with the accompanied lunacy of someone who shouldn't be taking work in his current mentality, and nigh borderline hallucinative ride under the moon with or without its luminance. So his target had killed - and that means sanctuary would be scarce. Good thing, that, he doesn't give that much of a fuck about his own. The bartending girl he works with, ever ready and present for work, is given a discreet upnod, one that she'd recognize as the ever elusive propriator taking his leave, again, with work half-done and left for her.
Outside, his bike waits in the parking lot. He slips on it, kicks it into gear. Despite the fact that all this time spent means his target may get their rights reinstated soon and fall under the spells protection - his venture on the road is slow. Leisurely - pleasure over speed on his cruiser that takes off to the destination. The crime scene. No doubt he'd pick up the trace of a scent there if nothing else, and usually, that's more than enough.
As the bike engine is cut and Dean would stroll, stomp, wander, skip... whatever it is he wants to do over to the edge of the lot where woods meet the building, it wouldn't be hard for his nose to detect the scent of the woman who was once here, the man who came out after her and the other, mammal scent that comes from and retreats back into the woods. All of this of course, lovingly wrapped with that iron heavy scent of blood and the faintest touch of urine.
If Dean follows the scent into the woods, he would either curse or thank the stupidity of whoever made this kill. The scent becomes stronger quickly - not drawing him far from civilization at all. Either the predator is green, or he was so overcome he couldn't wait to drag his prize any deeper in. Small pieces of offal begin to show up scattered around the forest floor. Unlikely to be caused by the main predator himself but by other scavengers of the forest who are banking in on this unfortunate circumstance and filling their own bellies with the exotic treat of human flesh.
Only about 700 ft from the outskirts of the woods, Dean would find the remains of what once was, presumably, a woman. The long hair is there surely and that looks like an earring in one of the ears. But the rest of the body is in pretty poor shape. The legs have been gnawed on like great shanks of meat. The innards pulled out and likely ingested first for all their nutritious properties. The eyeballs plucked. Mouth and tongue gone. It's not exactly what one wants to look at for overly long. A good thing maybe for those who forgo a big breakfast.
So here's the victim, but where's the target? Somewhere, under the smell of carnage, there is another scent. A male's. But not a mammal's. It hasn't gone far from here. Either this killer wants to keep watch over his work, passed out from it, or got interrupted part way and is hiding in wait. Dean could follow it to the base of a large tree where up up in the branches there squats a young man. Naked, of course - they're always naked aren't they? And dirty. And growling down at Dean. "You'll stop right there," he says when they meet eyes. He sounds confident enough, but to the discerning ear or eye, it might be obvious that he is posturing.
At the end of his leisurely approach, by his bike, Dean had donned his armor. Not that he needs it - evidently - but preparation always paid in dividends. Upon that armor, he draws out a long claymore within a scabbard attached to his bike, as well as a crossbow and a handful of bolts. The sword goes between his shoulderblades over his very medieval, very out of date armor - and the hand-held repeater is affixed at his side like a gun. Bolts ar stashed within his belt, easy to reach, easy to grab a handful of - but he doesn't bother. He never does.
He trusts instincts, keen senses - possibly the sharpest in Haven and elsewhere, peak of every condition, and they guide him to the scattered remnants of what was once a living, breathing thing. She's given an inspection with him crouched at her body. Not desecrating, not touching, but his nostrils flare in a short, distasteful huff. Not at the corpse - not at the state she's left in. Whatever causes disappointment in him, it waits to be mentioned - because he leaves the body to continue after plucking out the earrings off of it, and wandering away. Corpse looting - how low could he truly get?
And so, when he's by that young man squatting by the base of a tree, he is hardly surprised to find the culprit that smells of the death he reaped. His words are ignored, there is no doubt unveiled lunacy in Dean's own green gaze leveled without a modicum of emotion or expression like the wolf within surfaced so close doesn't know how to convey an expression with human features. "You didn't finish your meal." That's the extent of the accusation levied - and he doesn't wait to hear any defense when he lifts his hand forward, palm open, waiting -- just for that poor, poor young man to fly out of his hiding hole to be drawn into his grasp, to be squeezed by his neck. Hard.
Whatever retort the young killer might have had, he doesn't get to make it as the bigger monster under the bed finds him and puts his hand around his neck. All senses of self defense, if he even had any skills in that department, go out the window as he claws uselessly at the hand around his neck, trying to pull the steel beam masquerading as an arm from him. He flails and kicks, eyes wide with the panic of meeting his potential maker. Dean might even be able to see himself reflected in the watery sheen of his brown eyes with dilated pupils that are slowly going bloodshot. A reflection of a dark shadow looming in threat. There's nothing else here. Just another thread in the tapestry and Dean the weaver, deciding if this one will be plucked. The forest around them continues as if nothing is happening. Somewhere not far, a transport truck is down shifting on the road maybe to pull into the motel for a morning nap. Will this man be missed? Who even is he? Does it matter at all to Dean Flesh and blood could turn easily to cold hard cash. Could turn easily to a colder, harder heart.
All that, and Dean doesn't react. The flailing, the struggle. Scratches barely even dent his skin, and in the iron grip, steel-bending, throat crushing hold he has over the younger wolf, he speaks slowly. "I'm sorry for this, I really am." His words are so monotone, they are impossible to take as fact. "I care for every wolf in this town. They're mine, whether they know it or not." His words are interrupted by himself. The bolts lodged to his belt are withdrawn, but only one of them plucked between his fingers, laid between his teeth as he lifts the poor man higher. His crossbow taken, flicked to reveal the socket to fill it in, he lays that decrepit, steel bolt in the hole and flicks it shut. "But you know," That madness swirling beneath his eyes are palpable, down to every curve of his features it speaks of an abyssal rage, endless depths to the distance he's willing to go to complete a contract. "You didn't finish your meal." That, perhaps, to him is the only affront the young man has committed, and he has a mind to remedy it when the tip of his crossbow is firmly stuffed into his mouth, shattering teeth and forcing his mouth open wide with the gleaming tip aligned down his throat. "Don't worry." He soothes, distant, elsewhere, comforting someone else - and there is a wicked, far too fanged, vicious smile that spreads across his lips beneath lidded eyes. "I'll take care of you."
Thwack!
Blood pools out of the last gurgles of the poor wolf's throat, punctured at the base of his spine, down his throat - paralyzed, likely to bleed out, eventually - but not dead. Far from it in agony. He drops the neck that streams blood, drips between his fingers, and the thud is only limp beside his feet. Dean doesn't wait at all, turns on his heel. He won't finish the job he started - but the thick scent of blood has already alerted every nature of carrion feeder here anyway, and a paralyzed predator is nothing but prey. He's walking away, an odd stride, a quiet hum, off-tune, off-kilter, strange and off-puttingly mirthful while muffled screams are rising at his back to fill the early morning air, calling everything under the canopy here for a feast.
The earrings? They're shipped to the poor man who lost a lover.
At least he has that much deceny.
As Dean tracks down the predator, he discovers a young, inexperienced werewolf hiding in a tree, clearly overwhelmed by his actions. Despite the werewolf's attempts to intimidate, Dean, clad in medieval armor and armed with a crossbow and a claymore, remains unfazed. He approaches the werewolf with a chilling detachment, executing his contract with a ruthless efficiency befitting his reputation. Dean's method of choice—a crossbow bolt driven down the predator's throat—is both brutal and ensuring prolonged suffering, signifying not just the execution of a job but a perverse lesson in responsibility. Leaving the incapacitated werewolf to the forest's scavengers, Dean coldly finalizes his task, sending the victim's earrings back to the grieving lover. Dean's journey back from the woods is marked by a casual, unsettling mirth, underscoring the duality of his existence as both a guardian of his town's supernatural inhabitants and a merciless harbinger of death for those who stray.
(Dean's odd encounter(SRCalista):SRCalista)
[Mon Aug 19 2024]
At the Bar-and-Stage at The Alley
Carpeting stretches across the laminate flooring here, stained by footprints
and years of use, creating areas for lounge seating. Set up in front of a tiny
stage and a corner bar, here visitors are invited to grab a drink together, to
socialize, and perhaps even take the stage where a karaoke machine is prepared
for all those brave enough. The bar itself has seen better days, its counter a
gouged and scratched remnants of its former self, and almost all of the tables
and chairs in the room are similarly in need of either repair or replacements.
The corner bar displays a select assortment of draft beers and liquor - though
a good look behind the bar might cast the legitimacy of the liquor licenses in
doubt. Though dingy, the stools set up around this corner of the establishment
seem to be newer than any other furniture, featuring genuine ruddy-red leather
bar stools, and are actually pretty comfortable to sit on for lengthy periods.
It is morning, about 73F(22C) degrees,
(Your target and their allies are charged with tracking down a supernatural criminal on the run from the factions, what they do with them then is up to the players to decide.
)
It's an odd time to be at a bar, at thi time of the day. Morning even. A stack of spent buckets signify the wiping down of the nightly residues, the cleaning of the bar and the tables. However shoddy that may be in such a seedly location - or how scarcely it happens when it happens. Dean, standing behind that bar counter, is currently busy with the most menial of tasks. Preparing the endless necessity of garnish with a bucket of ice at his side while he peels, cuts, squares nd quarters lemons to other assortment of cheap fruits for cheap drinks. Not that the drinks themselves -are- cheap - just the price. At any rate, he's working, staying active, and in total, utter silence, too.
It's the Monday morning after a weekend of the full moon. Supernatural predators everywhere are waking up to the nasty or pleasant surprises of lunacy induced activities from the night before when they became more beast than woman or man. This is particularly true of one entirely unfortunate individual on the outskirts of town who had his midnight snack on the wrong person at the wrong time.
Sometime late last night, a beautiful, dark haired woman of middle-eastern descent exited a motel room that she was sharing with her sometimes lover. Though lately, it had become more than sometimes and whole lot more regular. A small flicker in the night from her lighter as she lit the end of her cigarette, she considers the words of the man still in the room she left behind. "I am going to leave my wife." How did she end up here in this horrible cliche? Why does she like it. A long drag is taken and the smoke exhaled up and off to the side. It's a cooler night but still a little balmy from the humidity. Is it ignorance or distraction that has her forgetting that the moon beaming down on her with more lumins than the streetlights around this motel is full and there is danger afoot? In just her robe she wandered a little off from the asphalt onto the grass beside their end unit room. As she looked into the black of the forest with her poor human eyes, something unseen peered back at her. If he had only been faster, and she hadn't screamed maybe this would have turned out differently for him.
The man in the hotel wasn't just some shmuck who worked part time bagging groceries. He is a proud member of the Hand. And that side piece he was enjoying on a regular basis was a particularly good one this time. He liked her more than some of the others. She had exotic tastes. And he did not take kindly to having his fun cut short with her. Pulling strings is his specialty afterall, and after a few phone calls and texts he arranges a hit on this predator. "I know just the guy," his contact tells him confidently as the conversation ends and he hangs up without thanks.
Back in the bar, after business hours begin - because no one else is in a hurry to see this done before 9 AM on a Monday, Dean's phone would begin to vibrate in his pocket, interrupting the silence of the bar. Given the contact's number is familiar to the inked up man, he would likely answer it - smelling the sweet smell of cash emanating from this call, as this is where those side jobs usually come through from. The man on the other side sounds bored, as he explains. "Some newbie killed the wrong man's whore last night. Off the 32 heading north. The motel there is called King's Court. We need you to find them. Take care of them. Got it?" There's no more instruction. No room for argument. They expect the job to be done it seems. Either total faith in Dean's ability, or no real care for whether it actually happens, so long as they did what they said they would. And now, in the terribly heavy and boring silence of the morning in the bar, Dean has been given an opportunity to go on a hunt. A legitimate one. Maybe less thrill that way, but then again, maybe not.
The phone call is short and sweet. Dean doesn't speak through it. Possibly because the conversation topic is not so sweet. But, money is money, and a merc would be stupid not to take the Hand's money. He's not stupid. The burner flip phone just for these sorts of deals is shut, and Dean delivers it exactly where it was - under the bar, out of sight, possibly taped under a slot. Who knows how many he has scattered across town at this point - but at least he's grown from the habit of breaking them.
Work, then. Dean dunks the rest of the ice in the container waiting for it, finishes up, and that's all it takes before he's walking with the accompanied lunacy of someone who shouldn't be taking work in his current mentality, and nigh borderline hallucinative ride under the moon with or without its luminance. So his target had killed - and that means sanctuary would be scarce. Good thing, that, he doesn't give that much of a fuck about his own. The bartending girl he works with, ever ready and present for work, is given a discreet upnod, one that she'd recognize as the ever elusive propriator taking his leave, again, with work half-done and left for her.
Outside, his bike waits in the parking lot. He slips on it, kicks it into gear. Despite the fact that all this time spent means his target may get their rights reinstated soon and fall under the spells protection - his venture on the road is slow. Leisurely - pleasure over speed on his cruiser that takes off to the destination. The crime scene. No doubt he'd pick up the trace of a scent there if nothing else, and usually, that's more than enough.
As the bike engine is cut and Dean would stroll, stomp, wander, skip... whatever it is he wants to do over to the edge of the lot where woods meet the building, it wouldn't be hard for his nose to detect the scent of the woman who was once here, the man who came out after her and the other, mammal scent that comes from and retreats back into the woods. All of this of course, lovingly wrapped with that iron heavy scent of blood and the faintest touch of urine.
If Dean follows the scent into the woods, he would either curse or thank the stupidity of whoever made this kill. The scent becomes stronger quickly - not drawing him far from civilization at all. Either the predator is green, or he was so overcome he couldn't wait to drag his prize any deeper in. Small pieces of offal begin to show up scattered around the forest floor. Unlikely to be caused by the main predator himself but by other scavengers of the forest who are banking in on this unfortunate circumstance and filling their own bellies with the exotic treat of human flesh.
Only about 700 ft from the outskirts of the woods, Dean would find the remains of what once was, presumably, a woman. The long hair is there surely and that looks like an earring in one of the ears. But the rest of the body is in pretty poor shape. The legs have been gnawed on like great shanks of meat. The innards pulled out and likely ingested first for all their nutritious properties. The eyeballs plucked. Mouth and tongue gone. It's not exactly what one wants to look at for overly long. A good thing maybe for those who forgo a big breakfast.
So here's the victim, but where's the target? Somewhere, under the smell of carnage, there is another scent. A male's. But not a mammal's. It hasn't gone far from here. Either this killer wants to keep watch over his work, passed out from it, or got interrupted part way and is hiding in wait. Dean could follow it to the base of a large tree where up up in the branches there squats a young man. Naked, of course - they're always naked aren't they? And dirty. And growling down at Dean. "You'll stop right there," he says when they meet eyes. He sounds confident enough, but to the discerning ear or eye, it might be obvious that he is posturing.
At the end of his leisurely approach, by his bike, Dean had donned his armor. Not that he needs it - evidently - but preparation always paid in dividends. Upon that armor, he draws out a long claymore within a scabbard attached to his bike, as well as a crossbow and a handful of bolts. The sword goes between his shoulderblades over his very medieval, very out of date armor - and the hand-held repeater is affixed at his side like a gun. Bolts ar stashed within his belt, easy to reach, easy to grab a handful of - but he doesn't bother. He never does.
He trusts instincts, keen senses - possibly the sharpest in Haven and elsewhere, peak of every condition, and they guide him to the scattered remnants of what was once a living, breathing thing. She's given an inspection with him crouched at her body. Not desecrating, not touching, but his nostrils flare in a short, distasteful huff. Not at the corpse - not at the state she's left in. Whatever causes disappointment in him, it waits to be mentioned - because he leaves the body to continue after plucking out the earrings off of it, and wandering away. Corpse looting - how low could he truly get?
And so, when he's by that young man squatting by the base of a tree, he is hardly surprised to find the culprit that smells of the death he reaped. His words are ignored, there is no doubt unveiled lunacy in Dean's own green gaze leveled without a modicum of emotion or expression like the wolf within surfaced so close doesn't know how to convey an expression with human features. "You didn't finish your meal." That's the extent of the accusation levied - and he doesn't wait to hear any defense when he lifts his hand forward, palm open, waiting -- just for that poor, poor young man to fly out of his hiding hole to be drawn into his grasp, to be squeezed by his neck. Hard.
Whatever retort the young killer might have had, he doesn't get to make it as the bigger monster under the bed finds him and puts his hand around his neck. All senses of self defense, if he even had any skills in that department, go out the window as he claws uselessly at the hand around his neck, trying to pull the steel beam masquerading as an arm from him. He flails and kicks, eyes wide with the panic of meeting his potential maker. Dean might even be able to see himself reflected in the watery sheen of his brown eyes with dilated pupils that are slowly going bloodshot. A reflection of a dark shadow looming in threat. There's nothing else here. Just another thread in the tapestry and Dean the weaver, deciding if this one will be plucked. The forest around them continues as if nothing is happening. Somewhere not far, a transport truck is down shifting on the road maybe to pull into the motel for a morning nap. Will this man be missed? Who even is he? Does it matter at all to Dean Flesh and blood could turn easily to cold hard cash. Could turn easily to a colder, harder heart.
All that, and Dean doesn't react. The flailing, the struggle. Scratches barely even dent his skin, and in the iron grip, steel-bending, throat crushing hold he has over the younger wolf, he speaks slowly. "I'm sorry for this, I really am." His words are so monotone, they are impossible to take as fact. "I care for every wolf in this town. They're mine, whether they know it or not." His words are interrupted by himself. The bolts lodged to his belt are withdrawn, but only one of them plucked between his fingers, laid between his teeth as he lifts the poor man higher. His crossbow taken, flicked to reveal the socket to fill it in, he lays that decrepit, steel bolt in the hole and flicks it shut. "But you know," That madness swirling beneath his eyes are palpable, down to every curve of his features it speaks of an abyssal rage, endless depths to the distance he's willing to go to complete a contract. "You didn't finish your meal." That, perhaps, to him is the only affront the young man has committed, and he has a mind to remedy it when the tip of his crossbow is firmly stuffed into his mouth, shattering teeth and forcing his mouth open wide with the gleaming tip aligned down his throat. "Don't worry." He soothes, distant, elsewhere, comforting someone else - and there is a wicked, far too fanged, vicious smile that spreads across his lips beneath lidded eyes. "I'll take care of you."
Thwack!
Blood pools out of the last gurgles of the poor wolf's throat, punctured at the base of his spine, down his throat - paralyzed, likely to bleed out, eventually - but not dead. Far from it in agony. He drops the neck that streams blood, drips between his fingers, and the thud is only limp beside his feet. Dean doesn't wait at all, turns on his heel. He won't finish the job he started - but the thick scent of blood has already alerted every nature of carrion feeder here anyway, and a paralyzed predator is nothing but prey. He's walking away, an odd stride, a quiet hum, off-tune, off-kilter, strange and off-puttingly mirthful while muffled screams are rising at his back to fill the early morning air, calling everything under the canopy here for a feast.
The earrings? They're shipped to the poor man who lost a lover.
At least he has that much deceny.