The pair remained silent approaching a recently covered paupers grave. Fragonard's eyes shot about, as whispers crept to his ears from all directions. At times he wondered if his life had brought him too close to the dead or if chemicals had left their mark on his mind. Johansen looked at him confused, wondering at direction a moment before the doctor pushed on. Their movement halting from tree to tree measured and fearful. Fragonard revealed a bundle of tools hidden near a tree trunk. Passing a shovel to the Swede and igniting a lantern, the doctor motioned forward.
Life had fallen hard since France for the doctor. Where he once maintained an obscure but respected medical museum he now procured specimens for others. His clothes once fashionable where now archaic and threadbare. Still this path allowed for further understanding of his craft, which was his utmost concern.
Johansens' shovel cut the earth again and again. The big man quickly progressed at the task, though there were sounds that disturbed him ;odd snaps and scampering worrying. His spade drove deeply into the ground when a cackle erupted behind them. Fragonard wheeled the lantern to see who had set upon them, thou he saw he did not understand. Was it a man, a devil conjured from his mind? Wings Black bounded from the dark, and that hideous face. Johansen push his shovel at the thing shrinking back.
It menaced them a moment before it belched sickly emerald flames at the men who fled in headlong fear. Its maniac laugh haunting their retreat. They passed through a hole in the churchyard gate still in full sprint. Johansen cast his eyes back to see it bound, as if spring heeled, fully over the gate.