Michelle
Dawn cracked the sky, and as the sun rose, so did Algernon Granville. 

The memories of the day before were still fresh in his mind, raw as debrided wounds, and there was one thing on his mind above all else. 

Well, not above coffee. Heaven knew he needed a cup if he was going to muster up the guts to ever leave the safety of his campfire again. As too-hot bitter liquid burned the back of his throat, he wondered how the hell he was going to put the things he saw into words that didn't make him sound as though he oughta be committed to the asylum for merely speakin' em. If he hadn't seen the thing with his own two eyes, he'd think anyone talkin' about it crazy too. But that was the issue - he saw it. Heard it clickin' its ugly teeth and all, loud enough to even permeate the haze in his left ear that made most things sound like he was hearin' 'em underwater. Deer the size of coal trucks stood on two legs, click-click-clickin', with eyes like bloody headlights. It was crazy talk, but it was *Real*, and someone in this town owed him an explanation before he ran for the hills.

Coffee finished and a meagre breakfast eaten, he donned his cloak and boots, poured water into the palms of his hands and scrubbed his face and through his beard. The last thing he needed was to be *Lookin'* Crazy while talkin' all crazy, and if truth be told he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a real bath. That was a problem for later, though - the water would still be there when the talkin' was done. 

As ready as he thought he'd ever be, Algernon made haste. There was just one place to go, or rather, one person he thought might have a clue what was goin' on around here, and that person was none other than the sheriff himself. He'd seen the man from a distance, that first day he'd arrived in Briar Ridge, shiny badge and boots and all, and if there was a soul around that might be trustworthy in a time like this, surely it stood to reason that that would be a policeman. He'd listen. Or he'd think Algernon a drunk (though he'd not had so much as a sip since he arrived in this devil's-town) and have him tossed in a cell for talkin' insanity. That possibility wasn't enough to deter the hunter from the task at hand, though, and he found himself at the jailhouse as the light was just creepin' over the tops of the buildings, rappin' at the door with all his might in a desperate plea to be heard and allowed inside, if only for a moment.

It didn't feel safe out here any more. This place wasn't a haven. This place could well've been hell incarnate after the things Algernon had seen.
Ricky
New to his position, Rafael found himself more often than not working many hours over what he should. Until he finds a deputy, and a clerk, and maybe someone to come around every so often to clean up the place, the burden fell solely on him. He didn't mind it - but he found very quickly that it would be nice to have some help. Maybe there would be other souls interested in some *Real work,* But until then, Rafael was content.

When Algernon enters the building, Rafael is standing, leaning against his cane and looking at the Red String Board, thinking with a soft hum. There were too many pictures and strings for there to be any sensemaking at the present, but he would be damned if he even so much as failed to put together some kind of lead. There were the Coopers, who'd just declared that their father was a werewolf, and after intense debate, the Anti-Werewolf Coalition had agreed that, instead of outright murdering the man, they would imprison him and run a test with Valerian Barca's silver bullet.

He wasn't going to lie and say he wasn't nervous, after all. If William Cooper *Was* A werewolf, Rafael would be in here with a beast of the night for hours at a time, wondering and waiting if Mayor Cooper was going to do anything beyond his station. If he was not, then he would be jailing an innocent person - his oath to the star broken, and failing the people of Briar Ridge, especially their mayor. Alas - Rafael prioritizes the will of the people over the penal code, so he's certain to take a moment and remind himself of that. To be put in this town, where all of the things go bump in the night... It's exhausting.

_ _ 
The sounds of the lycans reminded him, briefly, of his time as a sniper. With leaves and branches and everything in-between piled overtop of him as camoflauge, hiding from the enemy in plain sight — sometimes he would be set up in foreign territory, other times domestic. Regardless of where he was, though, his tinnitus-laden ears always heard the sounds of the beasts of the night. Wolves and bears, sometimes squirrels, stoats, and birds. The animals in the forest used to be comforting, but all he can hear now is the sound of too many guttural groans and howls while his flesh was being torn open by that damnable beast.

The bell above the door rings, alerting Rafael to his newcomer, and he smiles instinctively, beginning to walk over and lean against the desk, crinkling his nose. "Good morning to ya," He greets the other, almost unfamiliar with his face. Rafael made it a point to know everyone in Briar Ridge, at least so he could be able to connect a name to a face, but he would be lying if he said he was aware of this citizen already. "Is there something I can do for you?
Michelle
The door, it turns out, is open, and swings open beneath Algernon's heavy fist after three firm knocks, revealing the interior of the jailhouse along with the very man he's come looking for, giving him a close look at the sheriff for the first time. For a moment, it's jarring, because it's like looking upon the face of an army buddy, from the crease in his brow to the crows feet lining his eyes. For the first time in a long time, Algernon meets the gaze of another man and sees something of himself looking back, the weight of the world having made its mark on his visage, and it's enough to slightly slow his racing heartbeat, if only for a moment.

The sheriff walks with a cane and a purpose, and despite Algernon's no doubt dishevelled appearance, he smiles at him in greeting and doesn't hesitate to speak. His voice is low, sprinkled with an accent that's unfamiliar but easy to understand, and thank the lord, he doesn't seem too concerned by the fact that a stranger's just come burstin' through his door like the very hounds of hell are at his heels. All he says is good morning. He's possibly the first person in Briar Ridge to greet Algernon without hostility.

"Mornin', Sheriff." He manages to make himself sound surprisingly composed. Something about this man's demeanour has put him at a strange, undeniable ease, and that's a whole other weird feeling on its own. "Sorry to barge in on ya so early in the mornin'. Got a minute to talk?" He feels like he's stormed his way into a private moment, seized with the fear of the previous day's events, one-track mind on a mission to get to the bottom of whatever the hell's goin' on here before the light steals away the haunting feeling left behind. He's ready to be shot down before he can even start, so he gives the other man only the briefest of moments to acknowledge him before he launches into his version of events. 

It's a rough tale, because Algernon is many things, but he's never been a storyteller, and sure, his memory's been a little tattered 'round the edges ever since his days on the Front, same as his hearin' and the state of his nerves. But wouldn't any other man be havin' a nervous breakdown after the things he'd seen? He wonders momentarily how Emery's holdin' up. He wouldn't know where to find them to ask. 

Still, he talks. And talks. And talks. 

It still sounds crazy to his own ears, once he's passed the parts about headin' into the deerpath and huntin' for hoofprints for hours on end, through bracken and briar. He tells of the tracks he found and how he noticed they were bigger than any he's ever seen before, sunken deep into the mud and melted snow. When it comes to the clickin', he has to stop, and swallow a couple times, and hell if he doesn't wish he had a drink to loosen his tongue. Blood's rushin' in his ears as he describes the deer liftin' its big head as the sound of footsteps reached it, and its eyes... Eyes like he ain't never known a deer to have, red and all aglow with anger and determination. No deer before ever felt shit like that.

He breaks off to apologise for cursin'. The sheriff's gaze doesn't waver, and when he receives an expectant nod, he keeps on. 

His sentences get shorter. 

The shot that rang out from his gun, and the way the deer didn't so much as flinch as the bullet buried itself in its chest. How it looked like settin' up to charge, and his low call out to Emery to back up, only for things to get worse as they did.

Those glowin' eyes. The creature risin' up on two legs. Deer don't belong on no two-legged bullshit.

He doesn't apologise for his language a second time. 

Another gunshot, and another and another, each bullet plungin' into the now upright body of the monster before them, lookin' as though they made about as much as an impact as fallin' snow. 

Guilt and shame paint Algernon's face as he tells of how, in the end, they had no choice but to make a run for their lives, and how the huffin' breaths of the *Thing* Followin' behind them only seemed to get closer and closer until Emery knew a spot they could break out of the undergrowth and right into a cornfield, barren for the winter.

He doesn't include the part about how it hadn't been long after dawn when he headed into the trees, but the sun was slopin' low in the sky when they emerged, yet it felt for all the world like hardly any time had passed at all. 

When the words run out, Algernon's throat is dry. He's not sure what response he expects from the sheriff. He doesn't know exactly what he wants, either. After a glance at the door, considering just makin' a quick exit, packin' up his things and leavin' the holler altogether, he finds it in himself to once again meet the sheriff's steady gaze. 

"With all due respect 'n more, Sheriff, the hell kinda town are you runnin' here?"
Ricky
*Got a minute to talk?* He asks, and Rafael smiles in response. Yes, this is normalcy - this is routine. Of course he has time to talk; he's wasting the day away reading through files and dealing with that DAMNABLE EAR in the icebox that no one is using which will eventually either be buried or put into evidence, he's not quite sure. "Of course, *Hermano,*" Rafael nods, gesturing one-handedly for Algernon to tell his story.

And when he begins, Rafael listens. And he listens. And he listens. Now, when it comes to creepy things in the woods, Rafael has had his fair share of encounters that turned up to be nothing. That was in other towns, though — other cities, other states, sometimes other countries. Given the fact that he is now in a town where instead of robbers and murderers, *Werewolves* Are on the docket of the #1 public enemies, he's not about to deny the fact that Algernon has encountered this thing out in the woods - just like he would never tell Blanca that her water issue is nothing but public pollution. He's not sure when he stops just listening and begins writing, but he feels like the memo pad and the pencil manifest into his hand as he leans against the desk, nodding and writing down what he considers to be the important details.

_ _ 
As for Algernon's appearance, Rafael finds no purchase in treating him any differently than he would treat the well-dressed citizens, or even the mayor himself. (Though, given the recent discussions from the mayor's children, maybe that's not so good a comparison anymore.) "I'm sorry, *Lo siento,* Who did you say what also involved in this? Emery... Ah...?" He's asking for the last name, but he thinks he may have already met this person before — promoted now to sheriff, he's working double-time to see whether or not he was going to be able to keep up with the quickly rising and falling populace of Briar Ridge. 



*'The hell kinda town are you runnin' here,* Algernon asks, and there it is - a contemplative look that is a molotov cocktail of shame and grief and betrayal. "Ah, forgive me," Rafael nods with his head. It's the same kind of nod one would give at the doorstep of the family of a deceased corpsman. Alas, this is not that — instead he is bearing the sin of Sheriff Rowe, and all that he has done. "I am only recently established in this position, *Senor,* And in case you have not been made privy to local news— the sheriff before me was one of the *Nahual,* The werewolves. Given my... Condition," He gestures to all of him. He really should be resting. "I am not able to do all of the things I would like to do. But

If you know of anyone who would be interested in a deputy position — or perhaps even a clerk, I would be happy to take some of these tasks off of my shoulders." 

He meets Algernon's eyes like one would meet a drill sergeant's. He knows it's not the answer Algernon was looking for, but it's something that he can manage to do in this situation of mutual grief. "But rest assured, I will be sure that this... Er... How did you say... *Not-deer?* Doesn't come poking it's head around your home anymore. I will just need some time, and some patience."
Michelle
Havin' just spoken more words in a few minutes than he has in perhaps the last year as a whole, Algernon gratefully accepts the water. His hand shakes as he brings it to his mouth and all he can do is hope that the sheriff doesn't notice when the first gulp doesn't quite make it past his lips, and he spills, and quickly scrubs at his mouth with the back of his hand. The second attempt goes better, and while it lacks the burn of a good whiskey, the coolness almost serves as an equal balm to his fractured nerves. It's his turn to listen, and listen he does, and observes with the eye of a hunter scanning the plain. 

The sheriff, with his notebook and pencil, with his cane and his undeniable charm, don't look a well man. Though he speaks steadily, he sure doesn't stand that way, leanin' heavily on the desk but constantly shifting weight, like every spot's a sore spot, a feeling Algernon understands all too well from his days down the coal mines. The feeling that comes from pushin' what little strength you have left to and beyond its absolute limits, leaves you shakin' in your boots even when your boots are as shiny as this man's are. Every fellow has his breakin' point and if it weren't too impolite to say so, Algernon would be pointin' out that it appears the sheriff's reachin' his. He's painfully aware that he's in what might be called polite company, though, and he's said his piece for the time bein', so he's patient, as the other man makes his way through words Algernon knows and those odd, accented ones that he doesn't. All in all, it's a brief conversation, but by god is it a complicated one, and when the sheriff falls silent, there's suddenly a whole lot more to the story than there was before he spoke.

The water glass is drained. Algernon steps forward to set the glass back on the desk. He doesn't think to step back again.

"Just... Hold up. Take it back a couple steps for an old fool." He licks his lips uncertainly. "The old sheriff was a *What* Now?"

Werewolves ain't real. They're fairytales. The kind of thing the men in the trenches would joke about when they heard howls and screeches in the distance. They'd hunker down and the others would trade folk tales from their hometowns and Algernon, who'd never been able to read the storybooks, would just listen. Much like he's listenin' to the sheriff of Briar Ridge, except this time, it don't feel so much like spinnin' a yarn. Because, sure, werewolves aren't real, but neither are deer with eyes a-glowin' standin' ten feet tall on their hind legs, and Algernon saw one of those with his own damn eyes only the day before.

He's beginnin' to wonder if the lines between real and not-real are thinner here in Briar Ridge. Deer and not-deer. Wolves and werewolves. Real and not-real. 

"Sounds like you got even more of a story to tell than I had, Sheriff." He shakes his head slowly. "Sorry to say I can't be much help with your staffin' issues. Hardly know a soul in this town myself. Emery - I didn't even get a last name - was the first real talk I had since I dragged that boar in a few days back. And I don't got the education to be much use to you, 'specially indoors. Can barely write my own name, if I'm tellin' you the truth, but I blame that one on my old Ma for puttin' too many letters in the damn thing. But I'll tell you somethin' I can do." He shifts from foot to foot, draws back his cloak to reveal the Winchester strapped to his chest, holstered in a pouch made of deer leather and hung with a dried rabbit's foot. "And trust me, I know just how to use her. Next time I come across one of those deer... You rest assured I'll handle it. Even bring you the head to prove it. Look mighty nice hung over this desk of yours, don't you think?"

A smile plays at his lips at the thought. Those glowin' eyes dulled and great antlers pinned high, nailed to the wall as a warnin' to anyone or anything that might think to try their luck. His gaze drifts over the desk as he speaks of it.

There's a nameplate there, wooden, brass-plated, printed bold. *D-E-P* Has been scratched out. And hell if Algernon can make sense of the letters that come after it. Goddammit. If only he were smarter, he'd have figured out the man's name by now. Curse it all. There's an R. A G, and then he's lost. 'Sheriff' will have to do until he reveals it of his own accord. 

"You leave the deer problem to me, Sheriff. S'what I came here for in the first place. Sure, they're a little bigger'n I imagined. You know anyone that might trade some meat for a case'a bullets, and you'll make me a happy man. Not to mention gettin' yourself off your feet here and there."

||
Ricky
It was uncommon that a member of Briar Ridge seemed to be out of the loop - word travels fast in these towns, after all. He remembers one night he happened to have siome women's clothing hanging off of his clothesline, something he had been sent from his sister to give to a woman in order to lighten her own closet. While in reality he had just washed them so that way the girls of Briar Ridge didn't receive dirty clothes, there was gossip for two weeks about if the deputy had a woman at his house - and if so, which citizen was it? Needless to say, it took an explicit explanation when he laid out the box of (now dry) clothing for the girls to come pick up at the jailhouse whenever they wanted to in order to quell those rumors. The word of Sheriff Rowe travelled fast, too - he hadn't been at the scene of the shooting, too busy locked up in Marianne's house, hoping that no one was injured in his moment of inadequacy.

Sheriff Aguilar Guerrero was a man of high perception - he could see through most lies, like the one his commander gave him that night in Poland when Rafael had asked if everyone was going to make it out alive tonight, and he responded with *Definitely.* He searches Algernon's face for some semblance of falsehoods or persuasions, and yet - Rafael found none. His own expression twists into a look of confusion; Algernon genuinely did not know there were werewolves in the town.

_ _
"Ah..." Rafael begins, because he's... Frankly not sure where to start here. He shakes his head, raising his free hand, as if to say he was pausing the conversation moments after the declaration that he was going to shoot the deer down with just his lucky pouch and the gun strapped across his chest like he was a new mother and the weapon was his baby. He's got to say - the gun was cleaned perfectly. In a way, it makes him miss his rifle- but a sniper has no place in Briar Ridge. Hunting rifles and buckshot seemed to be more effective. "Hang on, hang on."

"I'm Sheriff Rafael Aguilar Guerrero - it's nice to meet you, but I didn't catch your name. And... *Si,* There are the werewolves. You... Must be new here." Unable to take the weight of his own body anymore, Rafael shambles around to the other side of the desk, finally sitting down and propping the walking stick up against the wooden side of the desk as he scribbles some more things down on a piece of paper, then beginning to look through a census. There were plenty of hunters here, but he didn't receive notice of a new citizen. Must be fresh meat. "From the state of myself, I figured that would be obvious. But, once we're done filing this report, I'll give you all of the information you'll need to survive the month."

There's a pause, and Rafael grumbles quietly as his pencil breaks - he takes a knife to the tip of it, working the lead down into a neat little tip, returning to the paperwork. He's probably the only man in the world that can file a police report with the world's most fucked-up looking deer. He'd yet to see it for now, but he will be soon, this he knows. "And I'm sorry, but I can't let you go after this thing yourself. If you were injured - or worse, killed - during the hunt, it would be my responsibility. I will handle it; you just stay safe."
Michelle
Algernon realises he's goin' too far, too fast, and the sheriff slows him down - he's more than happy to oblige. There's a story to tell here in Briar Ridge and it's gonna take more than a hurried conversation for it to be put out into the open, but if there's one thing he has, it's patience. Hours staked out on hunts waitin' for the perfect moment to pull the trigger taught him that long ago. Time ain't a finite resource like coal - just 'cause you use up some don't mean you have any less left over. It's about findin' a balance, walkin' the line, and somethin' tells Algernon that if there were ever a time to take the long way round, it's now. 

"Algernon. Granville. Pleased to meet ya, Rafael." He makes sure to give the man time to write the name. "Got here just this past week. Met a party on the road, heard about some trouble with the deer. Either they were hidin' the whole truth or they just didn't know for 'emselves, but they told me it'd be worth huntin' up here. Packed up camp and came soon as I could, really." He's pacin' his words now he can see Rafael write, makin' sure all the necessary details can get put down on the paper so there's no need to repeat it from the start. "I was just happy to be of use, know how it is? Been a quiet winter so far."

Werewolves, though. He'll be damned. Of all the explanations in the world, werewolves wouldn't be one he'd have ever landed on of his own accord. Though it explains the cuts he can see on the sheriff's face, and the shadows beneath his eyes that look half sleepless nights and half bruises, purple like blackberries not quite ripe. 

He leans his hip against the desk and acts as though he's readin' Rafael's notes. He's not readin' shit. Instead he watches the way the man's roughened hands move with the pencil and leaf through the pages, then how he deftly sharpens the tip with the knife and practiced movements as though it's a trick he's done a thousand times before.

"You just tell me what you need, and consider it done. All I wanted this morning was for you to listen, you're already goin' above and beyond for me by now. Got all the details nice and fresh in the mind." Truthfully, Algernon isn't sure that he'll ever be able to forget a moment of the previous day. Once-in-a-lifetime events have that tendency to burn their way into a brain and never leave no matter how hard you try to push 'em out or shove 'em down to a place they don't bother you no more. If it were easier to forget, there's a whole lotta memories he'd rather never have to face again, but that ain't how the past works. What wants to stick sticks with a man forever.

He can't help but wonder if Rafael has stickin' memories he fancies bein' rid of. If he drowns himself in vices the same way, or if he's a stronger man than Algernon Granville will ever be.

"Sounds to me, Sheriff, like you got enough to handle," He says, when there's been quiet for a moment save for the scratch of the lead on the page. "You don't gotta take so much as an ounce of responsibility for me. I don't plan on dyin' out on your ridge, now or ever." Authority be damned, he's going back out for that deer. And if a werewolf comes to find itself starin' down the barrel of the Winchester... Well, he'll do his damn best with that too. He's taken down bears, hogs, snakes twice as long as he's tall. There's no stoppin' a man on a hunt when the other option's starvin' or freezin' to death. 

"Whatever happens, happens. You need a hand with the wild shit, I'll stick around a while."

A sigh finds its way past his lips, and suddenly he's sayin' words he has a sense that Rafael hasn't heard in a while. 

"You and your town... You'll be alright."

||
Ricky
He's unsure what to say when Algernon begins talking again. He looks up after writing his name down, sounding out each bit phonetically and hoping, *Hoping* He's getting it right. The Granville part, sure; the *Algernon...* Maybe not so much. Either way, if he checked his notes a second time, he'd be able to read the correct name off of the paper, and that's what mattered. When Algernon says that he'll be sticking around... That he'll be *Alright...* Rafael looks up at him in stunned silence not unlike the deer that Algernon has probably seen through his scope a dozen times over.

If the roles were reversed, Rafael would not see a beast but a man; in some way, man is a beast. But an American Sniper knows better than to try to say they were hunting beasts. Rafael was damn-near sure he was a murderer, even if it was state-sanctioned. He breathes an inhale, and then an exhale, as if he was holding his breath against his own will. He looks down at the notes, staring at them a while, trying to break the stare he and Algernon seemed to maintain. It made him feel... Small, in a way; as if he was staring down his drill commander and needed to be the first to break. He puts the pencil down.

_ _
"I know we will," He nods, finally looking back up at him more man than machine, "But it is nice to hear you say it, *Mi hermano.* Come — if you are adamant that you are to be the one to tackle that beast rather than give it to me... I can at least provide you something that is to make the job easier." He gets up with his cane again, this time taking a key ring off of the desk and holding it loosely in his other hand. His steps are heavy and haggard, but even with the injuries, Rafael seems to be getting around fine. If he was in displeasure (and trust me, he was definitely in more than displeasure), it wasn't written across his face at all, instead hidden between the way his gait was labored, in the way his chest rose, held, and then fell, as if not breathing per step would make the effort easier...

That keyring is brought to attention again, and Rafael begins opening the door. "Your rifle... What caliber is it? A .300, *Si?*"
Michelle
Algernon's not sure what a *Hermano* Is, but the way Rafael says it makes him feel like it's something good, so he settles in his assumption and doesn't question a bit of it. They're closer to the same page than they were before, and his stubbornness may well have paid off for once, because it seems that the sheriff isn't going to stick too hard to his guns when it comes to stoppin' Algernon going back for that damn deer. It's reassurin' that when he does return to the path, he won't have the law on his ass for doin' so. When Rafael rises from the desk, Algernon goes with him, and listens to the rhythmic thud of the cane tip on the floor, and to the way the keys jingle together in the sheriff's not quite steady hand. They make slow progress, but all progress is somethin', and Algernon has a feelin' that if he had to deal with half the discomfort Rafael's in, he wouldn't be so much as gettin' out of his tent. 

It's bravery, and it's strength both physical and mental. Some might call it damn foolishness, but Algernon knows better than to think the man before him a fool. 

"She takes a 16-gauge just fine," He replies, when the sheriff asks him about his preferred caliber of bullet. "Done me well so far for what I paid for her. Should've aimed for the head, but somethin' about those damned eyes... It threw me. Lost my nerve and almost got Emery killed alongside me. It won't happen again, that much I can promise you."

He watches as Rafael twists the key in the lock, and then he's faced with just about the largest collection of guns and ammunition he's ever seen in his life. All stacked up neat on the shelves, labels and all. If he could read, he'd see that the bullets were organised by gauge and shot type. Most of it he doesn't recognise - he's grown accustomed to firin' whatever he can get so long as it fits in the magazine. It seems Rafael and the citizens of Briar Ridge get a little more choice, and if he didn't know about twisted deer and *Werewolves* And whatever the hell was hidin' out in the forest hidden from the human eye, he'd be wonderin' what a small town needed with this many bullets, and who was holdin' the guns that fired them.

He whistles softly through his teeth. "God *Damn*. You preparin' for another war the rest of us don't yet know about, Rafael?"

Maybe this town is a war in itself.
Ricky
"Ah, they are not mine," Rafael shakes his head, stepping into the room to look through the supplies. Realistically, there weren't *That* Many things in here; a couple extra guns, some ammunition. Regularly, they were distributed to citizens just before the full moon, so that there might be extra chance of survival, and they were always returned the morning after so that Rafael could take good care of them - get them cleaned and polished before the next one. His brow furrows as he looks around for the sixteen-gauge ammunition, and his lips purse. How had he not noticed how hands-off Sheriff Rowe was with such distribution? At the time, he had just thought it was a delegation of duties, but now...

He shakes his head. He can't let the memory of this man taint his own mind for so long. The betrayal stung like a knife, but two or three glasses of shine would waste it away with time. "They are the town's."

He listen to the story that Algernon weaves for him, and Rafael chuckles; it isn't often he hears about the beasts in the woods, but when he does, every story sounds the same. *I lost my nerve.* He collects about six-to-ten bullets, looking at them in comparison to what was left in the section of the ammunition closet (could one call it a *Vault?* Rafael wasn't one for semantics) and decides that yes, this would be a fine amount to give. If Algernon took that thing down with a bullet from his jailhouse, Rafael could consider it a win for him, too. They're bagged up in a little cloth bag, handed over to him and placed in the palm of his hand.

_ _ 

"Ah, Emery. That's *Charlito's* Erm..." He gestures with his hand, as if trying to find a word in either language that might describe the relationship between Emery and Charlie. It wasn't *Quite* Romantic yet, at least to Rafael's perceptive eye, but it was more than friendship. He makes a face, as if to ask Algernon to hang on while he rattled his brain for a descriptor. When he finds none, he shakes his head, holding up a hand. "Well, they're close, that's all that I can say on the matter, if you know what I mean."

He rolls his shoulders back, walking out of the ammunition closet and looking to Algernon. "You shouldn't take it personally," He nods sharply, "There are many things in these woods that people lose their nerves over. Men the size of trees and covered in hair, tip-to-tail; the *Not-deer*, like you have seen; ghosts from the coal mine, wanting everyone around them to suffer vengeful fury. Briar Ridge is not a *Calm place, mi amigo,* But it is a good one. You'll find a lot of companionship and care here, if you deign to stay." He's reminded fondly of how quickly everyone came to his aid after his mauling; it's behavior like that that makes Rafael serve dutifully. In a way, it reminds him of his regiment- if one ignored all of the agony they had to endure in the interim. How it was comparable to the suffering they experienced here.

"Regardless, I hope you slay the damn thing next time you see it," Rafael says earnestly, "One less horror in the woods means I can focus on the horrors in town."
Michelle
The shared guns are a concept as foreign to Algernon as the sheriff's soft accent, somethin' he's never come into contact with before, but he likes all the same. He's gettin' the sense there's a real *Community* Here, and it reminds him in some ways of the life he knew growin' up, every family comin' together to raise the young'uns side by side, never to want for nothin'. Sure, it didn't quite work out that way for some of the boys, Algernon himself being one of them, but the older and wiser had tried, and there's some of that tryin' here in Briar Ridge too. Or maybe it's just Rafael, in his wisdom, in his determination to do good by a town he feels indebted to, feels he's got to be the best he can be for. Whichever it is, it's an odd change from the life Algernon knows, because out in the wilderness was always every man for himself unless he had somethin' to offer, or you had somethin' he wanted. 

He takes the pouch of bullets, pulls one out to inspect it, and deems it a fine one - the casing shines good and it's not scratched or dented. He rolls it between his fingers before returnin' it to the others, and the whole bag is tied by its string to his belt, alongside the rabbits'-foot he carries, and his knife in its sheath. They'll do him well next time he runs into one of those goddamn deer.

He's not sure who *Charlito* Is, but that's a question to be asked another time, an answer he can wait for. 

And though he'd be a liar if he said he wasn't unnerved by the other things Rafael described, leanin' as he did against the cabinet door and his cane, he believes when he hears that Briar Ridge is good. Despite what he's seen out in the woods, he's run into enough of the good in the past few days that he *Wants* To believe that there's more of it out there than evil. That the good lord didn't send him to Briar Ridge as a punishment, but rather as a sort of bitter salvation. If not for him, then for Rafael, who seems to bear a cross too heavy to carry on one man's shoulders, no matter how tall they stand, how proud of a place of his own creation. 
Algernon's strength is his blessin', and his curse. And if there are burdens, he'll stay to carry his share.

"Don't think there's any question of my stayin', sheriff. Your town's not been so bad, all things considered. Happy to stick around, wait it out, see what else you and your people got... And don't you worry. Next time I run into that creature, you'll be the first to know."

He sighs softly, lookin' out the window at the grey sky above. The boar he killed still lies in wax-papered packages in Noah Owens' icebox. Supposes he oughta be pickin' some of that up and seein' if he can get it sold, else it'll need saltin' before it turns bad. 

"Should be goin', Rafael. I'll leave you to your work, but you need anythin' at all, I won't be too far away."

||
Jason
*This thread is now complete!*