Crowley was not a strategic man. He was not made for politics or diplomacy. He was not an educated or scholarly thinker. Her followed orders. Without thinking about it, as the kid spoke with such calm confidence and experience and issued a command, Crowley obeyed. He stooped and lay his peacefully snoring commander on the cobblestones at his feet, then tore a length of cloth from his shirt. Fashioning two make-shift masks out of the cloth, he first tied one on the Ranger, then himself.<br/><br/>When this was done, he rose and beckoned to the young lad, hoisting the limp commander onto his shoulders once more. This time, the Ranger stirred, groaned, then subsided. Crowley began walking at a brisk pace, which would likely leave the lad running to keep up, through the streets. Within minutes, he stopped before a creek at the edge of town that fed into an under ground aquifer, which fed all of the city's water pumps and wells.<br/><br/>He bent and lay the Ranger on the ground where he would not be trampled, then turned to the healer. "I will begin spreading masks to those who are not yet acting strangely, and sleeping draughts to the emergency cases. The healers have a store of potions we should be able to use. Do you need anything else, sir?"