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"And so where did it all end?" Theodore raised an eyebrow. He studied Whitaker, crossing his arms over his chest while the Otter reached into the depths of his own vest. He swallowed against the concerns that the professor was getting ready to draw a firearm; but they never made it to his face. His fingers drummed against his biceps. Kendall's eyes closed behind his glasses, and Theodore perked his ears--but not in time to hear the prayer that the Otter muttered.

After more moments than he had any right to take, Whitaker tugged a leather bound journal from the folds of his vest. The little book bulged with papers that were stuck into its pages, doubling its thickness. The Otter slid a finger along the straight edge they created and made Theodore wait even longer as he stared down at the brown bindings. "It's strange, to think that this has all come so far," he muttered to no one in particular.

His attention was forced back to the veranda with an irate snap of Theodore's fingers. "Professor?" he tried to not sound _too_annoyed.

"Right. I apologize, there's..." his voice trailed off again. The book slapped the table with more force than the professor intended--probably. The beast's paw shook, and he slid it toward Theodore. His breath caught in his throat, and he chewed his lip as the journal finally made its way into the Host's waiting paws.

"So what is all of this?" he asked. The book spilled open into his palms so quickly that Theodore had to catch a few of the letters before they spat out. His paws froze. He could feel his eyes widen in shock at one of the images that stared back at him.

It was a medical diagram. The morbid, charcoal shaded picture of an eye with all of the gore that was attached to it stared unblinkingly.

Figure 13a, Theodore read to himself. Subject--

"Kendall Whitaker?" his eyebrow raised as he stared down at the text. He tugged on the letter, pulling it free. Their eyes met as Theodore wordlessly asked for permission, to which Whitaker nodded. Placing the journal face down, the paper unfurled in front of the Wolf.

"There's much there that will need explaining," Whitaker said as Theodore began to scan the page. "Are you familiar with much of the medical terminology?"

"Not even a start of it," he grunted at some of the longer words. The diagrams were the only hope he had of understanding what was happening on the page. The eyeball, and the nerves attached to it, were the center of some sort of procedure. The only hope he had of making it that far was the bold text in the corner of the page _ OCULAR REPLACEMENT INQUIRY: KENDALL WHITAKER. _ Beyond that? References of types of blades, cuts and stimulations made Theodore's eyes ache. The paper was folded once more and placed out of sight, his fingers pinching the bridge of his muzzle against a headache. "But what the hell is this?"

Taking the offered paper from Theodore, Whitaker scanned it over. His breath caught in his throat, as if he was unsure of how to respond. "How comfortable are you with being close to another..." his voice trailed off as Theodore's eyebrow raised at him. "Look here," he instead tried to cover his question with a grin.

The Otter pulled the glasses off of his muzzle, then beckoned the Wolf in more closely. His eyebrow raised, but Theodore leaned over the table to the slightly bowed head of the professor. "What do you see here, Mr. Locke?" His fingers raised to the bridge of his own muzzle. He parted the fur atop it. Theodore had to squint to see the ever-so-slight scarring, just beneath where the gent's glasses would sit.

He followed the motions of Whitaker's fingers. Down the sides of the Otter's face, out to just below his ears, and then up around his forehead. Theodore blinked. "That's an industrial looking scar," he muttered, half to himself. "What the hell caused that?" The Otter slid back into his seat heavily. Once his glasses were replaced, his paws rested out of sight in his lap. A grin threatened to split his features, and Theodore tilted his head at the strange mix of emotions on the beast's face.

"Nearly three years ago now," the breathless beast spoke around a smile. "Fifteenth of New Wolf Moon makes three to the date." his fingers roamed the edges of the scar. The warmth in his smile seemed out of place, until Theodore took stock of just what the beast was grinning about. He sighed against the weight a memory and he shook his head; it took the Otter another moment to look Theodore in the eyes. "No doubt you've heard of the civil war, across the pond?"

"Had a former client that went on endlessly about it; the gent was a privateer for the Southern Republic," Theodore shrugged, locking his gaze on a flurry of birds from near the port wall. "Silas Lothrirson. He was captain of the Unsinkable."

"Forgive me, but I've not heard of him," the professor mumbled. "I was only on the front lines but once during the Republic's push northward. A blade slash across my eyes cost me both of them," he mimicked the motion with all his fingers. Theodore winced at the thought, then blinked.

"How did--?" he began, falling quiet at the raised palm in front of him.

"My cousin and I have the documentation here," Whitaker slid the paper back across the tabletop. He drummed his fingers near the fold, tutting his tongue carefully as he tasted the air around his words. "We found a way to speak with... something. We found a way to trade with it. Stories for stories; knowledge for knowledge." he scoffed at himself beneath the appraising stare from his host.

"Did this 'something' give you a name?" Theodore's blunt tone didn't seem to register with the Otter. He was content to stay inside of his head, wallowing in his own brain. "And what did you give it, in order for it to give you eyes back?"

Whitaker reclined in his seat, crossing his arms and legs alike. His muzzle tilted down toward the remains of their meal, but there wasn't enough of an expression for Theodore to venture a guess to what was on the gent's mind. "Nothing."

"That seems anticlimactic," Theodore's eyes narrowed. "So what, you just let--"

"I gave nothing to it, Mr. Locke," he reaffirmed, a fingertip nailing his point to the tabletop. He heaved a breath through the middle of his explanation, leaning forward enough to prop himself up on his forearms. "This to say, I don't know what it took from me as a price. I'm intact on every aspect, and there are no gaps in my memory. But I owe nothing, according to It."

"It?" yipped Theodore.

He wore the confession like an anchor around his neck. The Otter nodded, fidgeting in place beneath the glare of the Wolf. Theodore's eyes narrowed to slits as he tried to focus. Each twitch of a whisker was studied, and every snag of his breath analyzed the best of his admittedly amateur abilities. Nothing in his body language would have told Theodore that he was lying. Then again, Theodore wouldn't have known what to look for. He only saw grief on the beast's face.

"It," Whitaker confirmed into his palms. "Whatever that thing is." His ears flattened, and Theodore reached back to rub at his own scruff with a paw. He glanced about the veranda. No beast had entered to rescue him from whatever this charade was. No fresh distraction, and the professor was clearly done with his meal. "These are bold claims, and I have no idea what to do with them?" he offered after the silence became unbearable.

The professor adjusted in his seat with a stubborn clear of his throat. The beast adjusted his vest and shirt collar. His fingers laced diplomatically over the top of his empty stew bowl; Theodore tilted his head as their eyes locked. "Tell me, Mr. Locke... do you think I'm mad?"

"Yes."

Whitaker didn't blink at the suddenness of the response. Theodore didn't let him get a word out of his mouth before he continued. "You're telling me that somebeast wants you dead, instead of introducing yourself like any kind of civil Folk. Now you're telling me that your eyes were replaced by something that just gave them to you out of benevolence. You're calling whatever it is an 'It', rather than the goddess, or any other thing from any other pantheon and..." he threw his paws up, then clapped his own thighs. His head shook in disbelief. "And you're ending this all with a journal and a 'trust me'?"

"You've only taken a look at one page," he defended himself. He raised an accusing finger toward Theodore's nose, glaring from behind it. "The rest of our study is right here, inside of this journal. Every actionable measure taken to study the Beyond."

"This. Is. Insane," Theodore tapped the journal's cover with each word before shoving it back toward Whitaker. The Otter's muzzle turned into the disgusted grunt that was so typical of the beast now. "You're not behaving like you're studying anything. I don't even know what to call this!"

Whitaker fell silent, retrieving the journal back into his vest pocket. The Otter scoured the tabletop as if the sunlight's reflection would somehow guide him to his answer. His mouth opened and closed half a dozen times in false-starts of sentences. He didn't manage to spit anything out until Theodore was sliding from the booth. "What if I could prove it to you, then?"

He paused mid-motion. One leg was out of the booth already: he could just walk away. He could explain to Sybil that this beast had drank too much seawater, or been beat upside the head with something heavy. He had a scar already, and with this drivel brain damage wouldn't be a hard sell! They both probably stank like alcohol by this point, or at least enough to convince Sybil to pass this little river rat off to someone else.

"If you could, wouldn't you lead with that?" he would have snapped the words out of the air if he could. "Why just throw yourself atop a beast with 'I'm going to die' and not try to prove it?" Whitaker didn't meet his glance, instead inhaling through his fingers as if he was, once again, caught in some kind of moral dilemma. "Spit it the fuck out, or I go to Sybil and the pair of you--"

"Guthery Faulkner works here. He is the beast whom I intended to come see initially," Theodore's ears perked at the admission. Kendall's fingers laced over his muzzle bridge, and he looked to be pushing down to ease some kind of migraine. "He is my cousin's_other_."

"So you said with the meeting with Sybil," Theodore's response was a dry grunt. "What the hell does that have to do with anythi..." he stopped, his eyes darting toward the journal in Whitaker's breast pocket. No. thought Theodore. "You and your cousin have been keeping notes? Guthery knows about this sort of thing!?"

"Not so loudly," Whitaker hissed. Theodore didn't expect the beast to try and grab him by the sash and drag him forward, but the aged Otter was too slow to catch him. He was on his feet and out of reach before the professor had time to spill the remainder of Theodore's ale over the tabletop. "Oh for--!"

"Move from that chair, and I will kill you with my own teeth," Theodore's voice boiled in his throat. Whitaker retreated further into the booth, away from the pungent liquid that invaded the whole table. Pulling his sash off, Theodore threw the cloth in a wad over top of the spill, then leaned forward over it. He knew his teeth were bared. He knew that was bad form for any customer, but he couldn't be bothered with etiquette in the face of whatever-the-fuck he had to classify this beast as. "You come to this Abbey, and you spout off about this chittering nonsense, then you try and drag one of our own shamans into this mix? What the hell are you playing at? You already know this sounds insane; but now you're talking about_heresy_ you fucking rat!"

"If you want proof, I am telling you that Guthery has it!" Whitaker snapped back just as viciously. "Have you wondered why his moods have been so sour recently? How he's been so reticent about everything to do with Sacred Intoxication?" he demanded, testing his luck by moving closer to Theodore. He didn't seem to mind the darker snarl, or the hackles of the Wolf raising in response.

"He's not my problem, I haven't checked on what the fuck he does for his paycheck," he sneered back. "But he's got the proof? Why don't we go and pay him a visit. I'm sure he can tell us something new, then." The professor froze. Had he really not intended for Theodore to call his bet? The nervous glancing in his eyes, twitching of his whiskers and lips... Theodore dared to say that a nerve was struck. "Well?" he demanded.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Whitaker's voice was quiet. "You said it yourself. This flirts with Heresy. What you find may see you abandon this pursuit or religious vocation, once you realize what you've been praying to."