October 11, 2009, Tarkham Trust, quite late

"So, young Cliath, how did you assist in Moira's rescue?" a wizened Philodox asked Plays-With-Crayons.

"Well, sir, Adren, sir," Crayons looked at the Crinos's feet among a circle of other Crinoses, some scowling, some impassive, "I started to try to pull her out."

"A foolish decision," remarked one Theurge. "And I presume the bane had its way with you?"

"Er, I guess you could say that, Fostern. I didn't think--"

"The other guard over there," quizzed a middle-aged Galliard, pointing to Light-Bringer. "Did Moira claw his chest?"

Crayons, Ben, glanced at Light-Bringer, Paul, who had his own circle of Garou. Paul's eyes momentarily met Ben's, and Ben resumed examining at the elder's feet. "No, sir, that was my doing."

"Hey, what about the funny triangle welt on your face?" chimed in a less sober Ragabash. "Did Light-Bringer whack you good?"

"Um, no, that happened in the basement a little later," Ben began to reply. He touched the welt and winced from the unmistakable sting of silver. He paused a moment, looking at five randomly scattered bullet holes in his belly. "Maybe you should ask Carrie McCullough about it," he deferred.

"Others are questioning her," said the stolid Philodox who had spoken earlier.

"What was the purple goo like? Was it really slimy?" inquired a passing Theurge carrying a stein.

Crayons sighed. Long night ahead.