September 30th, 1895 - Fangworth estate thestral stables

wearing this

Emmeline walked across fresh hay of the stable floor and watched as little beetles scurried away from her footsteps. Other than the winged occupants of the stable, she was alone right now but knew that @”progress fangworth” would be here momentarily to join her. Progress and here knew each other, they weren't close but they were both of a more practical class which helped them get along.

One of the thestrals in the stables made a snort and nudged at her with its head. Emmeline stroked at its strange face and let it sniff at her hand a little. ”I should have brought apples, huh?” she joked and scratched its cheek before continuing. They were handsome in their own strange way, but she still preferred bugs.

Speaking of which, there was a low buzzing in the air which told her she was getting close. The letter had said a stable hand had been bitten by something in the stables, had taken ill and had said something in his delirium about a nest in the end stall. So vague, even the word bitten had been an afterthought, written in after scratching out the word “stung”. “Which is it?” she said to herself as she checked the smouldering piece of rope that hung from her waist. It was impregnated with magical and mundane herbs that would burn and hopefully put any insects off attacking her. In theory, except it didn't work on all insects and she still didn't know what she might be dealing with. They needed this sorted, Merlin knew the drama that night unfold should one of the more delicate members of the family get bitten, or stung.

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Progress Fangworth

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   Progress Fangworth

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Progress was always running late. He did his best to stick to his schedule, but there was only so much one could do when dealing with magical creatures all day—especially when said creatures were essentially representatives of death. Most had rather sweet dispositions, just as their horse counterparts would. While others were a lot to handle and often took multiple stablehands to get them to do anything they didn't want to.

He hurried into the stables, the usual muck and hay covering him from head to toe. One of the stablehands had had a run-in with... something and Progress had yet to sort out what it was. Hence, the request for the Fangworth entomologist. Miss Emmeline was easy enough to find. She was standing in front of the stable that housed the mare he had nicknamed Maybelle. Progress scurried over, heavy boots thudding against the ground.

"Glad you made it, Miss Emmeline!" He grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly (unsure of what else to do with them.) "You're here for whatever got Monty's face swelling up like a dragon egg?" Obviously, since he'd been the one who requested her, but what else was he supposed to ask for polite small talk?

  

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