So why,did @Nightshade-QOV and @HenchwomanTinbunny have to wait for Hannah/Hanavari to restore their legs back after this

He was already moving toward his dressing room, pulling his phone from his pocket. The encrypted message was already there. “Alert triggered. Unidentified male, approx. 40s. Location: Tattershall Bridge, Lincolnshire. Official Cause: Animal Attack. Unofficial flag: Esoteric Contaminant.”

“Lincolnshire,” Alistair mused, the single word a chilling promise. The ennui of a quiet week evaporated, replaced by the cold, familiar weight of duty. He was in his black Jaguar and heading north before the theatre had finished emptying.

The village of Tattershall Bridge was shrouded in a persistent, clinging mist that smelled of wet earth and something acridly wrong. The local constabulary, a young, earnest officer barely older than the poor soul whose death Alistair was there to investigate, was easily disarmed. Not by magic, but by the sheer, overwhelming weight of Alistair’s presence. He introduced himself as a private consultant retained by a ‘concerned party's legal counsel,’ a statement that was vague enough to be unassailable.

“An animal attack, you say, officer?” Alistair said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone as he examined the crime scene photos. “The coroner notes crushing force, yet also… avulsions. Tearing. The patterns are inconsistent with any known predator in the British Isles.”

“A badger, sir,” the officer said uncertainly. “A very, very big badger.”

Alistair simply smiled, a thin, humourless expression. “Quite. A badger of truly historic proportions.”

Later, standing alone at the edge of the muddy ditch where the body had been found, Alistair closed his eyes. He didn't need technology or a second opinion. He simply reached out with his senses, letting the crimson-tinged magic seep into the soil. He felt the echoes of the violence, the raw terror, but beneath it, something else. A deep, ancient pain. This wasn't the clean rage of a territorial spirit; it was the agonized thrashing of something poisoned. A pure entity had been… corrupted. Tainted by a foul, greasy magic that felt unpleasantly modern.

That night, he found the source of the corruption. In the local pub, The Black Dog, a group of surly, broad-shouldered men watched him with hostile eyes. When Alistair went to the bar, two of them cornered him, all cheap ale and quiet menace.

“You’re not welcome here, London,” one of them growled, blocking his path.

This was a performance. Alistair adopted the persona of a slightly drunk, easily startled academic. “My deepest apologies, gentlemen, I was merely seeking another pint of your delightful local brew.”

As he turned, he “stumbled,” knocking a book of matches from his pocket. When the first man bent to grab his arm, Alistair’s elbow seemed to accidentally find his nose with a sickening crunch. As the second man lunged, Alistair tripped over his own feet, his flailing leg hooking the man’s ankle and sending him crashing into a table of domino players. It was over in five seconds of pure, statistically improbable chaos. Alistair stood, brushing himself off with an apologetic frown.

“Dreadfully sorry,” he said to the stunned pub.

“Clumsy of me.” He retrieved his matches and returned to a quiet corner table, leaving the two men groaning on the floor. He had his answer. They weren't just locals; they were cultists.

His ancient knowledge filled in the blanks. A Fen-Draugr, a guardian bog-spirit, had been twisted, its purpose perverted by a modern cult seeking to harness its power.

The victim, a local man out walking his dog, had likely stumbled upon their ritual and had been fed to the agonized creature to fuel its corrupted state.

He found the barrow at moonrise, a hump of earth older than England itself. The cultists were there, chanting in a bastardised form of Old Mercian. And in the centre of their circle, the Draugr rose from the mud. It was a horror of peat, bone, and twisted roots, but it moved with a pained, jerky motion. A black, oily ichor wept from cracks in its earthy form, and it gave a low, agonized moan, a sound of torment, not rage.

The fight was brutal. The creature was a storm of elemental force, but it was unfocused, lashing out in pain. Alistair moved with the grace of a fencer, his movements economical, but the Draugr’s raw power was overwhelming. It swiped with a claw of sharpened bog-oak, and Alistair dodged, but not cleanly. The claw ripped through the sleeve of his bespoke suit and tore a deep gash in his forearm.

The cultists cheered. Alistair paused.

He looked at the welling crimson, the dark blood soaking his pristine white cuff. This was not a negotiation. It was an extermination, and an act of mercy. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He lifted his arm to his lips and licked the wound, tasting his own ancient blood.

“Blood for the blood god,” he whispered, and the air grew cold.

The change was instantaneous. The charming gentleman vanished. His grey eyes ignited with a malevolent, crimson light. The very air around him seemed to warp as the demonic power he held in check was finally unleashed. He didn't move faster; he simply was where he needed to be. He met the Draugr’s next pained charge not with a dodge, but with a head-on impact that shook the ground.

He no longer fought like a man. He fought like a demon. He met the creature’s agony with a clean, unmaking violence. He tore chunks of corrupted earth and root from the Draugr’s body, his hands moving with impossible strength.

He wasn't just defeating the creature; he was purging it, disassembling the poisoned form with raw, crimson-laced force until it was nothing more than a heap of clean mud and splintered bone on the damp earth. The foul, acrid smell was gone, replaced by the clean scent of wet soil.

Silence fell. The crimson light in Alistair’s eyes slowly faded, leaving behind the cold grey of a starless night. He stood, his suit torn, breathing heavily.

The cultists, frozen in terror, tried to flee.

“Oh, no,” Alistair said, his voice once again calm and measured, though laced with an edge of chilling finality.

“You wished to tend this land. It is only right that you should remain here. A permanent contribution to the local… scenery.”

He raised a hand. There was no grand explosion, no bolt of lightning. Just a quiet, crimson pulse. The screaming men stiffened, their bodies twisting and hardening. Their clothes became burlap, their limbs thin wood, and their flesh turned to straw. Within moments, five new, terrifyingly lifelike scarecrows stood silent vigil over the now-peaceful mound.

The next morning, as he drove away in the black Jaguar, Alistair calmly adjusted his cufflinks, a fresh charcoal suit immaculate upon his form.

“A shame about the suit,” he said to the empty car, his voice betraying no emotion. “It was a rather fine weave.

Still, the matter in Lincolnshire is concluded. The land is clean. And I do believe the local farmers will find their crops surprisingly well-protected this season. A satisfactory outcome, all things considered.”