9-168: Argyle’s Lodge, Common Room

Two more shotgun blasts go off nearby at the end of which the Alpcow is no longer breathing and is rather a mess on the floor.  The room smells of burned fur, firearm propellant, ozone, blood and shit.

Dicard says something, but it’s not really intelligible; he’s losing consciousness.

In the cold air, steam is rising from his now-bandage-sprayed wounds.  I’m assuming Oliver has cut his clothes off to some degree.  He has deep gouges across his arm, shoulder and upper chest, as well as a nasty but not life-threatening slash along his jaw.

Oliver can continue with the First Aid process if he wishes.

Outside he can just hear the sound of electric motors and crunching rocks over the post-shotgun blast ringing in his ears.