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Who: Pickman and Herbert West. Then Njoki too, once they get back her and Pick's place.
What: Pickman is meeting up with his old pal Herbie, and having the 'guess what I've been up to since college?' conversation.
Where: Valhalla Inn, then out and about, Mafaton-ward.
When: Today, mid-afternoon.
Warnings: Descriptions of Pickman's physical state. Probably, discussion of grave-robbing, cannibalism, and attempts to resurrect the dead.

He was nervous.

Funny, wasn't it? He'd chosen this life. This transformation. Leapt headlong into the abyss, and never regretted it for a minute. But now there was someone in Baedal who had known him only as a human being (albeit a strange one) and he was nervous about having the conversation with him, about what he was, what he'd done to himself and what he did. Herbert was an old friend -- not the closest, not even in his strange little 'inner circle,' but a friend nonetheless, someone he'd had long conversations with and who'd helped him out with more than one science class.

He had a while to think about it on his way to the Valhalla, trying to work out how to phrase his explanation, how to defend his choices. Trying to come to grips with the idea that this could be the last time he'd talk with Herbert. Because as soon as he stepped into the Inn on his little goat feet, and as soon as the other man laid eyes on him, it would be glaringly obvious he wasn't entirely human anymore.

By the time he was at the door, though, he was determined. He knew what to do, what to say. And he didn't hesitate as he stepped inside, scanning the room for a man he recognised from a lifetime ago.

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Herbert isn't nervous. He has a lot more to think about, right now, than whether or not someone he knew from college is going to be difficult to deal with. He doesn't anticipate that he will. Pickman was his friend, after all. Wasn't he? Probably. He liked his company. West just never made any effort to keep in touch.

By the time Pickman shows up at the inn, West is downstairs, like he said he'd be. He looks rather like he did in college, a little older, but that's difficult to tell. He's shed his lab coat, has a laptop bag over one shoulder, and is either reading the pamphlet again, or has found other exciting propaganda to go over while he waits.

He lowers the unfolded paper to look at Pickman, and as can be expected, his gaze goes right to the hooves, and how the man is walking, which is more interesting than the hooves, which alone could be some elaborate costume element. Anatomy and gait are more telling. How is one even supposed to react to that?

"Richard, hello." First establish familiarity, then dive right into the matter at hand. "I'll wait for your explanation."

Motherfucker hasn't aged a day. Pickman has to grin, seeing that. He knows just how much he's changed. The hooves might be the most immediately obvious change, but they're only the start. A good decade of hygienic neglect and the slow transformation of his body from human to ghoul has left him looking like a drugged-out wreck of a man. His eyes have gone from golden-brown to flat-out yellow, his hair is starting to thin, and his teeth are mostly deep yellow, except for a few, knocked out and grown back in bright white and sharply canine.

He clip-clops in, shoulders raised, obviously tense. Giving a nervous, skittering laugh.

"It's a long'n. Herbie." But he can make it shorter. "I decided not t'be human anymore."

"Oh." There will be a few moments of silence, after that. It might be taken for shock or speechlessness, and maybe it is, but he's also going over what he can see, to decide whether or not he wants to believe the claim. It's obvious that the man's rejected his body, regardless of what else is true. Looking at him in that state, West would almost rather it be a case of something entirely bizarre, than illness, neglect and extreme body-modification. No one has any business putting cosmetic tooth implants in a mouth that bad.

"What are you, then?", he asks, after a little while. That's a good, neutral question, and will hopefully prompt more of that long explanation.

"Ah -- s'called ghoulkin. Not all there yet. Obv'sly. Graveyard folk. Scavengers." He's not a man who gets nervous easily, who shows honest emotion readily. He defaults to a mask of manic, offensive cheer, barreling through life without a fuck given for who he upsets. But right now... yeah, he wants this to go over well.

"Had the blood in me all my life. When I figured it out -- shit, you know how my family was. Fuck that. Make a new one. Just fucked off last year, retired the art circuit, got too messed up t'pass well." He scratches the back of his neck. "It ain't catchin'. Ain't gonna be so rough when it's done, but it's gonna be a fuckuva while, yet."

"Obviously." Yes, this is all obvious. Right. "You dropped out of the public eye, and were heading off to... Randy knew about all this?" And believed it? Herbert sighs.

"If there are drugs involved, Richard, I don't want to talk to you any more." It's no moral judgement. It would be stupid to crash on a junkie's couch when he's at this much of a disadvantage, in a place he knows nothing about. "If you're telling the truth, once I know what the hell is going on here, I'm sure that will be fascinating. Did you want to leave the inn?"

"Yeah. He's the one that hooked me up with some of the lit. He's into some weird shit, man. Bookworms." He grins, shaking his head. A glimpse of his usual humour. "No drugs. I know I look like shit, man. But, fuck. Fuck that shit. You know any drugs'll make your feet fall off?"

A giggle. Maybe this is working out, then? Yes?

"You wanna go, wanna keep talkin'? I can go. Show you the city, Mafaton, my digs. My roomie's the one who set me up with these." He wiggles a hoof. "You wanna fuck off any time, just say it."

"Huh. I should have talked to him, more. And that depends on how convoluted a story the drugs are involved in. Plenty of things will make you lose your feet."

Maybe! He's not trying to run away, or going on any tirade, or loudly insisting on proof, right here, right now.

"Show me where you're staying, and we can talk. Your roommate put those feet on you after your feet fell off?" Okay. Great. What?!

Another giggle. "Yeah, but gettin' em back, fuck..."

He gestures toward the door with a nod of his head. "C'mon. Getchya a sammich or somethin' on the way."

He'll even hold the door open for his old pal. "Welcome to Baedal. Enjoy the view." An attempt is made to keep quiet, and let him take in their surroundings. For all of seven seconds.

"-- eh, y'know, they had'n' fallen off yet, but they were gettin' there, an' the smell was a pissah." This wasn't really what Herbert was the most interested in, was it? "He -- she, she's a, I guess a fleshcrafter, y'could call it. Usually on spooky ol' fucks, undead, I ain't undead, you know, got a heartbeat an' all, but close enough, dead flesh, puttin' it back on an' makin' it work."

West folds and pockets the pamphlet he's been holding onto, and steps through the door, and looks up and around at the city, but as for enjoying the view, he more looks like it is some weird bug he is encountering, and he would like to poke it with a stick. Maybe only until it stops being annoying.

"Close enough to undead." He repeats that, and lets the statement hang for a moment. "Would you call her a doctor?" There are many, many questions he could ask. He is refraining from the incredulous ones, and sifting through the basics, first. About Pickman's situation, and the city. "I don't need a sandwich, thank you. Cross-city communication is primarily through this network. I assume getting word out of the city is not so easily accomplished?"

"Doctor?" He considers this. "Nah. Not really. Witch doctor, maybe. Magic, not science." He can't imagine being able to pull something like this off with science. But, you know. What does he know?

"Yeeeeah." A giggle. "The gods 'ere, there was a thing -- you just fuckin' missed it -- sent us all off on missions, an' we did well enough, we got to send out a letter. You've got a few of 'em floatin' 'round, for a pretty penny. Got one. Sold it already, though." He looks apologetic, even just a little guilty. "Sorry, Herbs. Other'n those, I don' think there is a way. Or if there is, it's, like, fuckin' -- gods-caliber mojo."

"In terms of the level of understanding, not in terms of the methods she's using." He's not going to waste time agonizing over whether or not the supernatural is supposed to happen. It's either true or it isn't, and if magic is verifiable, then it should be approached scientifically. If it can't be, then... it should be...

"Specifically, I'm wondering about your immune system, what's a concern, and what's been taken into consideration."

Then he looks disappointed. Bad timing, huh? His frown tightens, and he nods, without further comment. Damn.

"Doctor," he says, then. "She knows her shit. Worked with ghouls before, even, maybe. Had 'em for two weeks now, and no problems." A grin. Aw, Herbie cares.

"Y'could, shit. Ask about, see if anyone's got one still. But I don't think they're gonna come cheap. You had shit going on back home?"

All right. That still leaves a lot up for questioning, but that's good for a start. As long as no one's feet are going to rot right back off, before he can study them.

"Liability insurance payments," he says, with enough conviction to indicate that may, in fact, be a joke.

"You said this was a choice you made, before you were brought here. What did you do to initiate it?"

"Thrill a minute, yeah?" Giggle. Then a considering noise. How much to say --

"Y'know I always been into the graveyard set, yeah? My set bac in soph. 'Student Bodies'?" Referring to the incident, of course, where he broke into various morgues and took photographs of recently deceased students of Miskatonic, and then painted their post-mortem portraits. It had only been by virtue of his name that he hadn't been expelled for that. And he'd been disowned soon after. "First met 'em, there. I guess they knew their own kind."

"Oh, yes.". He sounds so gosh darn underwhelmed.

West listens to Pickman, quiet another short while. He never said anything about that particular project of Pickman's, but of course, he found it interesting. Letting on to that, more, now, may encourage more information. "it was an intriguing concept. Are there any of your kind, here?"

"Eh, there's some, but they ain't the Boston strain. Like extended family from overseas, kinda. You got shit in common, but it don't quite all click." This makes him frown briefly. "It's, eh -- there's shit you gotta do, to go the full nine, yeah? Rites a'passage. I do 'em with these boy, I make it to the Dreamlands an' my own pack, I ain't one of them. So I'm a little stuck."

"But, trapped where you can be more in the open.". From what little he knows of the place, the fact that Pickman skipped right on over to the inn, in goat feet, and was only apparently nervous to meet -him-, West feels this is a safe assumption. "Though with what you've given to join your pack...". Slight pause at the term, but it's hardly noticeable, more mulling it over, not scorn. "that isn't so much. I'm fortunate that I have as much of my research notes with me that I have, but I've lost access to much more."

"Tch. Yeah, but -- fuck, I had plans." He shakes his head, eager to turn the conversation in another direction. West gives him one, and he seizes upon it. "Yeah? Like? Research into what? You're doin' science shit, not just medical doctorin'?"

"So do I." Is it appropriate at this point to say "did", instead? That would imply giving up on escape, and -he- has every intention of continuing his research. It's portable work, anyway. People die everywhere.

"I've been doing independent research as long as you've known me," he says, matter-of-fact.

"Yeeeeah? Into what? Can't just leave me hangin' like that, man. They got science types all 'round here. Might be able to hook yourself up with someone."

He smiles, smirks maybe, very faintly, because it would be up Pickman's alley, if he knew, and West has not decided if filling him in is prudent. If he says too little, it will remain a fascinating mystery, and that would also be problematic. Still, there's answers that he doesn't mind giving.

"I'm interested in the limits of resuscitation," is a good, dry answer. Less direct than what he told that man on the network, but this is a different situation.

"Yeah?" Yeah, that doesn't sound nearly as interesting as 'bringing people back from the dead.' Still, Pickman is smarter than he looks. Or acts. And he can pull at least a couple things out of his memory that might pertain to what West is talking about. "Like that thing where you got the people who've been froze half to fuck an' they thaw out just fine? Or the thing with that gas you can put people under with?"

"The former. Even in those cases, there's currently a limit on the amount of time which can pass before the amount of damage to the brain would be too significant. I have evidence that this limit could be extended well past what is now possible or indicated by other research."

You know, standard science fair project stuff.

Pickman makes a chirpy sound, pleasantly surprised to find himself actually following what Herbert is saying. "Yeah? So, what -- the brain don't get enough oxygen, I know, it gets all fucked. You get shit goin' again, you've still got a vegetable. You got a thing -- a thing, an idea for how to undo that? Or just not let it get so bad?"

That... Is not a human noise, but the meaning is still clear, so no comment on that. If West is glad that he can follow, well, the reward is simply more discussion, and not any more vague smiling.

"The distinction would require more of an explanation. The damage specifically caused by a lack of oxygen actually occurs when circulation is restored. Eventually, decomposition becomes an issue..."

He nods, nodnodnods. "Yeah? And you're researchin' -- what? Keepin' the oxy from doin' that damage when it gets back in? Or -- what?"

"If these destructive processes can be halted and life and brain function restored past the current limitations, do you understand the implications? I need to know more about the state of medical science in this city."

If the destructive processes can be... and... oh. He stumbles to a halt, as it hits him fully. He's heard of magic to bring a person back from the dead. Who hasn't? But the cost was always unspeakably high. If it could be done with science, all aboveboard and measured-out, then...

"I'm gonna be out a fuckin' meal," he mutters, a wondering tone in his voice.

"Scavengers, you said," West comments, with no notable reaction to Pickman's revelation other than a lack of fear. He keeps walking a few steps, before he matches Pickman and comes to a stop.

Scavengers, he'd said. Yeah. sure. But why was Herbert -- oh. Oh.

"Fuck." If he had hackles to stand up, they would be. As it was, his shoulders went high and stiff, bracing for the shitstorm he was sure was about to happen. So much for that good start. Fuck. Fuck. "I -- ah, fuck."

"I'm not concerned, Richard," he says, dryly. He expects this to be obvious. "What you eat isn't my business, unless you ask my opinion."

"....seriously?" He knew Herbie was pretty unflappable, yeah, but this was -- unexpected. "Really?"

"To what exactly do you expect me to object? Scavenging does not imply killing. If you intended to kill me, you wouldn't be concerned with making a good impression, and if you made a regular habit of creating your own corpses, I doubt that I would be an exception by virtue of knowing you in college."

"No, fuck, I ain't one of those." His tone suggests that those is a more specific category than just murderers, but he doesn't elaborate on just what it does mean. "Just -- y'know. You're takin' this well." Even for a Miskatonic alumnus. "Ain't complainin', but, fuck." He giggles. "Kinda throwin' me for a loop-de-loop."

"I'm very curious," he says, after considering the matter over a short silence. "But I don't bear any illusions that cadavers are more than broken machines. I'm sure they would offer no objection."

"See, that's the fuckin' thing! Most people -- they don't fuckin' get that." He flails a little, gesturing unhappily. "But no one's gettin' fuckin' hurt, if they're followin' the laws! It's cleanup!"

"Most people aren't able to conceptualize their body after death without projecting their current awareness onto it. Many allow sentiment to get in the way of something as benign and beneficial to living people as organ donation. It's not rational." His frown deepens, but this is as close as he will get to 'flailing'.

"Thank you. You're a wonder, Herbie. You fuckin' know that." He starts to clop forward again, apparently accepting Herbert's acceptance. "You got any questions, I'll answer 'em how I can, yeah? Least I can do."

He does know that, but he's not going to waste time basking in praise for being reasonable. "There will be time for that. Radical advances in medicine are going to force people to reexamine these concepts about death and the nature of the mind, to which they cling. I can only touch on it briefly, now. I'm in a place where the rules are obviously different. I'll need some time."

"Yeah, yeah." He nods, bobbing his head like a bird. "I mean 'bout anythin'. I ain't been here that long, but I got a little on you, at least."

"Thank you," West says, and not anything else. Something on their walk may have caught his interest, or that's all he feels the need to say. He's not distracted, at any rate.

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