Darcy was stitched up. 

The once-moving bones were collected and packed nearly into forensic evidence baggies.

All of the party was assembled... Except for one. Who returned suddenly...

Icarus. The man was so quiet and subtle he was easy to forget. Which he counted on often in order to accomplish his work... He seemed to come from nowhere, his tattoos shifted across his skin so that he could blend with snow, shadow, or stone as it suited him for this mission. The shifting ink quickly resolved itself into the intricate artwork and became still: Seemingly normal tattoos. Once his person could be clearly seen and discerned he appeared as a short man, stout and muscular, his skin covered in artwork that could be seen on his bare arms that bulged out of his vest sleeves, the ink could be seen on his neck up his neck from under his scarf, and winding around his bald scalp, tendrils even wrapped around his ears and onto his cheeks, under his eyes like strange warpaint. Icarus never explained himself. He never spoke. Twain had said earlier 'he's Tibetan or something, the designated sneaky-guy and scout, he works best when you let him do his own thing, so, best to just let him wander off when he wants to. Don't worry he will make himself useful...'
and Twain had been right... Icarus didn't come alone. He dropped his companion on the ground before the assembled. The boy landed with a heavy 'thunk'. The body was barely alive, somewhat burned but mostly frostbitten. How Icarus had sneak in such an unwieldy parcel was a mystery. 

It was clear that he was human. And what was left of his cloths could also be identified, dark robes.

Icarus was smiling, proud of his find. It was not a nice smile. 

Twain whistled and knelt by the body. "Good boy, I'll just have to give you a biscuit now!" 

Icarus seemed unmoved by the jab, besides, he had his 'biscuit'. He lived for the hunt... The thrill of the catch... The satisfaction of the kill...

Twain closed his eyes and touched the body. "Nearly dead. Not sure if I can save this one, but, in either case we can get some information... [i]Chan fhiach cuirm gun a còmhradh[/i]..." and he gently touched the frostbitten man on the cheek.

The man heaved to life. His eyes wide and bloodshot-red, his lips blue and quivering he would have cried out but his cold lungs couldn't hold enough air for a proper scream. To witness such great effort expended only to fail miserably at the most basic of human function was... Gut wrenching. 

His eye darted between the assembled. He seemed especially alarmed to behold the stranger looking folk like Shannon and Vaughtar... "M-M-More monsters! Oh gods... What have we done? M-M-Monsters everywhere..." The man shuddered. "Did he escape? Did we get him or stop him or close the damn thing before..." The man paused, realizing that he was speaking to strangers...

"You have made my stiff tongue move, but, I'm not dead yet, so, you can't make me tell the truth. You haven't got much time either... So get on with it. Ask me your questions... I think I only have enough time left for a few... Maybe three... Then let me go..." his blue lips cracked but did not bleed, his blood was too cold and thick to flow anymore. "Then it will be all over for me..." He said this last bit with a sigh of fondness rather than with fear.