...okay! That's a problem! It doesn't obviously have anything to do with Vanda Nossëo but it seems like it might behoove them to look in on things there anyway. They send in a team (a Dwarf, a magic rock, a Limboite) to check things out.

There is rather a strong smell. A lookout wearing matted furs darts inside at their appearance.

The Dwarf takes the lead and knocks.

There is no answer!

The magic rock obliges the door to open anyway.

A crude weighted spike trap swings into the shattered doorway, right at head height. There's some scraps and parts, and two possibly-living people inside - one tied to a table and unconscious, the other sitting in a chair at the far end, with a clearly and brutally broken leg. The latter cheerfully says, "Hello!"

The magic rock removes the unconscious one. The Limboite heads further inside. "Hello," she says. "What's going on here?"

"Why, just the last day of my life. Knowing the end is soon has a way of putting things in perspective."

"What if you were going to live?" she inquires.

He laughs. "Good one. No, no, the hunger has no use for a cripple. I'm dead, it just hasn't quite caught up yet."

"The hunger?"

"Oh, yes. We're free from all the mental chains except one. Perspective is a wonderful thing. The only cost is a little... Hunger. Everything's gotta eat!"

Meanwhile, the magic rock is healing the person who was unconscious.

All the various visible painful-but-not-debilitating wounds vanish. She coughs and groans and tries to curl up, and otherwise remains unresponsive.

"Ma'am?" he says.

"I feel sick. Those salt-sucking goat whores fucking bastard swampshit, god, just kill me, I feel it. They got me, fucking werewolves."

"Werewolves?"

"It's a c- Ow ow ow uuurgh. Curse. They take you and then either they eat you or they change you. My husband kidnapped me, but he wasn't my husband anymore. Gods damn them, may they suffer after they die."

"Is there a way to fix them?" the magic rock asks, pulling out his computer to send an urgent note up to forensics that they need to pinpoint the locations of everyone who's had contact with them.

"I don't know, do I look like a shaman to you? It's worming into my head. Feels so angry. God, I want to stab you."

It's about twelve seconds later that the friendly orc who explained money to Solomon bursts into where he's interviewing student candidates to say, "Werewolves! Know anything about 'em?"

"-Oh. Oh no. We'll have to - later." He stands and runs out of the room. "People call lots of things werewolves, what happened?"

The orc reads off the report as it was given to him.

"I - have encountered things that could be what you describe. If it's what I think, you need to keep mentally weak people away."

"Okay. What can we do for the infected?"