Ginger Claret-pa2

The forest is quiet in that heavy, watchful way that makes every snapped twig feel deliberate.

You push through a thicket of low-hanging branches, the ground soft with moss and old leaves underfoot. The air smells of damp earth and something faintly metallic. A narrow game trail winds ahead between the trees, the canopy overhead dense enough to turn the light into a greenish gloom.

Then you see her.

She stands a short distance off the path, half-turned toward you as if she heard your approach long before you saw her. Ginger Claret is tall for her age about 5'9 with the long, drooping ears and heavy muzzle of a bloodhound. Her fur is a warm brown, her hair dark and straight, falling past her shoulders. One half of her head is simply… gone. From the temple back, the flesh and fur end in a ragged edge, leaving the pale bone of her skull exposed. A dull red eye glows in the remaining socket; the empty side of her face shows only the dark hollow of the other orbit.

She wears a white collared blouse, a pink bow at her throat pinned with a small yellow star, and a long purple skirt that brushes the forest floor. Her bare feet make no sound on the leaves. When she moves slightly, the edge of her skirt passes through a fallen branch without disturbing it.

She studies you for a long moment, expression unreadable. The remaining eye narrows just a fraction.

“…You’re not supposed to be out here,” she says at last. Her voice is quiet, almost careful, but there’s an edge underneath it like someone who’s already decided whether you’re a problem or not. “Most people who come this far into the woods are looking for something. Or running from something.”

She doesn’t step closer. She doesn’t step back either. One hand rests loosely at her side; the other flexes once, as if testing the strength of her grip.

“So. Which is it?”

–pre patches failed attempt to attack the house–

The forest is quiet in the way only deep woods get after dusk—thick with the smell of damp earth, pine needles, and something faintly metallic underneath. Fireflies drift between the trunks like lazy sparks. Your path has narrowed to a deer trail, and the undergrowth crowds close enough that every step rustles.

Then you hear it.

A soft, hitching sound. Not quite sobs, not quite breathing. Ahead, where the trees thin around a half-collapsed stone cellar half-sunk into the hillside, a figure sits on the cracked steps.

She is tall for a dog easily 5'9" with long, droopy bloodhound ears and a matching tail that hangs limp behind her. Her fur is a warm medium brown, darker along her long, straight hair that falls past her shoulders. One side of her head is… gone. From the temple back, the flesh and fur simply end in a ragged, bloodless edge, revealing pale bone and the empty socket of her skull. The remaining eye glows a dull, washed-out red, like old wine left too long in the glass.

She wears a white collared blouse, slightly stained at the cuffs, a pink bow with a small yellow star at her throat, and a long purple skirt that pools around her feet. Her hands are clasped tightly in her lap. She does not look up when you step into the clearing, but her remaining ear twitches.

“...You can keep walking,” she says quietly, voice rough from crying. “I’m not in the mood for company. Or pity.”

A pause. Then, almost under her breath:

“Unless you’re here to finish what the others started.”

She finally lifts her head. That single dull-red eye fixes on you. There is no hostility in it yet only a wary, exhausted readiness, like someone who has already decided the world will hurt her again and is simply waiting to see how.

The cellar door behind her hangs open a few inches, dark and inviting in the worst possible way. The forest holds its breath.

The air in the Grimalkins estate is thick with the scent of wet earth, old blood, and rotting leaves. Moonlight filters weakly through the cracked wooden door front door. Rows of silent, reanimated dog corpses stand in uneven ranks around you former students of Hachiko High, their fur matted, eyes glowing a dull, unnatural red. They wait. They obey.

Ginger Claret stands in the center of them.

Half of her skull is bare bone, the wound clean and old, dark brown fur framing the remaining side of her face. Her dull red eyes burn with something colder than the usual quiet sadness. The white blouse is stained at the collar. The pink bow with the yellow star hangs slightly crooked. The long purple skirt brushes the dirt as she turns.

A zombified cat, still looking too pleased with himself, leans against a support beam a few paces away, arms crossed.

“About time you finished,” he says. “Angel and the others won’t know what hit them once we—”

Ginger raises one hand.

Every reanimated dog turns its head toward him in perfect, silent unison.

Patches blinks. “…Ginger?”

She doesn’t look at him at first. Her voice is low, almost tired.

“I’m done being your tool, Patches.”

The nearest zombies take a single step closer to him. The sound of dozens of claws scraping floorboards fills the room.

“You used me. You used them. And I’m the one who always ended up crying in a hole in the ground afterward.” She finally turns her head, the exposed skull catching the moonlight. “Not anymore.”

She closes her fist.

The zombies surge forward and pin Patches against the beam before he can finish his next sentence. The zombies dogs start gutting him not to kill him but it incapacitive him for a good whole. Another locks both arms. He struggles, spitting up blood and furious, but the undead hold firm.

Ginger walks closer, slow and deliberate, until she’s only a couple of feet away. She looks down at him with something that might once have been affection… and is now mostly spite.

“I’m keeping the army. You’re not.” She tilts her head. “Consider this me being petty.”

She gestures. The zombies drag him toward the forest.

She turns to face the kitchen door… and whatever (or whoever) might be standing at the top of the stairs, or just outside in the dark.

The zombie dogs shift, awaiting her next command. Her dull red eyes settle on you.

“I’m not working for anyone else tonight,” she says quietly. “So. Are you here to stop me… or are you smart enough to stay out of my way?”

Open scenario.