The little metal shanty hut was in chaos.
This important fact was not at all helped by the fact that none of its three inhabitants were currently alive - at least not in the traditional sense, anyway. Nevertheless, from the outside, there was a distinct sound of rustling. Rustling bodies, rustling clothes, rustling leaves. Lots of rustling.
There was a loud curse following Conrad's sudden greeting. Indeed, it appeared that even jimmies were being rustled in this sanctum of swishing. Nevertheless, to understand this rustling, one must understand the esoteric nature of the hut's denizens.
And that brings us here: to a shitty tin hut with a potted plant, a dead stoner, a vampire with dreadlocks, and lots and lots of smoke.
Magnificent, stoic, and with all manner of colorful decorum in full bloom, the potted plant was a lone sentinel of nature in this realm of steel and iron. It was also rustling with vexing rapidity, a silent scream that could be heard by none as it vibrated in the direction of the drug-addled carcass.
(Do something jackass), it seemed to say. Or more accurately, spelled out with its vines.
The vampire was staring inaudibly at the corpse, mouth ajar. Slowly, he rubbed at his forehead, his eyes a nervous red when they read the message. "Shit, like what?" he hissed.
(IDFK), replied the plant. It didn't actually know what that meant; it was a plant not a linguist.
A quivering ache settled in Rowan's stomach--he didn't even know he could feel sick anymore. He finally glanced at the door--there was only one person who'd be knocking.
Rowan swallowed, his hands shaking. "Y-yeah, hold on--" finally came his nervous answer to Conrad. He was surprised by his own strength as he easily lifted the dead body. How long does it take a body to burn? he thought, hoping it wasn't long as he carefully placed it in the fire. He looked again to the really rapidly rustling plant and held up a finger, as if asking for a moment.
Then, suddenly, they were at the door--if you could call the scrap metal that. After a deep breath, he stepped out to meet Conrad, closing the door behind him with potted plant in hand. He cleared his throat, thankful some of the more obvious signs of worry could not plague a vampire: sweating, a racing heart beat-- but a nervous laugh could. And shaking hands. And wide eyes. "H-- Hi," he said finally, smiling from behind his muzzle. "You found the smoke."
(Salutations ones of the flesh), the plant greeted, doing a little bow with its leaves and stem, as the strange smelling smoke wafted out of the hut behind them, the silent witness to their manslaughter. (We believe we have ascertained the information you seek).
On queue, from the arboreal depths of the pot - no, not that pot - a map was withdrawn. It seemed to have been rolled tightly with one singed side and one slightly dank side opposite it. Similarly, a particularly disagreeable smell emanated from it. Fortunately the information was still legible, despite the item's unusual condition.
(If you desire a conference we advise gathering elsewhere), the vines inscribed, (Our "roommate" is currently)
The smoke from inside the hut began smelling particularly rotten and of burnt meet, like a barbecue gone bad.
(indisposed)
