A coyote scents the air, taking it in, assuring itself no one else is about, no one bigger than it is, anyway. The Beast trots lightly around the grounds of the darkened mansion. It's a perfectly normal coyote despite perhaps behaving strangely for a mundane beast. Only another (real) coyote would know something wasn't right. No Beasts would sense its true nature, which is the main thing. It would sense them, and none are around. Assured the coast is clear, the coyote works itself cautiously into a blind spot, unobserved, and a young man--also apparently normal as far as a Beast could sense, but possibly a real young man would sense something...off--moves out of the same spot, letting himself into the mansion through the front door.

Inside things are pretty much the same as he last saw them, fancy, showing taste and money and power, all gone empty and neglected. That's a problem, a sign of him not doing all he should. Just because he has no use for it, finds it a burden taking time away from what he does care about, doesn't mean he doesn't have a responsibility. He benefits clear and certain from no others in his Order being around for him to answer to; it's not right to accept the corresponding burden, balance the books so to speak.

He knows the way to the storage place for the cleaners, remembers real well going there to get what was needed to best clean up the blood left after the corpse of Blackbird was disposed of. He gets into a good rhythm, even if he doesn't have unnatural speed, the job goes along pretty well. Easier then putting up a mile of fence, digging holes and hauling posts and rails and such. He gets it all spic and span, good for company and smelling of disinfectant such that any mortal man or woman would feel this was a place cared for if in maybe an impersonal, institutional kind of way.

He takes special care in all the rooms, removing any trace of any passage of any person of any kind. He remembers the kitchen, and takes all the time necessary, as in all other parts to remove any evidence of the cooking and the smells he remembers being made by those who don't eat.

He works his way with typical thorough, dogged persistence from the heart, down in the depths eventually out to the doorway, the entrance which was the last place to see another of his Order, the newest, last one to disappear. Then, his responsibilities completed for a bit, the diligent, sober apparent young man treads lightly out, closing and locking the door behind. He heads first to a different dark, hidden spot in a little clump of trees and shrubs, thinking he's going to need to learn himself some home repair if this state goes on longer, to do the needful little chores a well kept place requires.

A small, burrowing owl flies up on silent owl wings from where the young man had last been. It flies out for miles to the Barrens, far from any property anyone cares about or would care to put a price on, where the seemingly young man finds everything he needs to feed through the last bit of night and sleep through the coming day.