Sometimes you needed to clear your head. There was suspicion everywhere, excuses and stories both likely and unlikely being bandied about, and the real chance some of those people were penguins.
He swallowed, and moved away from the centre. He needed space to think.
Who was he meant to believe? They'd lost their oracle. And yes, they still had rumours of an exorcist, but it was quite a blow when they hadn't found a single penguin yet.
He walked the darkened path, thinking he was alone. Perhaps... No, maybe...
A hand rested on his shoulder. He jumped, turned, then sighed.
"Oh, it's just you," he said. "You scared me. I thought you were a-"
His compatriot opens their mouth and honks, lips twisting, contorting into a beak. Skin darkens, clothes are torn, and the hand on his shoulder becomes a flipper.
Roundy turns and runs.
In his heart, he knows it is too late. He has seen a village transform, he knows the identity of one of the penguins. They will not let him live. He can't go back to the centre, not now.
Bruce Forsice waddles after him. Seeing only one path of escape, Roundy runs for the edge of the island and flings himself over the edge.
The currents were treacherous, he knew that, but he would rather risk a chance of death with the water, than certain death at the beak of a werepenguin. He splashes madly, only to be pushed back by the waves, crashing into a rock.
Still, he spits out brine and tries to kick off once more; this time the current drags him under.
But at least he can know that he did not die at the hands of a penguin. He-
Oh no. No, he was a fool! The currents might be too treacherous for even they to escape, but penguins could swim too. As he descends, Roundy sees the glowing red eyes of Edward Flipperhands ascend to meet him.
Roundy the Truthinessist is dead.
Day breaks.