RYSLIG IC INBOX

[toothaches]

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, HUTCH77 FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 018.07.154.55 *** hutch77 has joined 018.07.154.55 <hutch77> hello? hello???

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cw: snake dining

[terribibble]

Things have been going well for Fiddleford lately. Incredibly well, in fact. He's fully untangled himself from the second cult he's found himself at the helm of, he's started seeing a doctor for the mess that is his head, and things have never been better with his boyfriend. Fiancé. That still doesn't feel quite real.

Of course no matter how good things are, there is still the unpleasantness of hunger. After two years he's become accustomed to the regular gnawing feeling and the insistent reminders from the foreign instinct he's dubbed his 'snake brain'. He doesn't like to think that killing people has become routine, but... killing people has become routine. It's had to for him to be able to keep doing it without losing his mind completely. He has to eat to live. He has to eat to keep in control of himself. It's not a wholly-evil act.

It's easiest by the water. Any human foolhardy enough to go down to the lake in the dark, alone, must know and accept the risks. It's not difficult to keep watch on the shore and intercept would-be fishermen before they can even cast off properly. Here in the dark and far from the city he doesn't have to worry about being interrupted when he's got a full-grown human halfway down his throat.

Usually. Usually he doesn't have to worry about that.

[toothaches]

It had been a long, hard few months. He couldn't decide if he felt better or worse about being a monster out in public. About being known about. The green cast of his skin and his long weedy hair marked him as a waterhorse and everyone in Bavon who had a brain in their head made sure to steer clear of him in the rain.

Rain. Something it hadn't done in a while, not really since winter set in right and proper. Maurice was starting to feel a weird nagging feeling--a different one from the budding hunger that had sprouted in the back of his head. He needed to be near water. The hotel room tub just didn't do it for him, even now that he could properly fit in it. He hand't been this thin since he was eighteen years old and he wished he felt better about it. Instead when he saw himself in shop windows, he saw a stranger with loose skin and baggy eyes.

He needed to get out of the city.

And so he walked, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself, boots dragging in the slush one foot in front of the other. And he walked that way for...he couldn't even remember. He didn't even remember what day he'd set out. If Ryslig birthed zombies, he would have been a dead ringer for one as his shuffling footfalls echoed across the lake's surface. Maurice's ears twitched at the sound of birds. He hadn't realized he'd been missing that in Bavan. The trees smelled nice--damp bark, decaying leaves. Maybe this was where he was meant to be.

Then he rounded a large birch that leaned over the water's edge and beheld...some bullshit.

For the first time in months, Maurice Hutch's ears stood STRAIGHT UP and he let out a little squealing snort. It actually took him several hot seconds to process what he was seeing. Maybe if Fiddleford's head was more snake-like and less human-like, it'd be easier to digest. Haha. But no. The Kelpie froze with his breath caught in his throat.

[terribibble]

It's probably a good thing that Fiddleford lost the lights that used to shine from his body when he cut his Arcade keycard in half, because when his slitted pupils snap toward the source of that snort they aren't accompanied by an eerie blue glow. This is already a disturbing enough image as it is, and he knows that, which is why he makes a sort of distressed gurgle around the legs sticking out of his bizarrely contorted face. He's never actually seen what it looks like when he does the whole 'unhinge your jaw and butterfly open your ribs and swallow a whole human' trick and he doesn't ever really want to, but he has to imagine it's very unfun to see without warning.

In the absence of any sort of ability to explain or reassure vocally, he holds up a hand in a way that might be meant to communicate 'it's okay, you're not next' or maybe just 'hold on a second my mouth is full'.

[toothaches]

The gesture ushers another little alarmed sound out of Maurice and he shakes himself. That gesture was so...familiar. In this unfamiliar situation. The colors and warped flesh and cloth all melded together in his vision as it blurred from hunger. But then another detail snapped into crystal clarity and that was the tiny lil glasses perched on the naga's nose.

So normal.

So out of place.

Just some fucko in glasses eatin' a dude in the woods. Just like Jhonez cooly adjusting his stupid glasses on public television as though he hadn't stabbed Maurice eight times. Some hair thin filament somewhere inside Maurice broke in two with a delicate ping sound.

In a fluid motion, Maurice whipped out a green arm, wrapped his fingers around the point of a cypress knee, and snapped it off to form a long, cruel club.

[terribibble]

Haha. Oh boy. He kind of figured maybe someone who is definitely not human would understand, even if it's not a pretty picture and even if he hates it too on a fundamental level. He instinctively parses that club for what it is and lets out an even more distressed gurgle than before. His tail starts to coil up behind him, like the snakier half of him thinks he might have to strike even though the human half of him isn't really equipped at the moment.

There's nothing for it. He's too vulnerable as he is right now. He has to start horking down his dinner faster than he's really comfortable with, which probably just makes the whole thing that much less pleasant to look at. He lifts his upper body a little and tips his head back, hoping gravity will help. It did once before. It's a little like watching a terrible bird try to knock back two whole baguettes.

[toothaches]

HE SEES WHAT YER DOIN THERE, FIDDS.

Maurice's breaths come out in icy puffs as he trudges at that same slow pace toward the scene, club in-hand. His eyes are locked on Fiddleford but he's not really seeing him. He's thinking about the volunteer firefighter back in Dogtrot, Texas with his stupid smug face and holier-than-thou act.

Eyes on the prize means no eyes on the ground and as soon as he reached the part of the bank where the ground sank under his shoes, one of said shoes caught neatly on a root.

Maurice hit the ground with a surprised whinny.