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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[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.