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[OPEN] I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam.
[Something's come over Anthony in the past few days.
Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was the simmering of shame over his own cowardice in stalling in the wilderness, maybe it was the unexpected and unsettling lack of change or oddity he was experiencing, other than when that young girl'd made her downright sudden appearance.
In any case, he's restless now. The relative silence has gotten to feel smothering. The trees feel like they're closing in and when he looks at open spaces, he sees them pulling off of the landscape at an edge and rolling themselves up - him with them - like scrolls. Staying put's going to madden him again; God help him, he needs to leave.
He's already made to. He found a city in the distance - no more delaying or wading; he thought, with a pathetic pang in his heart, that perhaps this is some sort of place of second chances, and maybe he can fight to be part of something again, to deserve it, to atone - and for the first time, he didn't feel a lick of fear or misgiving on the thought of approaching. If it's crawling with pain, or evil, or wrongness, or if he's failing a test of his mind by going there... then he'll just have to face it. Have to. What's coming to him.
He fixed his mind on it, and began walking.
It's twilight now, and he's recently started following a road of continuous flat, gray stone.
And this consistent, purposed movement has left it unignorable how hungry he is. He'd foraged, back where he'd been lying low, but - it occurs to him that, as with speaking to people, he hasn't eaten anything in over a thousand years. He hadn't needed to, technically, but setting the past week against that - he's starting to feel his head swim...
And then... a shape on the side of the road catches his eye. He freezes in his tracks for a moment. Blinks wide at it.
It's a dead doe.
He takes a huffing breath. It's voiced; becomes in part a thin, cushioned sigh.
No, he doesn't have anything to prepare a deer with. But, in spite of himself, he can't seem to make himself care about the conditions. Ohh, yes, it'll have to do...
He heads for it with intent. Gives a quick eyes-narrowed look up and then down the road, in case anyone's watching. No -- no one is...
And with that, he drops onto all fours. Dives onto the carcass face first and starts tearing in. He doesn't question it - too busy eating for that, plus it's comfortable. He didn't realize he was as worn out as he was on top of being hungry until now - feels each of his joints pop, shifts his weight subtly across each of his arms and legs to ensure none of them are missed...
If you stumble by after he's gotten into dinner too much to remember to keep checking for witnesses to his roadkill-eating, then you'll see that the roadkill-eater has the face of a bird and that wrapped in warped, ragged sleeves and leggings, the bends and shapes of their limbs are more quadrupedal than bipedal.]
Maybe it was loneliness, maybe it was the simmering of shame over his own cowardice in stalling in the wilderness, maybe it was the unexpected and unsettling lack of change or oddity he was experiencing, other than when that young girl'd made her downright sudden appearance.
In any case, he's restless now. The relative silence has gotten to feel smothering. The trees feel like they're closing in and when he looks at open spaces, he sees them pulling off of the landscape at an edge and rolling themselves up - him with them - like scrolls. Staying put's going to madden him again; God help him, he needs to leave.
He's already made to. He found a city in the distance - no more delaying or wading; he thought, with a pathetic pang in his heart, that perhaps this is some sort of place of second chances, and maybe he can fight to be part of something again, to deserve it, to atone - and for the first time, he didn't feel a lick of fear or misgiving on the thought of approaching. If it's crawling with pain, or evil, or wrongness, or if he's failing a test of his mind by going there... then he'll just have to face it. Have to. What's coming to him.
He fixed his mind on it, and began walking.
It's twilight now, and he's recently started following a road of continuous flat, gray stone.
And this consistent, purposed movement has left it unignorable how hungry he is. He'd foraged, back where he'd been lying low, but - it occurs to him that, as with speaking to people, he hasn't eaten anything in over a thousand years. He hadn't needed to, technically, but setting the past week against that - he's starting to feel his head swim...
And then... a shape on the side of the road catches his eye. He freezes in his tracks for a moment. Blinks wide at it.
It's a dead doe.
He takes a huffing breath. It's voiced; becomes in part a thin, cushioned sigh.
No, he doesn't have anything to prepare a deer with. But, in spite of himself, he can't seem to make himself care about the conditions. Ohh, yes, it'll have to do...
He heads for it with intent. Gives a quick eyes-narrowed look up and then down the road, in case anyone's watching. No -- no one is...
And with that, he drops onto all fours. Dives onto the carcass face first and starts tearing in. He doesn't question it - too busy eating for that, plus it's comfortable. He didn't realize he was as worn out as he was on top of being hungry until now - feels each of his joints pop, shifts his weight subtly across each of his arms and legs to ensure none of them are missed...
If you stumble by after he's gotten into dinner too much to remember to keep checking for witnesses to his roadkill-eating, then you'll see that the roadkill-eater has the face of a bird and that wrapped in warped, ragged sleeves and leggings, the bends and shapes of their limbs are more quadrupedal than bipedal.]
no subject
But...a sight like this...is this natural around here? Or is this something that his own changes could turn towards in the future? They seem monstrous enough.]
W...what...
[Should he run? Should he confront this...person? Creature?]
no subject
First thought is crippling, abject shame, horror at himself. He winces as he pauses while holding a scrap of meat in his mouth(? Somewhere in the heat of all of this, he himself has lost that his mouth's ceased to be a human one), he must look like a thing, barbaric...
But when he looks up -- that heady, skull-beating shame is sucked straight away cold into some psychological void.
In the cold space it leaves behind sits -- horror.
No. No. No, he knew it, he knew it. There were monsters about here - he reels up and back (why is he so off balance, why, no) with a voiced gasp trembling in his throat.
He shakes his head, erratically, moves a hand toward the shortsword at his side, bird-eyes wide, what is this...?]
P -- please, stay back -- ...!
no subject
I-ugh-! I wasn't trying to-!
[Interrupt your, uh. Meal?]
no subject
Trying to -- trying to what -- ...
[Falters terribly. He tries to bind his voice to a more... insistent point, if nothing else.]
-- What are you, what -- what do you want?!
[There was probably a bit of a voice-crack in that, alas.]
no subject
I was just heading back to town.