loungelizard | Ryslig Inbox

It would be the smart thing to keep his head down. It would be the smart thing to get the hell out of Bavan and wait out this fresh new disaster at the house. He could watch the smoke rise in the distance from the safety of the pumpkin patch, maybe with a cup of coffee or moonshine to steady the nerves.

But then Fiddleford sees the jacket. It's custom-tailored with clasps made of bone and very familiar red and blue stripes, and it's being worn by a man whose face he knows even if it's furrier now. The claws are new, and the big rounded ears, and the long rat's tail. But he knows the face. He remembers how the hands looked before they had claws, how they looked holding a knife. He remembers the voice, though not from the operating room -- from before. Holy shit Danny that's the snake that ate Joshua. He wonders if Danny is here too somewhere. What he's made himself into. If either of them still recognize him-- surely they must. Surely that's why the coat was such a prize.

So he could keep his head down and leave Bavan, or he could follow that rat down the alley.

He picks the second option.

"That's mine," he says, and when he grabs the newly-minted pooka by the shoulder the jacket actually reacts to his touch. It surges up beneath his fingers and jerks the man's shoulder backward, helping Fiddleford more easily turn him around to punch him right in the mouth. He stumbles back, trips over a loop of snake tail, and falls with a crunch and a squeak onto the pavement. The jacket continues to move, wriggling and jerking the rat this way and that as he struggles to right himself, and when Fiddleford leans down and grabs it by the back of the collar it comes away easily. It is his. It slides its way onto his shoulders like it remembers him, and that would be incredibly weird to experience if he weren't so laser-focused on the rat still. He's scrambled upright, new claws held in front of him like he isn't really sure how to use them yet but really wants to look like he does.

"You-- are you gonna kill me like you killed my best friend?"

Fiddleford wonders if maybe that one time he ate a guy set the lives of several other people on a downward trajectory that led them to this. Maybe. Maybe if it wasn't him it would have been someone else.

"Depends. You gonna do somethin' stupid like he did?"

"Fuck you, man," the rat sneers, but there's something shaky in it. His gaze flicks toward the mouth of the alley like he's hoping for backup.

Fiddleford knows he should leave before that backup arrives. On one level it's just about the coat, about what it took to get it, about the memories he's now going to have to live with forever of what it felt like to be skinned alive. He's made the symbolic gesture of taking it back and that's more than he really needed to do to begin with. Leaving would still be the smartest option. But on the other hand...

On the other hand he's incensed by the sheer hubris of it all. It's one thing to butcher monsters and sell their spines to be made into lamps and their skin to be made into coats, all as revenge for them simply trying to survive. That's bad enough on its own. But more than that, only one being can make monsters. The Fog takes her children from other worlds for a reason. It's a chance at a new life for those that choose to take it, not something cool for people to wear like a coat. It's hard and it's serious and it'll put you through hell even when it's good for you. In a bizarre way Fiddleford feels as though being a snake is something that he's earned the right to be at peace with by now. What did this man have to do to get those big old ears? Torture a whole bunch of other people for fun and profit. So the smart part of him says to leave, but the petty part of him that now considers the Fog God to be someone he owes wants to stay and really impart a lesson about who exactly gets to be a monster here.

The time it takes for him to weigh his options is long enough to look like hesitation, and hesitation reads as weakness. The rat springs up to try and come down at him from above. Rookie mistake, not knowing how fast a snake can react. He sees a glint of his own glowing red eyes reflected in the rat's in the split second before he lifts a loop of his coils and knocks all the air out of the rat's lungs.

After that things start happening very fast. Fiddleford has had four years to get used to being a snake. This man has been a rat for barely twenty-four hours. He's got four pointy sets of claws and he manages to give Fiddleford some nasty scratches, but he makes the mistake of not keeping his distance. It's easy to trap him in a tight crush of coils before he can disengage. A few superficial gashes and some rat bites are an acceptable trade for feeling the telltale crunch of bones and the wheezy death rattle of a man whose lungs are now full of holes.

This is about the point Danny shows up, just like Fiddleford thought he might. It's weird that a night years ago where Fiddleford got jumped for the crime of wanting to go down to the corner store for some painkillers has come back to bite them both like this. Danny's face is ringed with feathers but it's another he recognizes. Funny how he's awful with names and faces unless they're tied real hard to something traumatic.

"Holy shit, Milo--"

"Y'all know you shouldn't have done this, right?" In his coils the dying pooka twitches weakly, maybe in response to his friend's voice and maybe just because his whole chest cavity is having a real bad time. "Did you figure we'd welcome you in with open arms? Did you think she'd be happy with what you did to us?"

The Fog has never made it a secret how she feels about humans. And much like with her children, Fiddleford knows she won't intervene in this herself. It's up to him to make this point. Vaguely in the back of his mind he thinks that that's a dark road to go down, but the rest of him is righteously angry and free of the fear of death. They made his skin into a coat. He's pissed.

So is Danny, apparently, because he doesn't bother responding with words. Instead he lets out a birdlike screech and flares his new wings. Apparently this is just how tonight is going to be. Fiddleford discards the cooling body of the rat pooka and rears himself back in preparation for round two.

About an hour later he drags himself through the door of McGucket Labs. He's still wearing the coat. There's an awful lot of blood on him, and he isn't sure what percentage of that blood is his. Both of his arms hang limp at his sides. He managed to kill Danny but Danny had backup and the backup had a crowbar and a baseball bat. So he's looking, uh, a little worse for wear. He slumps over to the sink in the corner of the shop and then realizes that with his arms how they are he can't actually turn it on to wash his face.

"Aw, heck." He clears his throat but his voice still comes out kind of ragged as he shouts toward the stairs: "Larry? You here? I need, uh. I might need some help."

Downstairs, Larry is leaning over the break-room sink, letting his mouth drain of blood directly into it. Unhygienic? Probably. But after twenty-some-odd mouth rinses to clear the blood out of your mouth, you eventually stop putting up the fight and just let it go its course.

He doesn't know how long he's been like this when he hears a voice -- panics for a second and jolts, because maybe he forgot to lock the door -- but no, it's just McGucket. Larry lets out a sigh of relief, but feels a momentary frustration when he realizes he probably won't be as much help as Fiddleford is banking on.

Larry heads upstairs and presents himself with no flourish, despite the fact that blood of various ages and crispiness streak their way down his chin, his powder-blue dress shirt, and slacks. Once he sees the state Fiddleford is in, he offers a helpless smile that reveals his two front teeth are missing. Fresh blood creeps down the side of his mouth.

"Routh weaffer we've been haffin, huh?"

Larry's smile disappears and he sighs with a roll of his eyes, realizing that his joke is probably going to land even flatter on the account of not being able to annunciate.

"Kinda in need of help myselth, but I'll see what I can do."

He steps closer.

Ah. Yeah. In retrospect Fiddleford should have expected to see his newest hire also covered in blood. It's never just a one person sort of thing in Ryslig. If one person's horribly injured, chances are everybody is, or will be soon.

"Just, uh. Wanted to wash some of the blood off. Realizin' now that even with the water on I can't hold a towel."

He has never been without the use of both arms before, which is funny considering all the other bullshit he's had to deal with. Honestly it's a wonder he isn't also missing teeth. Not that his face doesn't look like he ran repeatedly into a brick wall, but his jaw is a little more flexible than most and maybe that helped cushion the blows a little better. It is, uh, a little out of alignment near his chin and he can feel that but thanks to his beard it isn't immediately apparent. The less people who see what it looks like when the disconnected halves of his lower jaw aren't sitting right, the better.

"What happened to you?"

Edited 2020-09-18 05:13 (UTC)

"Ffat's a great question!" Larry chirps in a tone far more chipper than what the situation calls for, as he fetches towels from a cabinet. "Some, er, weird bull-guy went on vhis rant about being one of us? Which kinda furprised me, because I vhought I still passed as a human. He thocked my lights out avter fhat. Thought he was gonna kill me."

With a moistened towel, Larry turns to Fiddleford -- then stops. He stares directly at the sleeve of his jacket -- but not because it's obviously containing a broken arm.

"Ith vhat...you?"

"Mmhm." It's weird. The whole situation is weird, and he's realizing that more and more the more space there is between him and that alley. It is weird that there is a coat made out of his scales and it is doubly weird that he's wearing it, but he's come this far now, hasn't he?

"They skinned me a while back. Guess this is what they did with it. I figured it was mine to begin with, I ought to take it back."

It all follows very logically and was definitely worth the two broken arms and various other injuries.

Larry pauses for a moment. Huh, that sucks. But on the bright side--

"Wenn," he starts, smiling brightly. "I don't know 'hy it would be, but your skin thooks reavy good on you." He twists the towel to rid it of extra moisture, but drapes it over the side of the sink and holds his empty hands in Fiddleford's direction. "But vet's get you out of it for now so I can cvean you up."

Ho ho ho! Your secret Santa gift recipient for this year is pop.pop on the network.

Her real name is Beauregard, and yes, I said her. Easy mistake to make, hopefully avoided.

Please spend no more than 20 solars on a gift for Beau, and ensure she receives it on or before Christmas Day (December 25). If not, Santa Claus will come to your house and glare disappointedly through the windows until you cough up.

Merry Winter-Holiday-Of-Your-Choice!

Alrighty! I have her gift. Do you know where she lives? I haven't been able to comb the network for that info.

[...and boy did he comb it to find the right gift!]

I figured outright asking might ruin the surprise! :o)

[ Season's greetings -- a Christmas present has arrived at the door!

It's an 80's mix tape, plus a large stack of woods of rather exquisite quality. Whoaaa, wasn't the Ryslig chestnut wiped out by Ryslig chestnut blight? Who knows -- point is, this wood make some nice furniture for a handy monster. ]

[This morning, a wrapped gift finds itself at Larry's doorstep. It is unsigned, but it contains an illustrated novella titled The Lament of the Maneater. There is undeniable artistic value in the cover art and the illustrations, no doubt, but it is still a story about a lonesome harpy with an aversion to human clothing and a proclivity for eating all the men who are charmed by her toplessness.

Doppio's decision to keep his gift anonymous was VERY deliberate.]

[Larry will find a black parcel and a very thick black envelope in his dam's mailbox. He lives in a dam, right? Beaver Man? In any case, a package find him, and it smells like a more fragrant, dangerous, and bloody earth than maybe he usually finds himself.

The note reads, quite succinctly:]

FÉLICITATIONS.
You are welcome to use the following investment for the purposes of your building projects.
-Javert

[A hefty bound cluster of solars comes along with the note.

In the wrapped parcel, Larry will find a pair of fine cut-crystal champagne flutes filled with dried rose petals. Enjoy!]

[It's a hand-made lodge on solid ground, so it's easy to get to! The dam is there just to fuck with the flow of water. Larry regards the weird package with a suspicious uhhhh before deciding to open it after all.

He finds wedding gifts, rather than snakes, much to his surprise! He finds his device to send Javert a message.]

Thank you for the gift! But...are you sure? This is a pretty thick brick of cash!

Rest assured, this is one of the better uses for that coin, and I never do what I do not mean. What use would come of me keeping it? I don't build.

Okay, that's fair. But most of my building is raw materials, from my own labor. I don't spend a cent on them!

Except, maybe...I could get a better furnace stove...or see about a plumbing system...glass for windows, I guess?

I'm just not used to spending money on myself!

I understand that sentiment better than you know. Here is a thought: use it for larger-scale construction for the good of society. Erect public use facilities with monsters in mind. That will do.

Hmm...like that resort I'd been planning...! There's more than enough here to get that started.

It will be even better if you dedicate your erections for the Fog's sake. I understand you are one of Her loyal servants. That is an honorable and right course, worthy of acknowledgement and commendation. Madame above knows there is plenty of room for reconstruction in this world!

I think I'm legally obligated to dedicate my erections for my wife now!

That's the message that I got when I talked to her last. She wanted land to be claimed in her name. She never specified how or what it should be, so I figured just about anything would do.

Seems weird that a goddess could have the kind of power to whisk people here, but not be able to reclaim land of her own world...but who am I to question it? Women work in mysterious ways.

Edited 2021-01-15 02:30 (UTC)

Clever and lewd, aren't you?

[There's a longer pause here, Javert's face falling grim on his side of the screen.]

The people of this wretched place are determined to reject Her, that is why. They have already scorched most of this earth in rejecting Her authority. It is part of our task to stop them from heaving more damage on the rest.

This is your OFFICIAL notification that the monster pinup calendar photoshoot has been delayed to January 18th, owing to blizzards, burning, alien flesh parasites, and death. Sorry for the short notice, but your friendly neighborhood organizers were trapped in a death hotel, so. Look, it happens, I don't know what to tell you.

In the meantime, this gives YOU more time to think about the shoot! As you're a... okay, real talk, we forgot to ask what kind of monster you are. REGARDLESS, your calendar month will be next March, with the theme of Jungle/Floral/maybe Cowboys??. You know your fellow monster, so you two have a ball coming up with something fun!

If you have any questions or concerns, or if you died and need to be excused, let us know.

- Harley Quinn

It's my specialty!

But what do you mean, "scorched most of this earth"? I wouldn't say I've turned every stone on this peninsula, but I've seen a pretty good chunk of it. There's very little of it that I'd call "scorched".

[Unless, of course, Javert comes from a particularly lush world. In comparison to something like that, he could see why someone would consider the Ryslig a little lacking...]

I meant beyond the peninsula. Did you think about what is out there? Well, there is nothing. It is dead and gone, and humans have themselves to blame for the mess. She showed me the truth of it Herself.

[A pause.]

I confess it is possible that is what She means when She tells you to reclaim Her land.

Honestly? No, I hadn't given it any thought. I guess I've just gotten used to working within spacial limitations that I just accepted it for what it is!

[aka a video game's world is only as big as it needs to be, and he's never had a reason to explore beyond that, so he was more than happy to accept it at face-value.]

She specified that she wants the peninsula as hers. Does she have no interest in restoring life in the land that lies beyond?

Dead and scorched earth is the perfect soil to bring new life, is all.

I'm a beaver! Er, I mean, a pooka.

Thanks. I could use the extra time to grow back some of this singed fur...however much four days buys me.

Ryslig Inbox

backdated real hard to the reckoning plot

gently replies at a fraction of the size....

I would never expect tag matching even if it WASN'T two and a half pages in gdocs

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<KrisKringle>

< LarryLaffer >

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December 25th

[The evening IMMEDIATELY after finding out about the 'wedding announcement']

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<PasUnPolicier>

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<PasUnPolicier> CW: God I'm sorry for the double-entendre word choice, blame Ye Olde Timey phrasing

you literally rolled out the red carpet for this one

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<PasUnPolicier>

<GiggleGrrl> - Morning, January 14th

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<PasUnPolicier>

< LarryLaffer >

< LarryLaffer >

WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, LARRY LAFFER. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 069.69.069.69 * < LarryLaffer > has joined 069.69.069.69 <LarryLaffer> Hiya! <LarryLaffer> Leave a message, I'll get back to you when I can! <LarryLaffer>** For immediate responses, i.e. business inquiries, booty calls, or telemarketing, call my landline at ###-###-####.