- Character Profile
- Profile
“... So… you don’t know the language of rats…”
See, he’d rather keep talking about this specific subject-- it was far easier than conjuring up a lie about everything else. Possibly more interesting for him too, could it be learnt, this language of animals (Asher seemed serious, maybe the lamb was not out of his damned mind)... how entertaining, one could whisper to beasts before they were slaughtered and morbidly glean their every emotion. The paranoia of death or the nonchalance of acceptance… Rois spares the other a pained wheeze as a hand curls about the cup in a manner most awkward, like arm muscles were made of rock that had to be somehow rigidly stretched in order to carry the motion, and uses the pause of drinking to ponder the next words carefully.
“... It’s delicious.” Rois gives a satisfied sigh at the earthen brew in all its bitter glory, the taste was strong enough to burn the hair off an asses ass; preferable to the piss of elsewhere, in all honesty! And this is stalling, sitting there with half lidded eyes staring at the wall and uneven breaths, surpassed by the hot liquid against his tongue is the icy touch within, cruel jolts of jagged frozen water shaken free from cave ceilings to clash against him over and over-- and the nudge beneath the table is a tad misunderstood, is it meant to be a motion of encouragement? Rois taps the other back stiffly, it is a little less gentle than Asher’s movement and is surrounded by an air of general confusion, were they playing a game of sorts? The butcher begins to bounce that leg erratically in a fidget just pondering how the next moments were about to unfurl, the sort of thing people do when anxiety takes over, the kind of behaviour carried out when someone is about to lie, it goes hand in hand with the lack of eye contact--
“Oh……… well, see, I…”
Oh God. Someone who lacks any sort of imagination trying to conjure up a story was bound to veer southwards. The warm drink musters up some courage spurned by the lingering agony of momentary transformation, but it does not give the man the smarts to bring to the table any kind of believable lie-- and so, here comes the nonsense.
“Ha… ha, well,” Bounce, bounce, the smile that appears upon lips pressed against the curve of the cup is weak, fangs dancing around steam, “... Something really strange… happened outside. I thought I was imagining it, so I wasn’t going to bring it up at all…”
This stunted attempt at nonchalance was pitiful, it was akin to watching a tweaker jacked up on drugs trying to stay calm about the most minute of things, the liquid left in the mans cup jostled erratically at quivering fingers as Rois attempts to smooth out the horror of unmitigated pain by streeeetching an arm up high…
“I’m… just a little in shock, thats all.” Yes, yes, it’s all just shock, words slip lazily from his mouth, “I… think I just watched… a giant slug come out of the mud and take all the bodies. A slug… a homeless snail, made of mud-- it was there one moment… and gone the next.”
Bounce bounce, a breath in as an attempt to fake an ‘I’m startled!’ expression, but when worn upon a face like his it is as dour as it is lackluster. Some small part of the butcher believes Asher is stupid enough to fall for this pitiful routine however, because there are no beats of humour in his voice as Rois continues carefully,
“Very… strange. But at least all the evidence of your crimes are gone, right…? So, it isn’t a bad thing.”
Cup to lip, mumbling against the wash of heated liquid,
“Are slugs occult…y?”