[network, voice, Night 349] @hexappeal; Campfire tales [open] [cw: alcohol, language]

[sleight_of_fate]

[Rhys has had better nights, and he's had worse. Tonight is special, however, because no matter how shitty he was feeling before, it's vastly improved now.

Rhys sounds wasted. His words are careful, but slurred enough to tell that he's gotten hold of enough booze to make a significant dent in his sobriety, and he speaks with the exaggerated precision of someone who knows he's drunk.

Enjoy, folks.]

So. Everyone keeps telling me that I should have a story time, so. I. Am going to tell you a story from back home. Not my story, but it's a story.

Back up in the Appalachian mountains, there's a lot of weird shit living in the woods. That's where all the weird shit likes to live, if you've ever been monster-hunting, by the way- in the woods. So some years ago, there was a hermit and his dogs living out there, in a home-built cabin, hunting to survive and basically telling the rest of the world to fuck off. You know, the way hermits do.

[He pauses to take a sip from his bottle. He's got a good voice for storytelling, a casual, conversational tone, even if he's a bit scattered at the moment.]

The problem with roughing it is sometimes the game isn't so great. It was a drought season, heading into late fall, and so it happened there just wasn't much to shoot. The hermit goes out with his dogs, every day, but no luck. A rabbit here, a squirrel there, maybe, but barely enough to fill the pot, and anything he can shoot counts.

Well, one day, after a long day of nothing, the old man sees the weirdest damn thing. It's a cat, a big cat, the size of one of his dogs, maybe, with a long bushy tail and huge yellow eyes like the moon, watching him from the trees.

Course, he takes a shot because what the hell. He shoots off its long, bushy tail, and the cat makes this godawful screaming noise, and runs off into the swamp and disappears. A tail's better than nothing, so the old man takes it home, makes a stew, and him and his dogs have supper for the night. Doesn't give it another thought.

[There's rustling as Rhys shifts position on his bedroll, giving it a few seconds. Though this is clearly not the end of the story.]

A couple nights later, the old man's woken up by something crashing around in the trees outside. He sits up, and sees bright yellow eyes outside his window. Hears the sound of some big-ass claws scraping up the wood of the cabin porch, and a fucking voice, hissing at the window. "Taily-po, Taily-po, give me back my Tailypo!"

[Rhys does the call in a creepy, cheerful singsong, fully invested in telling the story properly.]

The dogs start going batshit, so the old man lets them out, howling and baying after the thing, chasing it off into the swamp. He waits, and waits, and it's nearly morning when the dogs come back- two of them. No sign of the third, but the damn cat's gone, at least.

[Rhys pauses for another sip, liquid gurgling in glass. Stops to wipe his mouth.]

Second night falls. Old man wakes up in the dead of night to the sound of crashing again, like something taking apart the trees. Big splinters of wood coming off the cabin walls. Yellow eyes, out his window. Guess who's back.

"Tailypo, Tailypo, I know you have my Tailypo!"

Out go the dogs again, howling like hell to chase the thing back into the swamp. Old man waits again with his rifle till sunup, and it's only one dog that comes back.

Third night. Same thing, same voice. He even takes a shot at it, but it hares off into the trees with the last dog on its ass and that's it. Come morning, no sign of either of them.

Now the hermit's all alone, all his dogs are gone, and he's looking at sundown with a sense of dread, knowing what's coming.

Claws in the wood at the window. Huge yellow eyes. And that voice.

"TAILYPO, TAILYPO, GIVE ME BACK MY TAILYPO."

The old man's out of his mind, at this point. Screams back, "I haven't got your 'TAILY-PO'!"

[There's another long pause, as Rhys stops. For both dramatic effect, and to take another drink. He might be shitfaced, but he does have a pretty good sense of pacing.]

That night, there's a horrendous storm, the kind that shakes every tree on the mountain. Days later, neighbors find the wreckage of the cabin: place is fucking leveled, like a tornado hit it. Nothing left but the chimney, some trashed furniture, and bones scattered in the ruins...only sign that anyone ever lived there.

And in the swamp, you can still hear the voice, and maybe catch a glimpse of glowing yellow eyes.

"Taily-po, Taily-po, now I've got my Tailypo!"

[One of the benefits of being drunk is that he doesn't realize, or care, that is a really unsettling ending. Especially in a small town full of monsters. There's entirely too much glee in that last, triumphant sing-song.]

Moral of the story, is...Don't mess with a guy's tail or you will get fucking wrecked.

G'night everyone. Hope y'r sleeping alright.

Comments

@Enoch, audio

[warriorscribe]

I can't say that I am, but...I must echo Peter in asking where I could find some of whatever you're drinking.

[The story was unsettling, but well told. He has little comment, really. It's not so different from a story he might have heard anywhere, albeit with a more applicable moral, and a bow or sling rather than a gun...]

[sleight_of_fate]

Mmm. Liquor store. Next to the grocery store.

Shoulda gone back for the apple vodka but I don't really like apple vodka. And I couldn't carry it. Fuckers.

Plus if someone else wants it. You know. I'm not an asshole. Not that kind of an asshole.

[There's a shifting sound as Rhys sits up again.]

Wish I could help you. I'm not sleeping either. Best sleep I've had. Vodka's shit for sleep. Absinthe's better. Or ginger brandy. Sell my soul for some ginger brandy. Or my ass. My ass is better than my soul.

[warriorscribe]

Not with your devotion to helping others.

[Figuratively speaking, of course. Deeds don't actually affect the quality of one's soul as far as Enoch knows. Or maybe they do? He's not sure where some of the evidence he's seen stands.

Next to the grocery store? It sounds like they might be heading back that way, then, if they needed something to do while they waited for the third shoe to drop. He's slightly concerned about running into people in the hospital, but maybe...]

The first I find isn't mine to drink, but if I find more, perhaps it will help.

[sleight_of_fate]

You are good. You deserve a bottle all to yourself.

[That's not exactly healthy, Rhys, but the sentiment is there?]

And. Yeah. Devotion.

[He thinks about reaching for the bottle again.]

Trust me. It's seen better days.

My soul, not my ass. My ass is still great. Soul's taken a beating though.

I'm not all that nice a guy.

[warriorscribe]

What I deserve doesn't take precedence over what I owe. Thank you for telling me.

[Now to hope there's enough to avoid depriving Peter.]

And don't-...don't discount the fact that you really, truly, want to be. It means more than you know, and it shows.

[sleight_of_fate]

Mmm. Yeah.

[He lays back down again, curling up carefully.]

Lot to set straight.

[House's words about selfishness, about self-loathing and cowardice, still scrape at the inside of his head if he lets them, and he reaches for the bottle again, thinking just one more swig.]

...I write letters, y'know. Home.

Even though I think this is my life now, I still got things I wish I could've said.

[warriorscribe]

We'll escape. Our session is making progress, more than any other at this rate. Keep writing them- unless you want to go somewhere else, you might still be able to share them.

["Might" because what if they have to leave all their stuff behind? He doesn't want to leave either of his gifted blankets...

He still has hope for other people, though, is the point here.]

[sleight_of_fate]

Somewhere else to go, that might be nice, y'know.

That, I would do.

[He's doing this for other people, mostly. But if he had a real chance to start over, away from everything? He would actually take it. Because at least some of his nihilism is not knowing how to start again. If he had a way? Maybe he wouldn't be so lost.]

Back to the woods, maybe. An' the shore. Finally learn to play guitar, maybe get a dog.

Had one once. She was a good old lady.

[warriorscribe]

Is that why you were thinking of this story?

[He means the hermit's life being appealing, rather than...any of the gruesome details, of course.]

[sleight_of_fate]

Hmnh.

[He really hadn't thought of that, though it wasn't his plan. It was just an easy story to tell.]

Three's too many. Just one would be fine.

And I'd go to Oregon. With the redwoods and the ocean. Or. I don't know. Maybe Maine? I miss the beach.

[There's a rustling as he starts fumbling for his wallet, suddenly wanting to see the pictures there.]

[warriorscribe]

I miss it, too.

[He fell asleep by a river, almost a year ago, and woke up in a winter wasteland thousands of years in the future. The riverbank feels like he dreamed it.]

Have you ever been on the ocean?

[sleight_of_fate]

Lived there. Where I was born.

[It feels like fishhooks in his soul, remembering where he was happy. Where he could lay in the sun and forget everything but the crash of waves and the calling of gulls.]

Used to go down to the dunes and sleep there, listen to the waves and watch the stars 'till I fell asleep. Wake up to the sun coming up, shower in the beach huts.

Was nice, sometimes. Could almost forget everything else, looking up at the stars over the water. Everything black and silver, maybe a bottle of vodka.

[warriorscribe]

That sounds wonderful. I miss the night sky.

[He recalls a talk with Beckett on this very subject, and it's like needles in his heart. Does he have anywhere to go after this?]

And the ocean. The sound of water lulls you to sleep, too?

[sleight_of_fate]

[Even though Enoch can't see it, Rhys smiles, quietly feeling the memories rush back. Almost close enough to touch, just far enough away to bring tears to his eyes.]

Waves on the rocks, 'specially. Oregon. All you could hear, feel the spray on your face when you went outside and see the sun coming up over it all. Like the edge of the world.

[He sighs softly, and is quiet for long enough that it's easy to think for a minute he fell asleep, until he speaks again.]

Best place. Felt like home, for a little while.

[warriorscribe]

[He remembers, though through the haze of his trauma and sleep deprivation between, that Rhys had said he was disowned.]

...You can find another. Away from-...away from the prejudice.

[Another home, he means. Though of that he can't be sure. He hasn't called a place home in hundreds of years.]

[sleight_of_fate]

S'what I'd like.

Someplace far away.

[Thoughts are a lot easier to spill out, when he's got a good buzz on.]

maybe here, once everyone else is home. Just...stay. In case anyone else comes, show em how to get home.

[warriorscribe]

The air is poisonous here. I think we need to abandon it...

[Unless they can somehow service the nanomachines without killing people? He's not sure how that would work. He's not sure how any of this works in general...]

[sleight_of_fate]

[He laughs quietly.]

Yeah, probably. Someplace clean would be better.

I wonder if going someplace new would be an option. You know, hitchhike with someone else.

It's stupid. I mean, I could go back to my world, there's nothing wrong with it, not really, just...

I don't know. Sometimes I just don't want to. Like the further away I could get, the better my chances of starting again would be. You know?

[warriorscribe]

I understand. It's as if...though there would be no problem in returning, it seems wrong. Am I right?

[He's hoping to go to someone else's world, too. He just doesn't fit into the place he should back there.]

[sleight_of_fate]

[This time, he does go back for another shot of the vodka, resting his forehead against the wall while he thinks about that.

He's thought about that so much, but actually saying it is another thing.]

It's like. It'll never be clean again. You know it won't, you've tried. You've looked at it all.

So you gotta go...far enough away. Where you can look at things and not see all the same ghosts, all the same stains. Where you might feel clean again, one day.

[warriorscribe]

One day...

[A slight rustling as he moves in response to a sudden pang not unlike hunger, the desperate need to not be alone. The sound of someone else breathing quietly nearby says he's settled next to a sleeping (or just quiet) companion. His voice lowers to match, to avoid disturbing them.]

There are places we belong, even if they aren't the places we were made to be. We'll find them.

[sleight_of_fate]

How's the quote go? "Everything will be find in the end. If it's not find, it's not the end"?

Something like that.

[He wants to lay back down again. He's starting to get tired, but this is important.]

...at least I know what the end really is, so it's not so bad. Crows and black rocks. Just...finding the important things in the meantime.

[warriorscribe]

The important things...

[He's silent, listening to his companion.]

...You'll be all right. Some people, they live their entire lives not knowing what the important things are in the first place. You already understand.

[sleight_of_fate]

[Rhys tends to have two moods when drunk: either happy, or profound. There's not much to be happy about, really, so he's profound tonight.]

Learned it the hard way. Earned it.

By blood and stone. There's no coming back from that.

[He shifts again.]

You're a good person, Enoch. You deserve to be alright. More than most people.

[warriorscribe]

I'm- not certain of that. Deserving more than others. I would rather see everyone else do well.

[Which is kind of Rhys's point, but after the way things have gone lately, and especially from his sleep-deprived point of view, he is hesitant to accept any such praise.]