[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

[sleight_of_fate]

Yesss.

[He may have one or both.]

M'by the high school. Because. Dunno. This is where all the stuff is. Not the good stuff. The stuff that stabs you but is useful is.

You know. The stuff we might actually get open by bleeding on it.

[Apt descriptions are apt.]

But I'll keep stuff for you. You need good things.

[zunesareawesome]

...I don't like stuff that stabs me, I'd rather stay away from the stuff that stabs me, thanks.

[These are the worst descriptions ever, bro.]

...aw, thanks man. That's super nice of you to say. You need good things too, don't hoard the booze and candy on my account. Live a little too, like you're doing now!

Cw: addiction

[sleight_of_fate]

[He's had about six shots of vodka after months without and on an empty stomach. Sorry, Peter, you're getting the unfiltered version of things.]

Good thing about being an addict here. Nothing lasts long enough to relapse on. You run out before you get hooked again.

'cept cookies. And getting fat here ain't a problem. Gotta have some upsides.