#( * loathsome locust eater : even a worm will turn. / s. moreau. )

[embodies]

its home is but a hovel in the mire of the reservoir, cavernous and echoing with the howls of its experiments and the mournful cries of itself. the wails of whales are not unlike its own. the sludge of its enzymes covers the walls in a thick and pulsating goo, some dripping from the ceilings into slimy stalactites. one would have to hold some sort of death wish to come here voluntarily. a screw loose. mad as a hatter. nutty as a fruitcake. it likes fruitcake. but the thought of guests nonetheless titillates moreau, so when the woman presents herself unannounced and thoroughly out of place in such a pitiful residence, it works double time to ensure her needs are met. not quite swanning around the tunnels but rather trudging at a hurried pace, the sounds of its feet like wet jelly slapping upon the rocky floor. ❛ c-can i interest you in tea ? ❜ it waves an amphibian paw over a steaming vessel, more vat than teapot, the brew inside pungent and bubbling. those weak of stomach, do not look too closely. perhaps recognising its beverage's inadequacy before it can be pointed out, beady eyes search frantically for a more suitable alternative. spotting its bedside television remnants of cheese, it deviates.

❛ or . . . or is le fromage more your taste ? ❜ it has the urge to say mademoiselle, recalling a past life trying to court beautiful women with arrays of gifts and delicacies. the memories pile thick in its throat and it guffaws, unsavourily depositing a phlegmy pile at its feet. it clasps its own hands in shame, head habitually lowered so as not to meet her gaze.

@sacrificialmaiid. ♡

[embodies]

there is a certain beauty to the word grotesque. it is the juxtaposition it must cling onto, the notion that there may still be hope for the creature to prosper. mother would not have bequeathed it the mountain for its lab were there not a chance. the crown of bones rattles weakly upon a bowed head, some parts of the thing ( for there is no more adequate a word than that to describe the remains of salvatore moreau ) incomprehensible from others. a plethora of genetic defects with nothing but a once fisherman for its vessel. it wishes to become a scientist. it craves to impress mother miranda, to bestow her a gift in return for the beautiful wonders she has delivered unto it. it is grotesque. ❛ oh, ple-e-ase, miss dim— miss d-dimitres-k ! ❜ it stumbles over the romanian namesake, both due to the sheer unfamiliarity in a french - man's ( french - thing's ) mouth but also due to the cumbersome blubber of its swollen and canker - sored tongue, rife with strings of slobber and spittle. its keening pleas are accompanied by the uplift of webbed hands — it will bow, kneel, grovel if it believes it may aid its plight. its goal ? to glean more research that may assist in its experiments, for heisenberg has spoken often ( albeit not fondly ) of the ladies the countess keeps locked away in the dungeons. are they pretty, it had asked with sincerity, warranting only disgust from the man of metals. it is quite familiar with the expressions of repulsion, sees them in kaleidoscope - like visions when it dreams.

oh, it dreams.

❛ your work with the cadou — it's what i need to do the job, i know it ! oh, she'll be so pleased . . . ❜ giddy now, with the possibility of a proud mother. �� just a page or two, i'll give 'em right back, we can work together— ❜ any further words are lost to a deteriorating mumble, poignantly reflective really of the deteriorating mind that lurks beneath the water's surface.

@dimitresca. ♡

[embodies]

its first gut response, which it swallows down like bile, is anger. for rejection is not something moreau takes to well, despite its frequency or perhaps exactly because of it. there are not many who are agreeable with the creature's desires, and those who are act out of fear, repulsion. it knows, can tell when people are playing pretend. it is only with this knowledge that it rescinds any spittle of rage that were about to form, snuffing out the coals with the reminder that she truly ( ? ) would partake if she could. for it snuffles out lies as if they were earthy truffles, does not catch the scent of falsehood in her claims. alcina has been known to stake claim to her toys in mysterious ways : moreau could sense the musky tobacco smell of her like a stamped wax seal the moment the maid had set foot in its domain. she would if she could. it finds comfort in this sentiment, two would - be companions held woefully apart by opposing sides. it thinks of romeo and juliet and a wet glaze coats its eyes in a teary layer at the reminiscence.

❛ —more for me. ❜ it would shrug if it remembered how, shoulders unevenly skewed at the apex of a hunched back. instead it simply makes about procuring itself a cup of tea ( perhaps secretly hoping its tepid allure would tempt the woman into changing her mind ) and sipping as a lord would do. it is a lord after all. they would do best to remember that. but it is ever hard to match that title with the picture that is painted, a webbed pinkie finger uplifted in an attempt at dainty manner as the concoction runs sloppily down its bulbous chins. it swallows are audible gulps, greed of the rich at its most grotesque. for the first time, it wonders at her name. why she's here.

❛ your lady must be interested in what i'm working on. you can admit it, m-moreau won't tell. ❜ a smile spreads disturbingly on a rotting countenance, the teeth that remain askew and decayed, lick of a corroded tongue wetting piscean lips. its breath would be off - putting if the rest of its body were not already. but how it relishes in this farce of gossip, two tittering talkers belying secrets over drinks. it is nice to feel included in something.

The village children used to tell stories of a monster that lived in the reservoir. At seven, she had believed them. At seventeen, she had laughed and tossed her hair over one shoulder and then swam in that very water with the eldest of her cousins.

Milena thinks now of her tender, sun-kissed legs having floated tantalisingly just above those dark depths where she is now certain that this creature had surely lurked all the while. The thought alone causes a light, clammy sweat to bead upon her forehead as Lord Moreau staggers through his creaking, water-logged territory. Were he capable of anything more than a lumber, he may almost have looked busy with how he frets over the amenities.

Funny, Milena thinks. She had never been treated as anyone who might deserve any degree of respect or dignity in so very long. In the village, there had been shreds of community and family. In the castle, there are none -- her blood is too lowly for the Countess, and yet her tastes now run too queer for the other staff. She is isolated -- painfully so, and yet that is not quite enough to outweigh her creeping fear of the creature before her.

Lord Moreau offers her putrid tea and sweating cheese and then vomits right at his own feet. Her stomach flips, but if there is one thing that she has grown competent in, it's maintaining a calm demeanour.

"Thank you, my Lord," she says softly, nodding her head forwards in a short, respectful bow for whatever he might look like, he is still a Lord.

"It's very kind of you to offer, but my Lady does not permit me to indulge, I'm afraid. She prefers that I eat according to a set diet."

It's embarrassing to admit, but ultimately less painful than eating anything that Lord Moreau offers her. The imprint of her Mistress' jaw throbs beneath the bandage on the juncture between her neck and shoulder.