#she has six ribs a skull with four teeth and no lower jaw(to make room for the calliope she swallowed ofc)

[frayedcircus]

she swallowed a calliope and her bones look like a cartoon

[mcneater-blog]

so how'd the nose scar come about?

It’s been about four months since she realized she can’t leave the crater in which Gravity Falls was built. It’s been a blur of attempts the first two months; on foot, in a car, from all directions. The only thing she hasn’t tried is flying.

Each plan is sent to the mental recycle bin, the massive monster patrolling the immediate space outside the crater appearing every time she gets to an approximately consistent distance from the outer walls. At least she knows it’s predictable in its patrol, how much time it takes before it zeroes in on the beast that has managed to make it so livid as to attack on sight. Or feel, in this case.

The idea now is stupid. She knows it’s stupid. Yet she has to try everything, even if she has to beat the thing into submission or death, whichever comes first. Given its staunch stubbornness, she’s willing to bet it’s going to be the latter.

She parks the new Corvette on the gravel shoulder of the road just within the crater’s protective walls, reaching into the backseat to pull out the one tool she trusts for this job. Most would carry a bat, a club, a shotgun. She pulls a standard pointed-spade gardening shovel. 

Shovels are versatile, a fact she has been made aware of over and over again over the last few months. For knocking people out and for killing them if swung at just the right angle. For dismembering, for burying. And, well, for gardening and landscaping too, but that’s always been a given.

She pauses for a quick smoke, resting on the hood of the cooling car beneath her. Something to relax her for the task ahead. Come what may, the results are not going to be pretty. She needs all the help she can get, even if it’s the forcibly-added nicotine and calming cloves into her system.

With the cigarette dwindled to nothing, she puts it out and makes the run into the evergreen trees that make up the landscape. A small amount of influence is granted the beast, as much for endurance as it is for bait. The metallic flash in her eyes, her vision ringed with the cold winter-white helps aide her progression into the concealing forest and grants her the ability to see in the lack of light that is near midnight.

Walipektew can see superbly in the dark. So can Wendigo.

The towering walls of the crater rise and pass as she nears the invisible border that ends the crater’s protective influence and the native cannibal monster’s territory. She hears it before she sees it and knows already that it is livid. 

Her foot plants on that border and she launches herself airborne in time to see the monstrous creature crash through the underbrush to where she is, tall enough that it can still reach her in her temporary flight. Aided by the supernatural symbiosis, it is not a small jump. The elk skull regards her form briefly, the hauntingly white eyes able to see the imposing figure of its most hated enemy over her, before jaws sporting sinister pointed teeth slam open to unleash a noise that is somewhere between a shriek and a roar.

The shovel is brought up and then down, the spade hitting its first mark flat on the bridge of its nose. The massive jaws snap shut with a strangled whimper and the Walipektew staggers as its prey lands on the loose terrain of pine needles and dust. She skids to a stop, aware of her beast taking more influence to help. A tiny human of blazing white eyes and a glowing broken halo of antlers stares down the monstrous wisping elk creature.

It doesn’t stay stunned long, rising once more to full height and issuing the war-cry. The Wendigo offers its own screech back in pure defiance against its bigger counterpart; she can feel the force and pitch tearing apart her inner throat, the taste of blood bubbling at the back of it. The Walipektew takes the challenge by issuing a second roaring scream and lowering its head like a bull elk in rut, the perfectly formed rack of antlers aimed at its foe before it begins the charge.

Influence shifts to give her the upper hand, she swings her body out of the path of the beast and uses the momentum to whip the shovel around and up. The flat of the spade catches just under the maneater’s chin, slamming its head up. It skids around and shakes its head, boring holes into the culprit with one eye.

If it wasn’t angry before, it is now. It changes its tactics, seeing that all to do with its head is met with sturdy hard metal. This hellish amalgamation of creatures is smarter than it originally thought and refuses to go down without a fight. Huffing angrily and clacking its teeth together, the Walipektew backs away into the darkness afforded by the labyrinth of redwoods and conifers, the light in its eyes fading from sight.

She thinks she’s actually won the fight. Forced it to retreat. Breathing a sigh of relief at how easy she perceives this task has been so far, she slings the tool across her shoulders and begins the trek back to the car.

Lowering her guard out of ego is her own mistake. She hasn’t made it more than six steps back toward the crater when she hears the beast start to panic, the sound of snorting rending through the quiet pine-filled night. The acoustics make it hard to pinpoint where the creature is and she is hit with the realization that coming out in the middle of the night like such has been a mistake all along. She can’t see the monster maneater anymore, and it sounds like it’s everywhere.

The Wendigo is what initially saves her, taking control to turn her head in time to see the blazing white spots in the dark to her right. It has analyzed she’s weak on her right, that she has to change hands on the handle of her weapon to counter it, and is using that as its driving point. 

Somehow, she manages to change hands in a surprisingly short amount of time. However, her swing is awkward. Unbalanced. It’s expected, the jaws of the massive creature snatching the spade and swinging its head around. She loses presence of mind, forgets to let go of the handle in the arc, and hits a substantial tree hard enough to knock the wind out of her lungs. Had it not been for the symbiotic resilience, her rib cage and spine might have been shattered with it. As it is, she’ll suffer deep bruises that heal in little less than a month.

It takes advantage of its successful charge, turning quickly and diving at her stricken form with its front legs, the points at the end put together to form a stake. It’s unsuccessful in this attack; the Wendigo takes control again in her daze to yank that versatile weapon up, the spade taking the full brunt of the blow. The points of both front legs lodge themselves eight inches through the center ridge of the shovel spade with a screech of weakened metal. 

With the larger apex held captive, the beast shifts its free hand to strongly grip the end of the spade and hold it steadfast. Once more, it issues that rebellious screech; the blood drawn from the raw throat is free to bubble again, trickling out one side of her mouth.

The Walipektew is furious now. Being caught is not its idea of proper conduct for prey-creatures, its hind legs kicking out in all directions so as to gain purchase enough to pull free. Its snapping jaws are redirected with a constant unbalance of its thwarter pulling the shovel up to deflect it. 

One hind leg plants itself firmly into the tree its enemy is settled against and with one final pull, one of the front legs is free. Scratched due to the folded metal edges that held it in place before, but free nonetheless. It uses it to wipe the smug bloodied smile from the other maneater’s face, slamming the needle-limb down and catching its host across her face, leaving a deep gouge across her cheeks and nose.

The metal spade begins to crackle and ping with the force exerted against it, the wooden handle snapping against the strain of the monstrous monster’s constant pulling. She is once more stunned by the sudden stinging pain across her face that the beast still has to assume control. It decides, against its territorial nature and its stomach, that retreat is the better option here.

As soon as the other leg is pulled from the shovel spade, the beast is on its own feet. There is a flash of the metal in the dark, the blade on one side meeting with the side of the skull-head of the bigger monster. The forces causes the metal to shatter in slivers around it, the handle to splinter and disengage from the rest.

The Walipektew is distracted by the shimmering metal shards dancing briefly around its one eye, focusing temporarily on them as it stumbles for purchase. By the time the shimmering cloud has fallen to the earth with the remains of the rest of the shovel, the intruder has vanished and it no longer senses its influence on its territory.

She comes to later, her back against the driver-side door of her car. It hurts to breathe, much less move, and the attempt to do so wrenches extremely painful coughs forward. Her nose is filled with the scent of old blood, sticky and coppery. Her mouth tastes it, thick and sticky on her tongue and teeth. 

Blessedly, the road is empty all night; she would rather not try to explain why her torso is severely bruised, that there’s blood running down her face or the metal shavings embedded in her hands. It takes until dawn, with the push of a little of the beast’s influence, until she can get into her car and drive back to the hotel room that is home to clean up and prepare to heal.