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Honeysuckle Rose is rearranging her furniture.
The band is learning a new song, which is always adorable — hearing the instruments falter and pick up again tickles her every time, when they’re usually so consistent. She’s trying out new cushions for the chairs and figuring out where to put a new door for a kitchen. All is quiet.
She leans over to retrieve a somewhat larger and sturdier glass than usual from behind the bar and fills it carefully about halfway before setting the bottle down.
She then brings him the cup and holds it out for him to take.
He holds it much like a human would, although getting the contents down his long snout turns out a little messier.
She laughs very quietly as some of the mead drips to the floor.
(She can deal with the wildflowers and the cloudy crystals that spring up out of the carpet later.)
“Try to relax until you’re all the way down, hon.”
The lines of her body seem to start to warp and shift.
...Actually, the whole bar seems to be warping, a little.
It starts very subtly, wood grain flowing gently on the counter of the bar and carpeting rustling in a nonexistent breeze. Things start running together, merging and separating cleanly into themselves.
He does not find this an especially relaxing experience. Coils shift and heave; but he's not trying to lash out or flee so much as just... expressing discomfort.
The whole seems to be shifting constantly between faces, changing — and yet it feels clear that it’s not really changing at all, that these are just facets of the same crystal.
Honeysuckle Rose herself remains almost just as she was, but...
(Her presence is almost suffocating. It fills the entire room, spills out over the cloudscape, hangs bright and blinding over the altar and seeps from every inch of plant life in its surroundings. Her body holds its shape but her soul is sickeningly infinite.)
“S̪͉͇̭͟ ̘͙̹̙̕w̳̼̝͖͍͝ ̰̠̘͍̝͞ͅͅe̟̖͎͔̜̩̘ ́ḙ̣͔ ̶̬̯͎̰̪t̻ͅ ̛͙ͅ ̵͕͎̤̙d̤ ̨̗̘̠͉͍r̼̪͙ͅ ̳̗͖̯̜͖̼e̺̜̺̘̱ ̻̦̯̱͚͠a̙̠̝̺̪ ̤͕͓m͍̬̥̣͞ ̭̦̰̥͔s̞̮͈̼̺ ̪̻͠,̯̹̤ ̭̪̤̮͙͙̜ ̫̣̲h̛̬ ̸͙͓̗o̯͖͓ ̦n̮͚̦̰̜͓̲͘ ̺̞̣͘e̴̝̲͓̝̬̖ ̸̮̫͕̭̗̩͔y̶ ͎̙̱̀.̜͚͕͎̙̰ͅ”
...He is...
...Confused. He's confused.
This isn't - how he's shaped, this isn't - what?
Apparently, it is now.
His legs continue to be legs. A few songbirds chirp quietly above him. The sunlight filters bright and clear through the leaves.
There is a faint but distinct smell of fresh bread drifting on the breeze.
He... ??sits?? ...up...? Is this how sitting up works? It appears to be.
What's that smell? It smells tasty. He... attempts to go in that direction. This legs thing might take some figuring-out.
The moss under his feet will accommodate quite a bit of tipping over for the first few yards, before it transitions to a slightly less comfortable bed of leaves and small twigs.
Following the smell isn't so hard, once he figures out how walking functions.
Once he figures out how to stay consistently upright, the trees abruptly part into a small clearing. There's a cottage on the other side, and a faint glimpse of something moving through the window.
Huh. Walking. Walking isn't so bad, really.
He has seen cottages before, and doors. He hasn't gotten a very close look at them, but it can't be that hard to figure out, right?
–at the pretty naked girl slicing a loaf of bread on a nearby counter.
Somehow, she doesn't notice him in turn.
The door is...a door. It has a round knob, and a place for a padlock on the outside that's currently not filled.
His first attempt to open the door is unsuccessful. He tries again. What do you have to do to it...?
It remains stubbornly closed. It seems to be stuck somewhere around the edge.
(There's some shuffling about from inside the cottage.)
He rattles it ineffectually, snarling under his breath. This is around the point at which, if he still had his lovely long coily tail, he would be breaking down the door with it.
It's not like he's getting anywhere anyway. He lets go of the door with a frustrated hiss.
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