Awesome. Wonderful. Excellent. He loves this.

"Excellent. I would pay quite a lot for that. You want some Nectar before you go?"

Apologetic, uncomfortable smile that hopefully fits with how he's always been a straitlaced and incredibly uncomfortable kid. "I try not to get high on my own supply. ...Maybe later."

"Guess we haven't gotten you to loosen up that much! Well, see you later."

So. ...The door.

"With the Mouth, huh?"

"Great," Mordred says very quietly. "Excellent. Wonderful."

"Do you want me to check on her first?" she asks, very innocent

"...No. That's not-- I should-- ........Maybe you should. In case-- there are other people in there. I know I freeze up. But I'm right behind you."

"All right." So she'll just. Uh. Open this door. It hurts some but she thinks she can manage that.

Or he can open it since his hands aren't -- okay.

On the wall glint knives and garottes and brands and items they don’t recognize but the purpose of which is obvious. In one corner of the room rats scrabble in a cage; in another a rack lurks, prepared for use. The floor has been scrubbed but they can’t fully remove the reddish-brown stains. A slow stream of yellowing Nectar oozes through channels carved into the stained stone floor and collected in apparatuses of glass.

When they look at where the Nectar is coming from, at first glance, it looks like a giant has pressed his face into the room. Instead of the opposing wall, they see its lips and teeth and tongue. It exhales and they smell its damp breath. As it breathes in, the tongue reaches out into the room slightly, like it is a snake and can sense that its food is near. They look again, and realize it is not a giant. It is just a mouth. A Mouth. There is no body behind the mouth, and no wall: it opens into a vast inky void, deep and dark and endless. It feels as though if they fell into it they would never stop falling.

It hisses words in some language they do not speak; the words remind them of the strange language they heard the thugs speak back in Savannah. Yet they know what the words mean. The words mean hunger. 

Lacie crouches in the center of the room, her hair as wild as her eyes. She smiles in a grotesque parody of joy.

A song plays. They hear it seeping into their brains, wanting them to do something. But all three of them manage to throw it off. 

Well shit.

this is bad this is bad this is bad this is so bad

everything about this is VERY BAD

She gags and attempts to clamp her mouth shut and tries to avoid actually obviously vomiting.

Lacie smiles up at Oswald. "Brother!"

honestly Mordred is more freaked out by the torture implements by Lacie or the mouth which is -- indicative of something probably -- he's going to deal with it LATER -- he flinches away when Lacie moves--

this is bad this is bad this is so so so bad there are not enough words in the English language for how bad this is

Lacie is there and talking to him and the most important thing but also a red mist of violence has apparently descended upon him -- there is a hell of a lot in this room -- when Mordred flinches he instinctively punches him--

need to think need to think think think need to appear unbothered by all of this - oh SHIT

"Hey!"

OH GOD WHY

Mordred dodges the punch even though he's Kind Of Shaky.

"Don't hurt him," Lacie cries out. "Oswald, Oswald, it's okay-- everything's all right-- I feel so good now--"

One of the cultists grabs Oswald to try to restrain him.

Can he just -- okay thank you cultist --

Gonna back away from Oswald because she cannot take him in a fight, she can't take anybody in a fight.