Chapter One: Goodnight
In a surrounding forest, during the end of his first day of leaving the Village, Moreau was placing his trench-coat on his sopping, bumpy body. After five exhausting attempts, he managed to put his other arm through his leather sleeve. The miserable fish-man groaned from his internal and external reconstruction.
"Oh, God. Someday, it's... going to, to tear me in half."
As he idly stared at the crimson-tarnished grass from where a herd of deer had attempted to drink, a loud crack, followed by smoke, erupted in the sky from a distance. Groaning, Moreau fell to his knees and palms. For his upper back felt like it was being attacked from the inside out.
"Ow! Wh-what is this?!" he yelled to the trees. "No-NO! I-I just came back!"
Mercifully enough, the new, unexplainable pain was short-lived. Once Moreau regained some composure, he shambled to his feet and jerked his sights to the smoldering vaper as it passed the evergreens and dissipated over the peaks of the mountains. The vast explosion was from the beginning of his travel... From his birthplace... Her birthplace...
"Mother! NOOOOO!"
Instantly and without behest, the distraught fish-man started to retrace his steps toward the far-afield havoc. However, the last remnants of common sense came through, and his small heels became planted. Lowering his outreaching arm and hand, the former ruler realized that right then and there, he could not return if there was nothing to return to. And it'd be pointless and too late for a worthless, botched-up being like him to do something now.
Everything was gone. They were gone. Feeling great distress in his very core, Moreau could only hope that Mother survived.
She had to survive.
With a sharp, inspired breath, the fish-man pulled his hood up and went to collect his sachet. Of course, Mother was alive! After all, she was an immortal, beautiful Goddess! Moreau would see Mother again. And she would find him, and she would forgive him.
He needed her to.
For almost two days, Moreau had traversed considerably from the demolished birthplace. He followed and swam in a flowing narrow river that originated from his little sister's alluring waterfall. He found it odd and quite uncomfortable to carry the itchy burlap bag in his transmuted mouth. Moreau yearned to travel by boat. Regrettably, his hated-self was no other option.
When the fish-man was himself, he stopped for breaks and to wait out the aches from hauling the damp sack over his sensitive back. While Moreau could breathe underwater with internal gills and possessed a swim bladder, he wasn't much of a swimmer... when he didn't have a tail.
Moreau couldn't recall ever leaving the Village. He thought he'd ridden in a boat before... maybe? He did like sailboats very much. Moreau longed for the river to bring him to an endless ocean. He couldn't trace back to ever seeing one in person. But after viewing the glorious waters on the video box, he knew he still really liked them.
After an unknown amount of tiring hours of treading and grunting, the fish-man paused in silence when he finally made it to the large stream's destination. With wide lips slightly peeled apart, Moreau gazed in teary awe at the lake of the forest. Not the sea, but it was what he required, nonetheless. The stunning body of blue water was big if not bigger and better than his reservoir! It would certainly contain enough fish and be luring to native animals to keep his other hated-self sated enough to leave him alone for a couple of days.
Moreau's mouth closed and made a relieved smile from retaining precious water again. But soon, his pleased demeanor fell. For as much as he admired the shimmering, clear lake, he rather not need to live fully in it... It was getting harder and harder to return as himself.
Many, many miles from his birthplace, in the wintry woods, and amid a snowstorm, the former Lord of the Reservoir plodded through the cold, crunchy thickening frost. While gathering fallen broken branches to use as kindling, he reactively dropped a branch. He winced as he spied the splinter that instigated his minor distress.
Moreau brushed out the tiny slither of timber from his webbed, left hand, and a drop of blood filled the pricked skin. Briefly sucking on his thumb, the fish-man paid it no mind and resumed the straining activity. He was used to this sort of task, back in his shack in the mines, when his woodstove was his only heat source.
Well... before the rusty old thing became broken down.
Moreau observed his vast misty respires in the frosty air and quivered with a sneeze. He really did hate the cold. Regardless, he was still quite delighted with his amazing discovery...
"Oh, why d-does the cold... have to be... so-so-so c-cold?" whined Moreau to the passing trees.
He scanned the dimmer, descending sun. The wind was picking up and it was nearing nightfall. Temperatures would only continue to drop. The fish-man wished to have a blanket in the heavy drawstring sack that dangled annoyingly over his humps. It would've been handy to dry himself after he was forced to go for his swims...
Moreau started to muse about his former living space. Sure, it was dank and not all that warm, but at least, he was out of the elements.
Originally, he had considered the frosty forest captivating with the sparkling ice, the soothing chirrups of non-migratory birds, and the crisp zephyr for impetus. But currently, the appealing sights and sounds were becoming as numb as his exposed toes.
The chilled fish-man adjusted his blowing hood and rubbed his runny nose. And as he sniffed, his nostrils pulled in the familiar scent of ember-eating wood.
Moreau raised his eyes and saw a small, silent trail of smoke dancing in the overcast sky. It was nothing like the terrible, smoldering ash and detonation of the Village. And previously living in a world where small cottages were the main type of lodging, Moreau knew exactly what the silvery puffs were from...
"Oh! A-A house!" Moreau cheered while adjusting his sack and making his way to the potential salvation.
It took the fish-man some time, but he was eagerly persistent to get inside the dwelling. He paused when he was about thirty yards from the lone cabin. Being much nearer, Moreau could see that the windows were softly aglow from lanterns within, and the chimney was dispelling the steamy clouds. These were good signs...
...but also, not so good.
Although this meant there was heat and shelter, this also meant that the home was not vacant.
Gingerly as the hunched fish-man was able, he moved around and closer to the timber construction; disrupting the larger footprints left in the snow. Surprisingly, there was more rare luck to be had, as there was a backdoor. Swallowing, Moreau pressed a hand down on the copper latch, and pushed, just for a moment.
Even more exceptional good fortune. The door was not locked.
The wooden barrier widened, and the stout intruder made his way inside. Already, his coated hide could feel the warmth of the cabin's hearth, and he halted a pleased sigh from breaching his distorted larynx.
Moreau noted that it was very quiet. Perhaps, whoever lived here, wasn't at home? From what he had seen on the home's wooden porch, there was a lot of firewood. So, the cabin owner might have been chopping more lumber. However, he wasn't sure, because he was too anxious to have gotten close enough to peer through the windowpanes or to see if an axe still accompanied the logs.
Gulping again, the anxious fish-man slowly went through a small and short hall. He hated being so damn ungainly. Otherwise, he would be tiptoeing. When Moreau just reached the area with a very inviting fireplace, he gasped lowly. Sloped in a rocking chair, with a book on his lap, was a scruffy-looking elder. And by the acquainted style of chosen blouse and trousers, he was undoubtedly from the Village.
Moreau uncovered his mouth and sighed silently. The silver-scalp man was asleep.
Moreau's dull sights darted to and fro while trying to decide his next move. Ultimately feeling the overbearing weight of his items, he decided to carefully place the burlap bag down. The fish-man repressed a throaty grunt as the sack made a muffled plop to the wooden floor. It didn't make much of a noise...
"Kaa-doh!"
But inconveniently, Moreau's sudden sneeze did.
The arousing man blinked several times, until hazel eyes gaped at the Lord of the Reservoir, standing just meters away... waving at him.
"H-Hello? Good, good evening, sir!" Moreau looked at the man's current footwear. "N-Nice boots!"
The elder instantly stood up and the book that he was reading, dropped from his lap.
"Lord Moreau!" he yelped, mentally cursing at himself for forgetting to bar the backdoor. "How..? Why are you here?!"
For the ex-villager, out of the four House Lords, this one frightened him greatly. It wasn't just the ghastly appearance or Lord Moreau's pet that lived in his deadly fishing enclaves, but what this monster had done to so many close acquaintances. After the man had stumbled on the throwaway... bones and bodies, he packed up and retreated to his childhood home; well away from the horrors that had befallen the Village.
"I'm, I'm sorry for tr-troubling you, s-sir!" replied the shivering fish-man, pointing to the quiet flames atop the crackling wood. "I-I was just look-ing for a p-place to warm up."
Not moving from his spot, the man relented a nod and gestured a twitching open hand to the hearth. Moreau grinned, causing the tense man to grimace from catching the sight of crooked, sharp teeth.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Moreau waddled hastily to the source of heat.
As the ex-villager watched Moreau standing on the small, round rug, wriggling his withered, callous hands near the embers, his heart pounded harder. Because the witch in priestess's clothing always seemed not to be too far from her 'false children', as he had overheard her title them when she thought she was alone. Albeit, the witch did keep more of a distance with this creepy one in particular. All the same, he needed to know.
The man nervously put a closed fist to his mouth. "Ahem. Excuse me, my Lord, but..." He moved both his head and dilated pupils from side to side. "May I ask if... ah, Mother Miranda is with you, as well?"
The bowed fish-man's stance drooped more so. "...No. No-no, sh-she is not."
"I see... ...Do you know, where she might be, my Lord?"
Moreau's response was a heavy sway of his large head.
The man finally freed a shaky exhale. "Oh... that is too bad... my Lord..."
Being scorned by others for so long, Moreau could easily recognize when someone was being patronized. There was no need to face the silver-scalp man. Moreau could detect the laced poison by his inflection alone. This runaway villager was not in alliance with Mother. Hence, why he was out here: he loathed her. This made the fish-man's core boil to the rim of the pot, but he kept its lid sealed.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, the elder cleared his throat once more.
"Now, that you have warmed up, my Lord, could you please leave this old soul in peace?"
Moreau ungracefully swished around, triggering the man to almost stumble into his rocker.
"Oh, please, sir, please! L-Let me stay! It's, it's so warm in here and so-so cold out there!" The fish-man folded his ashen hands to his swollen chin. "I-I have nowhere else to go!"
The elder gave Moreau's large satchel a sideways glance. "Is that why you are out here with baggage, my Lord? You... you can't return to your reservoir?"
Moreau gloomily nodded. "Y-yes. I, I left before the-the Village turned to smoke... Nothing's left."
The man stared at the living area's window, then faced the whimpering fish-man. "So that's what that distant thunder was yesterday. I thought it was a faraway rainstorm that never reached here because of the cold."
Moreau shook his recessed head. "N-No. The big boom was the Village being des-destroyed."
A small, reactive smirk crept onto the grizzled face of the elder. He was so glad to hear that world was no more! It was no longer a home. It had become a mountainous hell; ridden with vile demons and ugly monsters.
The man was brought out of his relieved thoughts by the sounds of heavy breathing, and quickly took notice of the former ruler's countenance. This monster could see right through him.
With the ex-villager's face paling as he wished he'd bought a gun from that strange, immobile vendor, he shook revealed palms, inoffensively.
"I-I mean no disregard to you nor your family... my Lord!" he continued, still referring to Moreau as royalty for appeasement. "I'm... I'm just a tired, old loner! Please, my Lord! Would you be kind and let me be? I... I wish for no trouble..."
The man had been keeping his distance while avoiding direct eye contact with Moreau as much as possible. However, he finally looked directly at the fish-man when he heard the croaky respire.
"All right. I... I will go."
The man made a single, incredulous blink. "Re-Really?"
"...Yes. This is your house. ...Not mine."
The man bobbed his head curtly. "Yes. It is. ...Thank you for understanding, my Lord."
"It's... oookay..," Moreau drawled drearily. "No-Nobody ever wants... me around."
Moreau returned to his sack. After he clamped pointy fingertips on top of it, he looked over to the ex-villager.
"But... But may, may I ask for a last f-favor?"
"Uh... of course, my Lord."
"Could, could I have something hot to drink to warm my bones? ...P-Please?"
The man suppressed an edgy respire, but instead, nodded with a brief bow.
"I'll-I'll make you some black tea, my Lord. Is that all right? Then, you will leave?"
The fish-man beamed. "Yes! Yes! Tea's good. Then, then I'll go. Thank you, sir!"
"Right. Tea. I'll... I'll get it now, my Lord."
The elder turned and headed for the kitchen; his jaw could not stop juddering to the point that he almost bit his tongue. The man wasn't sure if it was his shrinking nerves, or if he needed to add more logs to the hearth.
As he filled a tin teakettle with water from his off-grid sink, the man swore he heard the distant creaking of a floorboard. Hurriedly, he peered through the entry to find that Moreau had resumed his position by the fireplace. While waiting for the water to boil, the ex-villager kept watch on the kitchen entrance. Hindsight harried him to not lose sight of this cloaked creeper. For though he seemed meek and compliant...
...so were all of his patients...
With a shudder, the man released the tiny bag of dried tea leaves and timed two minutes on his watch so the drink wasn't weak when it was served. He then, returned to the living area, holding a steaming porcelain teacup on a plate. Moreau kept cupped hands close to his broad midsection. The man figured the creepy introvert did not want to be in arms reach. And by all means, that was utterly fine with him.
Tentatively, the elder placed the items on a nearby coffee table. "Here's... here's your drink, my Lord." He quickly backed away. "I left a spoon and the teabag in, as I am not aware of how strong you like your tea."
Moreau wobbled to the short, slender table. "Yes, yes, that is good. Thank you, sir." He blinked at the single serving. "No? No tea for you?"
"I just had a cup before you arrived," lied the jumpy host. "But please, do enjoy yours, my Lord."
The fish-man took one step closer to the cup and seemed to wait for the bag to continue steeping. But after several minutes, he jerked his shoulders. The overwrought man became bemused.
"My? My Lord?"
Moreau partly turned for a moment. "Oh! Sorry, sorry! I didn't close the backdoor. I, I hope the draft doesn't make my tea cold."
The man receded to the kitchen entry to find the second door was, indeed, wide open. He was so disturbed by the creepy interloper that his peripheral vision and other senses hadn't perceived it. Maybe that was the reason for his chattering teeth.
"No worries, my Lord. I'll-I'll close the door."
The man does as he says and as swiftly as he can. He does not even bar the backdoor. He wanted this to be over. If it was spring, the elder would just forgo his family home before the monster sealed him in with that snotty, green goop, he hideously conjures up. However, being over sixty, the man wasn't exactly spry enough to endure the country's harsh winter. He'd surely freeze into ice or be eaten by starving wolves, tenacious ravens, or by... God knows what else, if any other monstrosity from the Village survived, too.
When he returned to the living area again, he found the creeper in the same spot; clawed hands still loosely enclosed in front of that engorged, globular stomach of his. The man dreaded what or whom his diet consisted of.
The ex-villager looked at the coffee table. The teacup, however, did not appear to be touched.
"Is... something wrong with your tea, my Lord?"
Moreau stared at the cooling tawny liquid, then toward his hesitant host.
"That question... is my question."
The silver eyebrows of the elder knitted together, creasing his brow further.
"I-I beg your pardon, my Lord?"
Moreau slightly slanted his head. "Are you afraid of me?"
The throaty inquiry sounded rhetorical.
"Of... of course not, my Lord."
The fish-man shuffled one pace forward and the man sidestepped twice... for the front door.
"Oh. I think your feet tell the truth."
The man bowed with clinching hands. "I'm... I'm sorry, my Lord! I truly do not mean any disrespect!"
"Okay... Can you prove it?"
"P-prove it, my Lord?"
Moreau gesticulated to the nearby drink with a sidelong squint. "I... I don't trust the tea..."
Stammering incoherently, the man shook his head and hands.
"N-No, my Lord! It's just boiled rainwater and a tea bag! Nothing more!"
Moreau pouted while performing the same visual gesture. "Hmmm... well, if that's true..?"
The man, wanting this ghoulish entity gone from his life, rushed forward and picked up the plate. Straightening his lean torso, he used his free hand to put an occupied teaspoon to quavering dry lips. The tea was lipid, and the taste was a bit bitterer, but this was most likely from the bag still steeping inside the cup.
The elder laid the spoon on the table and gained the courage to walk up to the awaiting former ruler.
"See, my Lord? The tea is fine. You can trust me."
The man bends to the stout fish-man to hand the jarring plate over, but those creepy, fidgety fingers remained bounded.
"Please, my Lord!" the worried man feigned a grin while trying to hide his rising exasperation. Just... Just take it!"
Moreau simply stared at the levitating drink.
"I like sugar."
The elder nodded. "All-All right. I... I... can... I cann... puut..."
His lids blinked deeply at the cup that had become three? Hazel eyes strained to focus on Moreau, whose face and sputtered scoffs had become swirly and even more contorted.
"Whaa..? Wha... did-juu... doo-?
The muddled man's slurred inquiry was cut by echoic, ruff guffaws.
"Stupid little traitor!" mocked Moreau as he watched the swaying man try to stay on his feet. "I trusteded you, yes."
He flipped his wrists and opened a webbed hand, disclosing an empty glass vial...
"Too bad you didn't trust me."
The toothy, simpering fish-man toddled backward as his drugged victim collapsed, taking the teacup and its platter to the hardwood floor with him. Moreau shuffled around the shattered bits of white porcelain and stood over the fatigued ex-villager.
Fighting the miasma in his mind, the elder blinked out of sync with his stubbled jawline floppy. But his glare which had locked onto the former Lord... was never so direct and stabbing.
"Dammnnn... Creeeep!" he drawled under heated, raspy breaths.
The silver-scalp man's cheekbone met the floorboards and bled out from a cup fragment. And with low, pleased chuckles, Moreau waved four gangly digits at the motionless, fallen form.
"Ha-ha-heh-heh... Nighty, nighty night."
A/N: Well, that was rather devious, wasn't it? We know that Moreau is a tragic villain. Nonetheless, still a villain with a corrupted mindset that currently can't comprehend scruples. And this chapter was a stark reminder.