Sarras had long since given up on trying to keep track of how much time had passed, and he wasn't even sure when the world finally came to, if it really actually ever did. The world came in colors and hues, not to much the typical shapes and objects, and at first he didn’t really care. Alcohol had a way of killing any amount of ******** that one might have had attempted to go muster, and the nectar of his own wonder’s water had dulled the knowledge that he might freeze himself to death and made it to where it certainly wasn’t enough to counter the lethargy of the combination of alcohol and nectar. He should have cared. Keywords were “should have”. Once again, in theory, he should have pushed himself to care more about his survival to rise out of this death trap he found himself lodged in, but in practice, it was simply too far fetched an idea. It could not be done. So, he simply laid down, not moving a muscle, allowing a layer upon layer of snow to blanket him in its chilling embrace. With any luck, it would completely submerge him and acted as a barrier against the extremely cruel environment, and save his miserable life.

Tried as he might, he didn’t move and waited for the colors and hues to fade away or morph into some kind of recognizable scenery, but the only thing that changed was the shade of hues, shifting from a warm red to a cooler green, then gradually back to a reddish yellow before he had even acknowledged that it was ever green to begin with. He could feel nothing, the cold, alcohol and nectar magic had left him completely numb, and now he was beginning to question if he was even of the living or not.

Had he died? He wouldn’t have put it past himself, really. He had fallen onto his stomach, drowning in his vomit was a high possibility at this point. Or would he had to have lied on his back in order to have grown? How did he fall? He couldn’t move and the ever changing hues and colors offered little in a ways of figuring that out directions. For all he knew he could have been floating in air at this point! It struck him as ironic… he swore that if anyone in the Moreau family would have have their demise by alcoholic consumption, it would have been Richard. And yet, was this not a fitting demise for him? His life, his question for vengeance and justice, left unfulfilled and him completely wasted.

If this was death, it was a little unfulfilling, he thought to himself, and the hues shifted to a sickening yellow. He wasn’t sure how he managed to get to a seated position, but he was rewarded for it with a clear shot of a giant, longing gaze of whatever the unholy creature that stood in front of him!

At initial glance, he figured it was a stag, and quite a might one at that, as its antlers were more akin to the great barks of a tree; he swore he could even see leaves sprouting from a few of its arching, skyward branches. Beneath moss covered fur were bulging muscles, the shabby appearance meant to lure any hunter and other stags into a false sense of security, though if that didn't do the trick, the hazy, vacant gleam of its opalescent eyes would have certainly done the trick. Thich, three toed legs supported the massive creature seemed to hover on the plain of existence, its scaly skin never actually touching ground, which only served to confuse the drunk and delusional squire all the more. At this point, he found his brain wanting to shut down, because trying to make sense of what he was gazing upon was simply too frustrating.

This seemed to please the stag, as a very human smile crept onto its very creepily human-like lips, and its giant, opalescent eyes gleamed with unfathomable joy. He wasn’t sure if the creature was a prime example of a beast to innocent and childlike of if it had obtained one of two extra chromosomes, but seeing it smile was… almost horrifying. Its smile lingered on and even grew wider as that shabby neck stretched out towards him and all Sarras could do was stare. What else could one do? As a hunter, he never dreamed of getting this close to a living deer… If a deer ever got this close, it usually meant the hunter was in deep s**t and had seconds to flee, but he somehow knew that this stag would not strike at him. Not that it made him feel any safer… had it been a normal deer with a normal face, its snout would have reached his own face right now, but as it was now, they just barely touched and the puff of air that hit his face spread an eeries, but welcoming warmth to not just his face but his entire body.

“Get up.” A voice beckoned, and what choice did Sarras even have at this point? When a deer of possibly mythical origin appeared before one trapped in a kaleidoscope of many changing hues and colors told you to stand, you obeyed without question. With strength that he could only think the stag had bestowed upon him, Sarras pushed himself and finally stood on his own feet, and oddly enough it seemed as though the deer still loomed over him, above him, as though their positions had never changed at all. How massive was this deer?! He gazed up to try and see over its head, but it was no use as the world simply seemed to stop existing beyond through upreaching antlers. Pleased with obedience, that child-like smile grew ever wider, threatening to stretch its face so that it would consume the world horizontally as well as vertically. The voice returned, but those lips never moved. “It is not your fault.”

He was besides himself. Not only was the monster of a stag, king of stag more likely, speaking to him (and what bravery that feat took considering how many were stuffed and mounted at his own home, not even including his father’s manor back in Sugarland, by his own hands no doubt), but it had the nerve to say something so cryptic! Stereotypically cryptic, to add salt to that wound. He finally left his own face again and he made sure to stare the deer down with the meanest glare he could muster. “What,” he said, surprised he could even speak or that he was speaking to an animation that wasn’t a guardian cat. “Does that even MEAN?”

He was clueless as far as what he was going to expect out of the creepy faced stag; would he reply back or would he just continue to stare? Maybe both, he seemed pretty capable of doing either and neither all at the same time. And yet, there were no words that leaked from the stag’s mouth, only a silent and widening grin. It was downright creepy! “Are you a youma?”

He didn’t say anything, though the wind that escaped those smiling lips wounded like a chortle or a laugh. No, it was clear that what ever this creature was, he was not a youma, the feel of its aura was certainly not chaotic in nature, but that merely brought him back to square one in the grand scheme of things. “Okay, dumb question, I’ll admit, but what are you? And what the hell do you want?”

It continued to stare at him, and the world began to trickle around, a little of of crimson and dark mauve emerged from the corners of the world and his vision. The stag said nothing, and he was beginning to lose his temper. “Don’t d**k with me… what are you, and what isn’t my fault? Tell me!”

“Her death.”

It did not need to say who this who was, and Sarras could only stare at the stag with clear confusion and disgust. Who was this stag to know who he was, who Victoria was, and how dare he claim that he had any notion of that thought at all in his head? He wanted to speak, he wanted to scream at the stag, but words failed him. He opened his mouth to speak, but his own voice refused to come out, and all that managed to escape was a breathless gasp. He knew that Victoria Moreau’s death was not his fault- how dare this deer try and say otherwise.

“His mind is not yet lost. To, too, is not your fault.”

Sarras just stared at the stag, wondering how it spoke when its human like lips never parted from its ever expanding smile, wondering more about how it not only knew of Victoria Moreau, but his brother’s state of mind. Once again he wanted to scream, but what could he have possibly said? What could he possibly do? Deny such accusations, maybe, but this was a deer. It was a mythical deer with the ability to speak without moving its lips and float on air, but still, a deer, and to acknowledge that any of this was real, that any of this was actually happening… wouldn’t that make him insane? What could he gain by arguing with a ******** deer? Said deer had not moved, not a flick of his ear, not a twist of its lion like tail, nothing about this deer moved, as though setting the perfect metaphor for how it stood by its statement. And yet, all Sarras could feel himself wanting to do was back away, but he refused to surrender ground, so he merely fidgeted in place, like a young buck unable to stand down the elder stag before it.

“Take the pledge.” And of course, it would do something like this, say something completely cryptic and unhelpful after stabbing him right in his chest as it just did (metaphorically, as the stag had not struck him down with anything except for words). The stag seemed just as tired of this encounter as he was, as he turned his great head with ease, as though its neck and shoulders were used to carrying such a heavy burden, and began to walk away. Sarras, not taking too kindly to the idea of someone taking cheap shots at his emotions and leaving before he had the chance to return fire, went to storm after him. He was angry! He was livid! How dare this stag, as grand and mystic as it may have been, tell him such things! However, the moment he tried to lift his feet, he felt something drag it back down. He finally looked down at his own feet and saw a vast darkness, familiar darkness, and he could not even think of letting out a scream. he had been here before! And he did not want to go back! And the deer, ever unhelpful, ever cruel, merely walked away, speaking softly yet its voice lingering in his ears. “Take the pledge, before it is too late. Before it consumes.”

Down and down he went, and the more he struggled, the faster he went down. he had tried holding his breath, but it was to no avail. Once again, he was drowning, and this time, he could see the world of many hues and colors and the great stage fading away from above him…

And once again, he was pulled awake by fate, and the cat that peered at him held no intelligence or star on its forehead. Just an ordinary cat… which given how weird his apparent dream had been, Sarras was grateful for it. With unknown strength, he pulled himself to his feet, and told himself that it was time to go home. He felt disappointed to know that it was only a dream, and he made a note to himself and a vow to go with it… never mix alcohol and his squire’s magic together. He turned to leave, kicking emptied cans out of the way, all the while never noticing the three toed prints left in the snow behind him.

((Word Count: 2045))