For monsters like Lahabrea, who have yet to accept anything about their situation, least of all the instincts involved, the entire week surrounding the full moons is a trial. For someone already prone to temper and irritability, it's a long and frustrating trial at trying to rein in instinct and temper, and get as much accomplished before moonrise. He hasn't been at it quite long enough for it to become routine, but he definitely plans ahead.
Which means for a few days the doors are locked, the window closed, shades pulled, hearth fires for the most part banked, the lack of desire for anyone visiting obvious - it's at least one that the harpies respect. Food has been packed up and placed in his cage, bottles and containers of water, something to do in the ensuing few days likewise collected, and then he'd simply retreated with the most comfortable of cushions, the entirety of his small hoard, and his bomb as soon as the moonshifts set in and marked the rise of the Sisters. His robes and even his mask have been left elsewhere, for in one's home it's perfectly proper to go without, and he'd made do with a pair of modified shorts and little else. There was one blessing to the way the moons warped his body, for his hips and knees finally felt right and he could move with ease after uncomfortable jostling and realignment. Unfortunately it also came with increasing his size and the coverage of scale and feather, the small nubs of horns twisted into large arcs of dark ivory, the whites of his eyes fully occluded by the storm-gray iris, and pupils gone reddish-amethyst instead of a more proper black. He could, if he were lined up against them, outsize the largest of roegadyn at this point ... but that would likely fade once the moons' influence waned.
Usually it's a fairly monotonous couple days but with nobody around to trigger temper or violence, even in the times where awareness fades and leaves only an animal behind, not much has come of it yet, which was exactly how he liked it. Which is exactly how he liked it right now, even with the itch to leave and do ANYTHING BUT SIT THERE, carefully chipping away at a large chunk of black rock with a small variety of tools up against one side of the cage so shards don't just get everywhere. The moons demanded he do something, and he's doing something, keeping himself utterly focused on this task and not giving into the impulse to leave, to hunt, to find a rival and tear their throat out with his teeth.
There's really only one visitor he'd even tolerate at this juncture, one who may be surprised to find the worst of the staircase squeaking has been settled via vigorous application of hammer and nails; Elidibus hadn't exactly been warned of any of it but Lahabrea didn't feel warning was necessary; he already knew the Speaker trended towards unstable, that he had a cage and put it to use, and that the moons had risen. Anything more would surely be extraneous.
But it's a distracting thought that keeps making small chisels go still in his hands, stopping to listen with ears perked and attention honed for the sound of a door lock being opened, or footsteps across hardwood. Elidibus might wisely choose to not visit til the full moons have passed, and certainly Lahabrea would say that is the best decision to make.
It doesn't stop him from pausing, and listening, still and unmoving under the pale electric light to catch any whisper of a sound, of a scent that might mark the end to silence.
The borrowed clothes he'd insisted they bring with them were no solace; for all he could smell familiarity, taste familiarity, it brought with it only utter certainty that this isolation was wrong, and he should find the rest of his flight, for there was safety, there was comfort in numbers, in a fragile bond--
He knows the thought isn't really his, and so it's deliberately shoved aside, and he returns to careful chipping, the surge of blind fury that boils up carefully likewise bottled and put aside. It too would pass, eventually.
You know, since we used mine before i'm using your inbox this time. Backdated!
Which means for a few days the doors are locked, the window closed, shades pulled, hearth fires for the most part banked, the lack of desire for anyone visiting obvious - it's at least one that the harpies respect. Food has been packed up and placed in his cage, bottles and containers of water, something to do in the ensuing few days likewise collected, and then he'd simply retreated with the most comfortable of cushions, the entirety of his small hoard, and his bomb as soon as the moonshifts set in and marked the rise of the Sisters. His robes and even his mask have been left elsewhere, for in one's home it's perfectly proper to go without, and he'd made do with a pair of modified shorts and little else. There was one blessing to the way the moons warped his body, for his hips and knees finally felt right and he could move with ease after uncomfortable jostling and realignment. Unfortunately it also came with increasing his size and the coverage of scale and feather, the small nubs of horns twisted into large arcs of dark ivory, the whites of his eyes fully occluded by the storm-gray iris, and pupils gone reddish-amethyst instead of a more proper black. He could, if he were lined up against them, outsize the largest of roegadyn at this point ... but that would likely fade once the moons' influence waned.
Usually it's a fairly monotonous couple days but with nobody around to trigger temper or violence, even in the times where awareness fades and leaves only an animal behind, not much has come of it yet, which was exactly how he liked it. Which is exactly how he liked it right now, even with the itch to leave and do ANYTHING BUT SIT THERE, carefully chipping away at a large chunk of black rock with a small variety of tools up against one side of the cage so shards don't just get everywhere. The moons demanded he do something, and he's doing something, keeping himself utterly focused on this task and not giving into the impulse to leave, to hunt, to find a rival and tear their throat out with his teeth.
There's really only one visitor he'd even tolerate at this juncture, one who may be surprised to find the worst of the staircase squeaking has been settled via vigorous application of hammer and nails; Elidibus hadn't exactly been warned of any of it but Lahabrea didn't feel warning was necessary; he already knew the Speaker trended towards unstable, that he had a cage and put it to use, and that the moons had risen. Anything more would surely be extraneous.
But it's a distracting thought that keeps making small chisels go still in his hands, stopping to listen with ears perked and attention honed for the sound of a door lock being opened, or footsteps across hardwood. Elidibus might wisely choose to not visit til the full moons have passed, and certainly Lahabrea would say that is the best decision to make.
It doesn't stop him from pausing, and listening, still and unmoving under the pale electric light to catch any whisper of a sound, of a scent that might mark the end to silence.
The borrowed clothes he'd insisted they bring with them were no solace; for all he could smell familiarity, taste familiarity, it brought with it only utter certainty that this isolation was wrong, and he should find the rest of his flight, for there was safety, there was comfort in numbers, in a fragile bond--
He knows the thought isn't really his, and so it's deliberately shoved aside, and he returns to careful chipping, the surge of blind fury that boils up carefully likewise bottled and put aside. It too would pass, eventually.