The strange disruptions in the air rip the former good doctor out of his thoughts, and it takes him several seconds to place the pang of familiarity they create - they sound alien at first, but he starts to recognise the patterns, rippling rhythms passing around him like...
He remembers. The surgery table. The tiniest snippets of consciousness between bouts of death-sleep. The strange machinery prying his remnants apart like a child dissecting a frog, the backyard's influence thick in the air...and the voices dancing around him. It's like a tidal wave crashing down upon his brain, whispers of forbidden rituals and immoral practices, echoing inside of his skull and drowning whatever is left of him entirely.
He's standing, now, all nine-and-a-bit feet of wiry corpse staggering around with his hands desperately trying to clutch his head through the bag. He's screaming, maybe - what comes out from his mouth is garbled and broken, wholly monstrous in nature. It's all he can do to violently shake his head back and forth as if to rip it off entirely, everything drowned out by the screams only he can hear - the patients he butchered, the pleas of the innocents he swore to protect, and he's falling again, falling into the pits of his decrepit mind and he's scrambling to stay afloat but he can't and if he could just silence those damned voices-!
The creature before Valkenhayn lets out a gargled roar, voice choked on splintered bone and rotting blood as the entire thing's body seems to twitch and crack under its own weight. Two pairs of gangly limbs claw at the dirt, casting the earth aside as the monster rapidly closes the distance between itself and the old butler on all fours, the singular eyehole in the beast's paper-bound head glowing a bright scarlet as it lunges for him...!
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He remembers. The surgery table. The tiniest snippets of consciousness between bouts of death-sleep. The strange machinery prying his remnants apart like a child dissecting a frog, the backyard's influence thick in the air...and the voices dancing around him. It's like a tidal wave crashing down upon his brain, whispers of forbidden rituals and immoral practices, echoing inside of his skull and drowning whatever is left of him entirely.
He's standing, now, all nine-and-a-bit feet of wiry corpse staggering around with his hands desperately trying to clutch his head through the bag. He's screaming, maybe - what comes out from his mouth is garbled and broken, wholly monstrous in nature. It's all he can do to violently shake his head back and forth as if to rip it off entirely, everything drowned out by the screams only he can hear - the patients he butchered, the pleas of the innocents he swore to protect, and he's falling again, falling into the pits of his decrepit mind and he's scrambling to stay afloat but he can't and if he could just silence those damned voices-!
The creature before Valkenhayn lets out a gargled roar, voice choked on splintered bone and rotting blood as the entire thing's body seems to twitch and crack under its own weight. Two pairs of gangly limbs claw at the dirt, casting the earth aside as the monster rapidly closes the distance between itself and the old butler on all fours, the singular eyehole in the beast's paper-bound head glowing a bright scarlet as it lunges for him...!