“Don’t [i]tell me[/i] to calm down, Thompson! I just ate a fucking chair! That isn’t a normal thing to do! Go away, GET OUT.”

Beyond rage, a trembling Kipling seemed to glow red like hottest ember of a roaring fire as he stared wide-eyed at an empty space where a small wooden chair once called home. Just moments before he had devoured the poor object in front of one of his workers. Although, his original intention had been to eat the man. It took an act of pure willpower to be able to redirect his cannibalistic urge onto the surrounding furniture instead. Too close. 

Panting softly, his mind raced and his world felt desperate as he recalled the night prior and cringed at the memory of gorging himself on an uncooked brisket and bucket of raw intestines--the guts that were meant for the dogs. For several nights now, his need for food was growing more frequent and in larger quantities that seemed unnatural and impossible for his small frame to hold. It started with requesting thirds and fourths from his meal plates, but by the third day, the young master continuously found himself standing dumbstruck at the butcher shop window. Sometimes no memory of how he got there, but always waking up to see hanging slabs of meat--mouth agape and drool dripping down the front of his shirt.

There were other hours in his day that were missing as well. The only proof they ever existed captured in strange dreams where Kipling vaguely remembered being aware of himself. The more lucid dreams included feasting on livestock and the most horrific of them being the messy scene of a dirty vagrant being ripped apart. 

However, the nightmares were splendid euphoric events that left him obsessing over when the next one would occur. His body needed it like the sweet release of an orgasm. He could feel the stuff beneath his skin crawl with excitement whenever he thought about it and found himself trying to force the dreams. Countless failed attempts did nothing except cause anger from the frustration of not having control over the transitions.

Kipling placed his agitated figure into the over-sized arm chair that sat behind his equally massive desk to collect his thoughts. Pressing his fingertips together ahead of his lips, he glared into the distance of his expansive office while he ground his teeth--the taste of wood still on his tongue. He knew where to find answers and guidance, but the idea of returning to that wretched manor was enough to make him lose his appetite. Not that he wasn’t itching to see Lord Nixus again… No! That over-stuffed jerk with his rippling muscles and broad shoulders could take a flying  leap off a cliff!

Slamming both fists atop his desk, the young Baye cursed aloud and knew all too well that going back couldn’t be avoided. The thought had been in the back of his mind the same instant he had left the manor after the party. He had tasted the strange power and he needed more, plus he couldn’t afford to keep eating chairs. The last one felt like it left splinters behind.

[center]***[/center]

Forty minutes of arguing with the valet got him nowhere and Kipling was forced to watch the majority of his luggage ride away since apparently there was some goddamn rule on the amount of personal belongings. He could have cried as the tenth carriage disappeared out of view and took away his precious whatnots. No amount of sweet talk from any staff was going to pull him out of this foul mood. There was Hell to pay. Or, not. The girl that came to greet him was beyond the meaning of repulsive and he couldn’t bring himself to speak without the threat of vomiting until she began to lead him through the home.

“Where are we going? Guest quarters are supposed to be upstairs. Ah, it stinks! This doesn’t look right. Is this a dungeon? This looks like a dungeon. You took me to a fucking dungeon! Are you stupid? Do you know who I am?! You can’t leave me here!! I’m not an animal!”

A furious Kipling threw the whole of his body up against his new cage--a small dark room with iron bars closed in by a thick wall of perforated glass. It was perfect for keeping small things in. Small things that liked the taste of a human face.

“LET ME OUT.”

He would kick and scream until his body and voice finally gave out, but there was no way he was going to be forgotten down in the dank disgusting dungeon. However, not too soon later, he was pushing exhaustion as the apparent lack of food began to take its toll and a defeated Kipling was now lying on the floor curled in the fetal position. He had already tried to chew through the glass to no avail and even discovered if he concentrated hard enough he could manifest into the tiny winged creatures from his nightmares, if only for several seconds. It was useless though. This prison was purposely designed to keep someone like him trapped and hungry.