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The first day of class had been about as productive as expected: not in the slightest. A few hours of Fiddle's finite life wasted on listening to names she was going to forget by tomorrow and exchanging numbers with study partners she'd text maybe three times throughout the semester before never speaking to them again. For someone like her who seemed hardwired to crave excitement and action it would have been afternoon of Hell, save for three things: Turner, Basker and the bottle of Ambien hidden in her backpack. It had been child's play to slip a couple pills in her mouth while she reached for a pencil and nearly as easy to disguise the fact that she was anything but perfectly lucid. Practice made perfect in all things and Fidelity was by now an old pro at hiding her drug abuse. 

Who'd suspect the intelligent, wealthy heiress with near perfect grades of carrying around a private pharmacy? Her identity in the halls of university was quiet, intelligent, well-adjusted while the one she slipped into during the ragers she organized was loud, wild and absolutely unhinged. The two were kept apart out of equal parts convenience and necessity, two masks custom made to hide their wearer's insecurities. It was healthier for her that way. 

So Fiddle juggled the two of them throughout the day, taking what little notes were actually required while she buzzed along in private euphoria. Her dogs were the only ones who know something was off, staring up at her with those accusing eyes as they rested their snouts on her legs. If they could speak they would have been hissing at her for her stupidity no doubt. Or was she just hallucinating? It happened sometimes, little things appearing in the corner of her eye or subtle changes that only she noticed. Whatever. Whether or not her precious pups knew or cared didn't matter if they couldn't snitch on her.

Class was dismissed before she knew it, Fiddle waiting patiently for everyone to leave so she wouldn't hold up the queue. With her dogs forming a protective barrier and her cane making up for her injured leg the cripple managed a relatively brisk pace towards the exit, tap-tapping her way out her gate and towards the nearest convenience store. If she didn't at least pick up a few microwave dinners or a bag of chips or something she'd end up eating more cold cold pizza with a mug of stale beer and there was only so much of that the human body could take. 

The mist had gone ignored at first, Fiddle having reluctantly made peace with London's horrid weather long ago. The slight stagger in her step was chalked up to the drug's affect on her already impaired motor control. But the changing of the sky? The way her guardians were swallowed by the fog and how each breath seemed to hurt her lungs? Those were much harder to explain.

[i][color=red]You've finally lost it Fiddle.[/color]
[/i]

It had to happen sometime. Really she was only surprised it had taken this long. At a complete loss as to what the hell she was supposed to do the American looked about helplessly, seizing on the sound of a voice. [color=red]"I'm here! Hold on, I'll come to you."[/color] If she really had snapped she'd rather experience her psychosis with someone else, imaginary or otherwise. She raised her cane and took an experimental swipe at the wall of fog, noticing the wooden charms now tied to its handle. A pair of dogs, perfect matches for the ones that she had just lost. Sure, that made sense.

The fog began to clear, the cane stretching and distorting it like a stick through a cobweb. A few more swipes and there was almost a path, the final one revealing-

[color=red]"Holy fucking shit."[/color]

Her last swing had been stopped short by a solid object, a creature that she had only ever seen in her dreams and drawings. Stand at eight or nine feet tall with huge wings folded over its musclebound arms the Mothman stared straight down at her with those huge red eyes. She was frozen in place, unable to even breath as the thing looked past her face and into her soul.

[color=red]"Holy fucking shit."[/color] The words were breathless, Fiddle's head swimming as she tried to make sense of the thing that should not be. She collapsed barely managing to support herself on her one good knee as she got a good look at the talons on its feet. A single kick from those six inch skin-slicers and she would have been reduced to scraps of meat. 

Against all reason, all sanity she reached out, daring to tap a trunk-like leg with her knuckles. Hard muscle was hidden by downy black fuzz, the Mothman apparently not minding her touch in the least. All it did was give those wings a flap, their sheer mass displacing tainted air and soupy fog alike. 

Fiddle laughed. It was a high pitched and frantic sound, pulling what little air she had left from her lungs and expelling it in a wheezing cry. The tears in her eyes burned almost as bad as her lungs, vision going blurry as her mind temporarily shut down. The creature was nothing more than a black blob with crimson light emanating from it, the figure swaying as she struggled to keep from passing out on the spot.

[i][color=red]What the actual fuck.[/color][/i]

She had always known cryptids were out there. Just didn't expect to ever see one so close. 

[@Not Fungus]