The beady monk eyes stare at one another, then at Roda. Then they all three exit the room, Roda’s voice calling out from the hallway that they will fetch him more blankets, and that the brother on kitchen duty will soon have something for him to consume which will warm him, should he require it.
“Require it…bah!” the Valeyard breathes to himself, glaring at the now locked and heavy doors leading out of his small, minimalist’s vacation home of a room. As he draws the thin sheets around his body and pinches his sleeping ankles, he adds, with teeth chattering, “…but could you worthless malnourished chickens hurry up with the blankets please? I can’t feel my legs… why aren’t they… this isn’t good- suddenly I want to sleep again… but Flesh don’t have to… sleep… I don’t want… to… I won’t…”
His head falls back.
His eyes narrow in wide, wet rictus at his body, puppeting itself. Puppeting –him-, like the wild, cracking gape of a demon drum.
His face becomes the mask of a staring octopus as unconsciousness, disregarding of his wishes, grips his toes like a tiger’s tail and drags him floorward, backward, into the dark.
Into the cold.