Ten hours later and no stew.
The Valeyard pushes himself up from the litter again, holding his legs up to avoid the....
Then he snorts, shoves some air from his lungs, and touches one foot to the stone tiles anyway.
Ice fractures out from his bare toes, freezing the veins of amberite in the flooring tiles into little gold rivers of yellow snow.
“Do you want something to eat besides me?” he muses softly, his fingers idly poking and prodding his freezing abdomen for proof of residence.
He stretches, then plods across the room to a chest of drawers. His muscles propel him as far as the middle of the room, then freeze up as though they’ve lost oil, his abdominals in particular. He can feel the ice shifting across their covering of skin, frosting their edges like a cold morning’s kiss on a lucky clover.
He rubs arms aching with cold, hunching forward awkwardly.
Then he tries to straighten again.
Suddenly his mental vision is assailed by a thick and twisting maw lined with a thousand gnashing fangs clanging around and around, clicking together and apart with mechanical, meat-grinding precision.
He lurches and falls, wild-eyed, his elbows banging against the tannish chest of drawers.
“Watch yourself, child,” he gasps, breathlessly catching an elbow about his trembling midsection as it languidly drips cool sweat, “…I warn you, if you don’t play nice I will think seriously about letting you house-sit my… AGH!”