Of Big Mice & Men - Chapter 1
This is the first of a multi-chapter story I wrote as a long, LONG running trade with CK-19 on FurAffinity. He created a trio of OCs for Twisted Wonderland, themed around the villains of "The Great Mouse Detective." In return for three pieces of artwork (which have not been posted here...at least not yet), I agreed to write a three-part story to introduce these characters in writing, in the typical TW format. Also, my boi Elias is featured as a supporting character, along with the Pomefiore Trio! Take from that what you will. This first chapter doesn't include any direct vore, but every chapter includes kinky references and teases, so do be warned. IF YOU DON'T LIKE VORE, STUFFING, AND OTHER ASSORTED KINKS, OR YOU'RE NOT 18+, DON'T GO READING THIS. With that said, here's Chapter 1! Chapter 2 will be linked here. :)
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“Here you are, sweetheart!”
“Have you…been with us…long?”
You looked skeptically at the strange little bat, dressed in a beefeater’s costume, as he handed you the letter attached to the large, pastel-paper-wrapped package that had been brought into your chambers. You didn’t recognize him as any of your staff…and who called the ruler of the kingdom “sweetheart,” anyway? You shooed the Bat away; he backed up with a crooked grin, hobbling on a peg leg that replaced one of his lower limbs. You then proceeded to read the letter aloud… “To our beloved monarch, this gift we send, as their sixty-year reign…” You paused, hesitating to read the last line. “...Comes to an…end?” As if on cue, you heard the rustling of paper and unwrapping ribbons. Turning fast, now VERY confused, you watched as your guards pulled open the package…and gasped softly as you beheld the contents. Inside the oversized box was what appeared to be a metal statue. The sculpture was the perfect likeness of yourself! Every feature, color, and detail was perfectly identical to your own appearance, as it posed with its head held high, back straight and erect, looking proud and haughty. “How extraordinary!” you exclaimed, unable to repress amazement at the lifelike appearance of the sculpture… …Amazement that changed to fear and alarm when it suddenly popped open its eyes and swiveled its head towards you. Then, its hands lifted up, clawing at the air as it lunged at you with shocking speed. “Goodness gracious!” you cried out, and dodged the metallic doppelganger. It began to chase you around the room. You bounded around, weaving in a figure-eight sort of pattern to avoid its grasping iron fists. You dove behind your guards for protection… …At which point, you heard a low, dark chuckle. Peeking out from behind the two guards, you saw the metallic simulacrum - the Automaton - had paused in the center of the room. Now you could see what looking like a long, thick cable or cord trailing behind it, like a snake. At the other end of the wire, you saw what looked like a portable booth of some sort; a small, stooped figure with sad, weary eyes was fiddling with a set of levers and switches at the booth, controlling the machine. But it was the figure who leaned with a smug, supercilious, sinister smirk against the doorway, just a little away from the booth, that caught your attention most. A hulking, towering figure, garbed in a long black-and-red cape, and a tuxedo that seemed to cling with desperation to his bulky, muscular framework. A top hat was perched at a jaunty angle atop his black-furred head, as yellow eyes and equally yellow, jagged-looking teeth peered at you with evil intent. A long, fat, wormy-looking tail drooped down and curled upon the floor from beneath the cape, matching the twitching nose and round ears, signifying your visitor to be the slimy, contemptible sewer rat you knew him to be. You’d long known of his name. You’d seen his images in the papers. He was the Napoleon of Crime: the one who would plunge all of Mousedom into the depths of Hell. The brain behind the Big Ben Caper, the thing behind the Tower Bridge Job… “PROFESSOR RATIGAN!” you screeched, and marched out from behind your guards, pointing at the arch-criminal. “GUARDS! SEIZE THIS DESPICABLE CREATURE!” You hear the Bat let out a raspy, almost sick-sounding laugh. Your guards remain immobile. You suddenly notice the evil smirks upon their faces. You instantly realize the truth: these AREN’T your guards. They’re imposters! The Professor has you trapped!
Clearly enjoying the rising panic on your face, the Professor grabs hold of a speaking device attached to the booth. As he speaks smugly into it, his voice comes out of the Automaton: just like the machine itself, the voice is a perfect replica of your own. “GUARDS!” the Automaton says, with your voice and the Professor’s mocking tone. “SEIZE THIS DESPICABLE CREATURE! HA HA HA HA HA HA!” In an instant, the fake guards grab hold of you. You yelp and struggle against them, but they’re stronger than you are. “Oh! How dare you?!” you cough out, as they snicker at your plight. The Professor sniffs snootily, and removes a golden bell from his waistcoat pocket. “Take it away!” he bellows, and gives the belly a chiming ring-a-ding! “Move along, honey!” cackles the Bat, and he and the two guards drag you out of the room. As you pass the Professor, you see him tuck the bell away, smirking sneakily as he begins to polish the face of the Auotmaton with a small pink cloth. “Let go of me, you ruffians! Fiends! Traitors!” you wail. The guards and the Bat just roll their eyes at your words, and proceed to bind you in strong ropes, forcing a cloth gag around your mouth. The guards then rush off to join the Professor, while the Bat grabs hold of the ropes and begins to drag you through the gilded halls of the Palace, towards the Royal Balcony. “Your turn, toots,” grunts the Bat, and then shrilly calls out: “Heeere, kitty-kitty-kitty!” The words fill you with dread. You manage to get a look at where the Bat is taking you…and scream behind the gag, as you see a pair of ravenous yellow eyes peering in at you from over the edge of the balcony. They disappear and then reappear again, rising and falling: you realize whatever is beyond the Balcony is bouncing up and down with eager excitement. Eager, you quickly understand…to make a meal out of you. You struggle more fiercely, desperate to avoid becoming some doubtless feline monster’s dinner! As the Bat hoists you up over his head, you try to kick at his noggin - and succeed, if the sudden shriek of, “Ow! Stop it!” is anything to go by - but it is all for naught. Despite his size, the Bat is stronger than you are, especially with the ropes keeping you tightly trussed up. It isn’t long till the Bat reaches the Royal Balcony. The beast that awaits you has stopped bouncing, and is now seated, patiently waiting just below the edge of the overlook. The creature defied all description: the fattest cat you’d ever seen, bigger than a Blue Whale! A half-lidded look of self-satisfaction and ravenous, smoldering greed was upon the creature’s face, as it purred deeply, swishing its tail in expectation. The Bat lifted you up higher into the air, and called down to the Fat Cat in a sing-song sort of way: “Ooopen wiiide!” The Fat Cat obeyed, and its jaws spread apart, revealing a vast, slimy chasm of sloppy, pinkish flesh and sharp, off-white fangs, all sloping back towards a gluttonous black hole of a gullet. You screamed frantically behind the gag, desperately shaking your head in panic, but the Bat just laughed as the Fat Cat drooled…
“Bye-bye!” the Bat cackled, and without any further warning, hurled you over the edge of the Royal Balcony. Your final scream was muffled as you fell, toppling head over heels, into the literal jaws of death…which snapped shut around you with the cold finality of a steel door, preluding the warm, slimy darkness from which you would never return. The last sound you heard was a loud GULP all around you… …Then something bounced on your chest and yowled “MINION! GET UP!” You awoke with a jolt, gasping heavily and sitting up fast in your bed. Your head jerked about as you hastened to gather your surroundings. Via the light that streamed through a thin partition in your bedroom curtains, you came to realize it was already morning. You groaned as you realized either you’d slept through your alarm, or the alarm itself hadn’t gone off. Just your luck. “Oh, good grief,” you grumbled, running a hand over your face and mussing your own hair. Your whole body felt heavy, creaky, and gritty, the way one usually feels first thing in the morning after an unpleasant sleep. “Nya! C’mon, get your butt in gear!” “Don’t talk to ME about butts,” you mumbled, and rubbing at your eyes. You touched your cheek and shivered; your “nightmare” had left you with a pronounced blush, which heated your palm in a way you didn’t like at present. You needed new kinks. Seriously. Still grumpy, you glared sourly past baggy eyes at the cat-like little monster who had bounced off of you and back onto the floor beside the bed. Grim was standing on his hind legs, forelimbs crossed, tapping one footpaw impatiently on the floor as his trident tail lashed irritatedly behind him. Even the blue sparks that crackled from his fiery ears seemed a bit more irate than normal as he gave you a petulant glare. “What?” you grunted, not in the mood after your nightmare. “Breakfast!” meowed Grim, and pawed at the blankets like a feral cat. “We gotta eat somethin’ before we go!” “Go?” you blinked, your brain struggling to recall what Grim was referring to. There were no classes that day, after all, but you remembered setting an alarm regardless… “To Pomefiore!” Grim urged in reminder. “The Film Club, y’know?” You sighed softly and nodded, as it came back to you. “Right,” you muttered, and kicked off the blankets as you clambered out of bed, staggering a bit, your dream still fresh on your mind. “Vil, uh…he asked us to help him, right?” “Uh-huh,” nodded Grim, padding around the bed to the other side with a growing smirk. “Guess he realized he couldn’t make a movie without ving the Great Grim some kinda part, huh?” You gave a tired, wry smile in response. Vil Schoenheit’s preferred gaffers for the Film Studies Club had both recently taken ill, and would not be returning for about two weeks. Ortho was busy with some stuff pertaining to the Shroud Family, with his brother, so he could not rely on the android for any technical assistance. Not entirely sure where else to turn, he’d asked you and Grim to assist behind the scenes for a few days. Grim, however, hadn’t figured out he wasn’t acting in the movie at all. Which wasn’t a problem: you’d soon convince him that being a gaffer was somehow even more important. It wasn’t hard to stroke Grim’s ego in any given direction and get him to behave; you’d figured him out by now.
A yawn went through you and you stretched; as you did so, you remembered the absolutely massive feline in your dreams, and their own yawning mouth. A shiver went through you, and was soon followed by a different sort of shudder, as you remembered the creepy little bat and the devious rat that had also been present. “Can’t wait to see what THAT was all about,” you mumbled, knowing by now these sorts of dreams were rarely idle fancies. “Nya?” Grim mewed, curiously. “Nothing,” you said, shaking your head, and moving to get dressed. “Thanks for waking me up, Grim. Lemme get dressed and I’ll make us breakfast. But only a quick one!” Grim nodded in acceptance. Normally, he would have complained about how a “quick” breakfast usually meant one that was much too small for his seemingly bottomless pit of a belly. Not this time, however: if there was one thing you were both agreed on, it was that being late for almost ANY Housewarden’s demands at Night Raven College was going to end horribly. Vil Schoenheit was far from an exception.
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“My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil would not infect his reason?” “Not a soul but felt a fever of the mad, and played some tricks of desperation…”
You carefully adjusted your grip on the reflector as you held it up in position. Not so far from you, Grim was holding a second reflector - obviously smaller and lower to the ground - to direct the flow of light in the direction Vil had demanded. Everything had to be positioned properly. Outdoor shoots were always tricky. Your mind wandered away from the dialogue being uttered a few feet ahead of where you stood. You noticed something wiggle slightly in the corner of your eye; being cautious not to loose your grip, you checked to see what it was. To your opposite side from Grim, and about the same distance away, a student held aloft the boom mic, keeping it positioned over the heads of the two actors in the center of the action, and trying to keep it out of the frame. The student in question was dressed in a Pomefiore uniform, but with the blazer buttoned up and the collar turned upwards; he was very small and thin, with a gaunt sort of face and sharp features, only partially obscured by the unusual shades he wore. The tint on the glasses was a curious yellowish hue, and the wire rims were colored crimson. From his gray-brown head of shaggy hair, a pair of ears - those of a vampire bat - sprouted up and twitched from side to side. The most curious thing of all, however, was the wooden peg that replaced the fellow’s right foot. You were tempted to ask what happened that led to such an injury, but you didn’t think it was polite, since you’d never met this student before in your life. Of course, the same could be said for a couple of people on the scene, including one of the two actors being filmed.
“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!”
This utterance was followed by a cackling laugh, and you turned quickly as you were alerted by the sound. The famous line was uttered by one of these new faces: he was garbed in a fanciful, pale, ethereal costume - similar to something you’d seen your friends wear during the Fairy Gala - which seemed almost offset by the rest of his appearance. He was a fit, athletic figure, with a round and handsome face…but with dangerous, almost devil-like red eyes, and a mouthful of jagged teeth, which he displayed in a duplicitous sort of smile. The tail of a rodent whipped behind him, and a pair of matching rodentine ears were visible between the hairs of his scalp: raven-hued hairs, swept back and pomaded most heavily. Opposite to the rodent-boy was a more familiar face. You couldn’t help but smile as the cackle was replied to by a chortle from Elias Inque. Garbed in a long wizard’s robe that reminded you of Headmage Ambrose from NRC, and wearing glasses and some aging makeup to give himself an older appearance, Eli clapped his scene partner on the shoulder with one hand, as the other gripped the mage’s staff (a prop, rather than a real magical conduit). “Why, that’s my spirit!” he said, putting on an affectation of age in his voice. “But was not this nigh shore?” “Close by, my Master,” the rodent replied, brushing the hand off his shoulder with a slight sneer, trying to hide a look of mild distaste and failing.
“But are they, Ariel, safe?” urged Elias, in the role of Prospero. “Not a hair perished!” promised the rodent. He paused, and was about to say more, when… “CUT!”
Instantly, the two actors seemed to jump out of their characters. Elias straightened his stance, and looked expectantly towards the director’s chair. The rodent boy smirked, sticking his nose up and puffing out his chest as he did the same, clearly proud of his work so far. Vil rose from the folding chair he’d set up for himself as director. Imperiously, he addressed the whole cast and crew: “Fifteen minute break, everybody. I’m going to review the footage and give a few notes, then we’ll move on. Depending on how this has panned out, we may do the scene again.” “Ha! I dare say we’ve done a more than suitable job!” barked the half-rodent. Vil narrowed his green eyes at the actor playing Ariel. “We’ll see,” was all he said, vaguely, then smiled slightly at Elias and nodded to him. “Please stay in makeup, there’s still plenty more to do.” “Wasn’t planning to get out of it,” Elias said, adjusting his glasses and stretching his back. “Oof…I think I need to take it easy on the ‘old man’ pose, though.” “Or perhaps simply warm up better before beginning work,” suggested Vil, crisply. “I ALWAYS warm up well,” huffed Elias in reply. Vil snorted slightly, and waved the actors away, before calling out, “Craft Services, Please!” He then moved to speak to the head camera operator, checking the footage with one finger to his lips as he focused. “Phew! Glad we’ve got a break,” Grim sighed at your side, as you each put down your reflectors. “My arms were getting tired.” “Mine, too,” you muttered, and smiled. “We shouldn’t be shooting for too much longer, though.” “Good,” Grim grumbled, and then hissed slightly, ears folding back as he rubbed his pudgy, fluffy belly. “Nya…my stomach is DYING over here! And now he’s calling for arts-and-crafts, of all things…” “Not arts and crafts,” corrected Elias, who had heard everything. He was removing the robe and hanging it up on a portable coat rack at the edge of the established set; it was rather warm. “Craft services. Basically snacks.” Grim’s ears pricked up. “Snacks?” he meowed, and his mouth began to water. “Y-You mean…you mean there’s FOOD here?!” You sighed, sensing trouble. “Grim-” It was too late. The imp bounded off on all fours, dropping his reflector in an instant. “FOOD!” he all but roared as he ran off. Sighing again, more heavily, you picked up the reflector and put both away properly, then headed over to the Craft Services area that had been set up. After all, you couldn’t very well leave the little demon on his own to hog it all. Grim, meanwhile, soon found the large folding tables where a variety of snacks had been piled up. He licked his whiskers greedily, turquoise eyes sparkling as he hopped up and scrambled onto the table, looking at the foodstuffs laid out. One of the crew members yelped as Grim pounced on a tray of chocolate chip muffins they’d been about to try, and began to gluttonously stuff his face with the sweet baked goods.
“Hey!” the Pomefiore student snapped. “Leave some for the rest of us!” another yelled. “You can’t do that!” a third snapped. Others began to complain…but their complaints were suddenly silenced when they heard huge footsteps pounding towards them. Fear seemed to grip all their hearts…and they hastily stepped back, parting like the red sea, as a huge shadow swept across the forest floor, approaching the table ominously. The shadow - one with pointed ears, with a vaguely conical and imposing pear-shape, like a walking rocky mountain - moved closer and closer…and soon fell over Grim. The cat-like little monster was busy licking crumbs off his paws as he sat in the middle of the now nearly empty muffin platter. He picked up the last muffin… …Then blinked, as he sensed a presence now looming over him. “Mrowrl.” The sound of a deep toned feline noise caused Grim to look up, eyes wide and curious. Standing over him was an absolutely GIGANTIC figure: a beastman with a thick mane of sandy hair, and matching cat’s ears. A matching, bushy tail was only barely visible behind their bulk. The figure was androgynous in features, with a certain effeminate softness - accented by a violet ribbon tied into a bow in their hair - but with a masculine breadth. This stated breadth was intensified by the Falstaffian dimensions of the young neko: he stood somewhere between seven and eight feet tall, an uncommon height that only a very select few at Night Raven shared, and like so many of these massively tall figures, he was also massively obese. Flabby, flappy double-chins transitioned into a barrel chest and giant belly, which peeked out from under the indigo vest and white dress shirt that was common for Pomefiore. It pooched over the waistband of the catboy’s black dress pants, which clung tightly to a set of wide, plush, thick hips, which hinted at powerfully heavy thighs and a no doubt elephantine backside. The catboy’s eyes blinked down at Grim. They were half-lidded, with a sort of imperial pride and haughty, vain coldness. The eyes glowed dimly, and were colored the same shade of violet as the hairbow he wore. His whole demeanor as he looked down at Grim was that of a spoiled and icy-veined prince, peering down at some lowly peasant. Grim frowned and hugged the muffin in his paws close to his chest. “Nya! Get your own chow!” he snapped with a snarl, not deterred by the monstrous size of the catboy. “This is mine!” The obstinate little imp then prepared to chomp down on the muffin…only for his teeth to snap shut around thin air as the catboy reached down and plucked the muffin out of his paws with a finger and thumb. Grim looked up just in time to see the fat demi pop the muffin between a pair of equally fat, plump, supple lips, which shifted as he chewed up the chocolatey goodness and - GULP! - swallowed the masticated goody into the colossal, beefy tank of his gut. “H-Hey!” Grim shouted, and stood up on the platter, stomping his foot. “Didn’t you hear me?! I said to get your own food!” The fat catboy smirked, raising one eyebrow in amusement. Then, he reached down…and Grim let out a startled “eep!” as the feline grabbed him by the scruff and hoisted him up.
“OI! PUT ME DOWN!” screeched Grim, swiping at the air. “PUT ME DOWN RIGHT NOW-” His shouting was cut short when a deep, low rumble came from the giant half-cat’s belly…and he saw the cat-eared student lick their lips greedily, giving Grim the same look he would have given to a tuna sandwich. “...Um…p-please?” mewed Grim, timidly. The catboy let out a low, chuckle…and opened his jaws wide, revealing a slimy orifice, filled with slippery, slick flesh. A tongue twitched in the center of it all, as ivory fangs dripped with drool, and the gullet flapped open greedily at the back of the throat. Grim cried out as he was dangled over the cavernous abyss… “W-WAIT JUST A MINUTE, Y-Y-YOU CAN’T-!” “LEAVE HIM ALONE!” The catboy closed his mouth and blinked…then looked towards the source of the sound. It was you, naturally. While the other crew members stood off to the side, looking rather nervous about the whole situation. You had to admit, your own heart was beating VERY rapidly…though anxiety was hardly the only reason. You were uncomfortably aware of the heat in your cheeks. The catboy blinked at you…then seemed to pout, looking between yourself and Grim. “Put him down!” you demanded, and gestured to the table. “Th-there’s still plenty of…snacks…l-leftover…” Your stammer was due to the feline approaching you with a greedy grin. You felt something inside of you flutter and weaken as he licked his chops. His eyes roamed across your form, as if sizing you up for supper. Then, he lifted a hand. His fingers flexed like claws, and- RING-A-DING! The neko froze. His ears and tail stiffened and straightened as he looked towards the source of the sound. “Now, now, Philippe,” a voice slithered in a silky tone. “Play nicely. After all, they’re part of the crew. We need them.” The source of the voice was the rat-boy who had been playing Ariel. He was holding a small gold bell in one hand. Philippe gave him a petulant, disappointed look - like a pet cat with their owner - and looked between them, yourself, and Grim…before sighing through his nose and finally putting Grim down. The moment his paws touched the floor, Grim dove behind your legs and hissed at Philippe. Philippe just rolled his eyes, then smirked at you. The glint in his purple eyes seemed to say, “This isn’t over,” before he turned his back on you and lumbered back towards the table. Realizing the danger was over, the other students waiting for Craft Services all let out collective sounds of relief and lined up behind the fat catboy. The looks on their faces indicated they were all hoping they’d get SOMETHING at this point. You weren’t aware of it entirely, but your eyes remained fixed on the round, heavy backside of the fat half-feline - which was stuffed most snugly into the back of his wide trousers - watching the way it wobbled with every ponderous step, till you could not see it past the crowd. You shook yourself out of it when the half-rodent’s voice came again. “Apologies about him,” he said. “Philippe can be rather…impetuous.”
“That’s one word for it,” you mumbled, and tilted your head. “I didn’t catch your name. Who are you?” “Raphael,” the slick-haired beastman answered, bowing respectfully and tucking the bell into a pocket of his costume. “Raphael Price. Philippe is my boyfriend.” “Wow, you sure know how to pick ‘em,” muttered Grim, then yelped as you nudged him crossly with one foot to shush him. “Oh, he’s a good kitty, once you get to know him,” cooed Raphael, as Philippe came back with a platter covered in snacks. He stood on his tip toes and playfully scritched the fat beastman under the chin. “Isn’t that right, my little honey bun?” Philippe blushed slightly and purred, leaning into Raphael’s touch happily. You and Grim shared a look but said nothing. “Raphael,” a voice spoke up. It belonged to the bat you’d seen handling the boom arm. His voice had a sort of strange, “creaky” quality to it, yet still carried youth that matched his presumed age. “Yes, Nostra?” Raphael checked. “What is it?” “The director wants to talk to you and me,” Nostra replied, jabbing a thumb towards Vil. “Right-o,” Raphael nodded, and smiled at you, bowing once more. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm.” “And the same to you,” you replied. However, you didn’t fully mean it. Something about Raphael didn’t sit right with you: it wasn’t the rodentine features, but something about his manner. His voice carried an oily, overly effusive quality, and there was something scheming in his eyes and smile that reminded you of too many crooked double-dealers you’d met at the school: at least Jamil could hide his inner evil. Raphael was like him, except without any attempt to hide the sneakiness in his smirk. You had little time to reflect on such matters, however, for the trio turned on their heels and marched away to see Vil. Just before they departed, Philippe glanced back over his shoulder. He smirked, winked, and licked his lips, before giving his giant rump a playful, suggestive pat. You couldn’t hold back the squeak that left you, and averted your eyes with a blush. Philippe purred, clearly pleased with your reaction, and swaggered off - wide hips swaying - after Raphael and Nostra.
“Careful when admiring the scenery,” smirked Elias Inque as he moved to stand beside you, munching on a cookie. “Philippe won’t have any problem making you part of it. Besides, he’s already taken.” “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view,” you responded, without missing a beat. You shot Grim a glare as the greedy little creature sniggered at your reaction. “I’m actually being serious when I say to be careful,” Elias went on, his smirk fading into a sober look as he adjusted his costume-prescribed spectacles. “Those three are trouble.” “Is anybody at this school NOT trouble?” you drawled in response. “That’s fair,” chuckled Eli, then went on in explanation: “Those three are something else, though. I’m not in Pomefiore, so I don’t know all the details, but I heard that Raphael has been trying to find a way to take Vil’s position as Housewarden. He’s known Nostra and Philippe since they were kids; chances are one of them would be his Vice, if that ever happened.” “So there’s some rivalry going on?” you surmised. “Well, my guess is it’s pretty one-sided,” smirked Eli. “After all, Vil doesn’t seem too worried.” “THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!” All three of you - yourself, Eli, and Grim - jumped as, out of nowhere, an angry shout raked through the air and into your ears. Everyone else on the set was alarmed as well, and turn to look towards the source of the furious yelling. Confused and concerned, you jogged over to where the call came from, waving a hand to beckon your friends to follow. Grim and Elias quickly obeyed, trailing close behind your heels. It didn’t take too long to find what was going on. Vil Schoenheit stood near the primary camera, aloof and stern in his expression, arms crossed over his chest. Raphael was glaring daggers at the Housewarden, teeth bared in a vicious snarl…one which didn’t seem to faze Vil in the least. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WANT TO DO THE WHOLE SCENE AGAIN?!” roared Raphael. “Precisely what I just said,” Vil responded, in a crisp sort of way. Noticing how your own little group had drawn closer, he addressed Elias: “Sorry you had to hear the decision this way.” “Oh, it’s alright,” Eli said with a nod. “Sometimes things have to be done again to get them just right.” Vil nodded back, and glared at Raphael. “Your scene partner is perfectly alright with the situation,” he commented. “Yes, well I am not!” snapped Raphael, crossly. “What was wrong with that scene that it needs to be done again?! I put all of my soul into every moment of every take!” “Then you clearly need a larger soul,” Vil quipped back. “Regarding your performance, every take felt increasingly overwrought: played up to a degree that might work onstage, but is unsuitably overwhelming for the camera. I was hoping we could get a suitable angle or shot somewhere, and I might change my mind during the break…” His green eyes then darted towards Nostra. “...But then I realized that Feratu’s boom mic was hovering in the frame for a full two seconds in the best shot we did have.” Raphael blinked, then glared fiercely at Nostra. The bat blushed and seemed to become very interested in a pebble, which he kicked with his peg leg. “We reshoot the whole scene, then we can move on to the next one tomorrow,” Vil concluded, narrowing his eyes at Raphael. “And this time, Price, tone down the melodrama.” “This is Shakespeare!” exclaimed Raphael. “Isn’t melodrama par the course?”
“Not in the way we’re handling it, and certainly not in the way you’re presenting it,” was the response. Vil then looked at Nostra. “As for you: keep the mic out of the shot, or you’re out of the club. Am I understood?” Nostra looked shocked. “But…b-but…!” “No buts!” snapped Vil, and gestured towards Philippe. “I allowed you and Felidae entry into the club only because Raphael assured me you would both be useful. But I’ve now tried you on every job possible, and you’ve flubbed every single one. Philippe, at least, makes for a good set guard to make sure no one interrupts shoots.” As if on cue, Philippe growled dangerously. Vil glared up at the giant, fat feline, unafraid. “I have just given you a compliment. Do not test me,” he said, very calmly. Philippe narrowed his eyes, but made no other sound. Raphael was sneering, fists clenched. “If Nostra goes, so do I,” he warned. “You say that as if it’s a threat,” Vil smirked slightly. “You can’t finish the film without me.” “Of course I can. Actors get replaced all the time in the business; even with the smaller pool Sage’s Island provides, I can easily find someone else to take the role of Ariel.” Raphael snarled softly, but didn’t say anything else. “Stop competing with me, Price,” Vil said, with a note of finality. “Or, rather, attempting to compete. I am the director here, as well as your housewarden-” “Both of those facts could change,” Raphael suggested, darkly. “Not likely,” snorted Vil. “You have no right to leadership here in this club, so don’t pretend as if you’d have a chance there. As for the dorm, I saw your attempt at creating a poison. It wasn’t even enough to put me to sleep.” Raphael flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. Philippe growled again, baring his fangs, and began to advance on Vil… …Only to freeze up when Elias suddenly stepped in front of him, baring his own canine fangs. “Back off, pussycat,” the half-hound hissed. “If anybody eats Vil, it’s me.” Philippe blinked twice. You expected the cat to continue to move forward; after all, he was significantly larger than Eli was. Instead, however, the feline’s ears flattened back, and he stepped away, with a sort of “mrowl” that sounded like a cat trying to warn off an attacker. He still looked angry, but he had turned pale, as if he were scared. Elias smirked triumphantly, and looked back over his shoulder, giving Vil an encouraging sort of nod.
Vil just stared, a bit unsure how to take all of that. “Yes…ahem…well, thank you, Elias,” he muttered, then narrowed his eyes. “But I hope you know that I’m off the menu.” Eli just grinned and shrugged. Vil cleared his throat and then turned his attention back to Raphael and Nostra. “Let me make something clear to both of you,” he said. “Being the director, the housewarden, or any kind of leader doesn’t mean I am unreasonable. But all three of you…” Here he glanced towards Philippe again. “...Have shown nothing but rank insubordination practically since you entered this dorm. I try to be fair, but every person has their place, and yours is not to command. It’s to follow my directions; do so, and not only will you do well, but so will the whole project. Because that’s what I’m looking at: not just you, but everything.” He leaned down, getting closer to Raphael’s face. “A good leader keeps control. Of themselves and of their subordinates. They do what they can to make sure EVERYONE is working to the best of their abilities. And if something isn’t working? They either fix it or excise it. You’re too focused on your own selfish delusions of grandeur to think of anybody but yourself, Price.” “As if you ever think of anything but your reflection,” Raphael sniped back. Vil just looked at him icily. “This is your last chance,” he finally said. “We will redo the scene. And if any of you - ANY of you - cause this project any further grief, there will be no other chances. Take direction and accept the changes. Follow the leader, little rat.” Vil had uttered the last two words casually. They weren’t spoken as if meant as an insult, just a statement of the facts: the way one might call someone “little man,” or “little girl,” when speaking to a small boy or young lady. Nevertheless, the words seemed to have an intense effect; Nostra and Philippe both inhaled sharply, as Raphael’s eyes widened and he stiffened. “What was that?” Price whispered. “What was what?” Vil retorted. “What did you call me?” Price gulped, his fists shaking slightly. “Little rat,” replied Vil, calmly. “And when you earn my respect, perhaps I won’t say it again. But for now, Raphael, that’s all you really are: a little rodent, who tries to pretend to be something he’s not. Something larger, more important, and more worthy of attention than you truly can be.” Raphael’s eye twitched. For a moment, you expected him to yell again, and equally expected Vil to finally lose patience and finish the matter as he had promised.
Instead, Raphael took a deep, deep breath. His head twisted, oscillating in a curiously reptilian fashion as he seemed to crack his neck and regain his composure. A smile - slow and chilling - spread across his face, and he bowed the same head in supplication. “My apologies, housewarden,” he said, smoothly. “My temper was quite out of line, and my attitude towards you has been thoroughly unacceptable. I will do my best to live up to your standards, and cease this quarrel.” “See that you do,” Vil said, in a tone that indicated he didn’t trust any of that in the slightest. “Now, we’ve wasted enough time on this business. Elias, would you be against starting again right away?” “Give me just a few moments to put on the costume pieces I removed, and by all means, we can try again,” the dog boy promised. “Thank you,” Vil said, and barked his orders to the rest of the crew, declaring it was time to get back to work. For yourself and Grim, that meant hurrying to find the reflectors. As you did so, you glanced back towards the trio of Pomefiore upstarts. Philippe growled and backed away, ducking his head slightly, as Elias pushed past him with a sneer. Raphael and Nostra, meanwhile, kept their eyes on Vil. While the dorm leader had his back to them, they were both glaring daggers into it. You said nothing of the whole incident…but somehow, you had the distinct feeling this wasn’t the end of their argument.
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The following evening…
Vil Schoenheit frowned slightly as he let out a sigh, leaning back in the chair at his vanity table. His eyes closed as he let himself relax. There was a slight pain in his back, which was aggravating; perhaps he had been a little too overzealous during athletics that day. Shaking his head, Vil decided to forget the matter. Some good night’s rest would help, and he could focus on being his usual, fabulous self in the morning. He reached into the drawers of his vanity, fetching some makeup remover, ready to begin his nightly routine of preparing for bed. However, just as he was preparing to start, a knock came at the door. Vil frowned and looked up and back. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. “Rook?” he called out. “Is that you?” There was no answer. Perplexed, Vil stood up from his table and went to the door. He scowled, already expecting that perhaps some foolish young pranksters had decided to knock on his door and flee as an infantile joke. He sighed irritably; just what he needed, if so. More idiot children in his castle. The leader of the dorm opened the door. He blinked in some surprise at the figure he saw on the other side…then his expression turned frosty. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want here? I haven’t-wait. Hold on, what are you doing?! I won’t-!” ZZZAP!
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“Juuust whistle while you work! La-la la la-la-la-la…!” “Grim. I’m never going to get that song out of my head if you don’t stop murdering my eardrums with it.” “Sorry, it’s just so catchy!” You sighed and shook your head as you swept some dust into the dustpan Grim held near your feet. The two of you had a rare day off, and you decided it was time to give the lounge in Ramshackle Dorm a bit of a clean-up. You’d convinced your feline-esque friend to help out after promising him a whole dozen tuna cans as a reward. You paused, leaning on the broom and looking around the room, to see if there were any spots you’d missed. You frowned, noticing a cobweb in the corner near the ceiling. You approached, preparing to whisk it away with the broom… “Nya! Don’t touch that!” Grim exclaimed. “Huh? Why not?” “Don’t you remember? That’s Boris’ favorite cobweb!” “It is? I thought that was the cobweb in the dining room.” “No, that one’s Bela’s favorite.” “Oh. Well, thanks, Grim,” you smiled at the rare bit of help. After all, this WAS a haunted mansion: you had to be considerate to your ghost friends and their interests. Just as you were getting ready to call it a day and give Grim his promised reward for his assistance, you heard a knock at the door. You called out for whoever was there to wait as you leaned the broom against the wall, near the window, and then bustled to the entrance to see who was calling. The sight of a feathered hat and lavender hair immediately indicated the identities of the two people in Pomefiore outfits who stood upon the porch. “Epel! Rook! Come in!” you greeted, and stepped aside to allow the pair entrance. “Merci beaucoup, my dear Trickster,” Rook said, tipping his hat with a warm smile as he stepped through the portal. “How have you been, Prefect?” smiled Epel, in that sweet, doe-eyed way that totally belied his ability to send someone crashing into a brick wall if he chose.
“Mostly okay, I suppose,” you shrugged. “Nya! Hey, what about me?” huffed Grim, indignantly, stepping into view beside you. “Oui. Hello to you too, Monsieur Peluche,” Rook greeted. His eyes narrowed and his smile widened in a wolfish way, which always gave you the creeps despite yourself. He placed a finger to his chin, musingly. “You seem to have put on a little more weight…and your pelt looks most full and lush…have you been changing your fur shampoo lately?” Grim backed away nervously, eyeing Rook suspiciously. “H-How did you know that?” he meowed. “A hunter must always be perceptive,” Rook responded. “How about the two of you?” you asked, interjecting lest Rook get too far into his “hunter mode,” as you called it in private. “Something you need?” The pair of simple questions seemed to strike the smiles from the faces of both Pomefiore students. They glanced back and around, as if worried they might be being watched, then gestured for you to shut the door. Concerned by their reactions, you did so immediately. “What’s wrong?” you inquired. “Let’s gather in the kitchen,” Rook suggested. “Right,” Epel nodded. “It’ll be better if we sit down and explain.” You saw no reason to disagree: for one thing, you could give Grim his tuna while the two talked to you about whatever it was they needed. It wasn’t long till all four of you were seated at the kitchen table. Grim was greedily slurping up the contents of his tuna cans (you’d need to buy more soon, these twelve were the last you had), while Rook and Epel explained their problem in a nutshell. “Vil’s been acting strangely?” you recapitulated. “Oui,” said Rook, with a serious nod. “Le Roi du Poison has been behaving in a most un-beauteous manner.” “I don’t think that’s a word,” you replied, dryly. “It is the best description I can find,” shrugged Rook. “Vil’s always been a commanding presence, of course,” Epel put in. “But it’s been…different lately.” “Different in what way?” you asked for clarification. “I don’t exactly know how to describe it,” Epel admitted with a sigh, rubbing the back of his head as he tried to come up with some words. “I guess…the best way to put it is that Vil is usually an ice queen. You know what I mean, right?” You recalled Vil’s cold, frosty glances. The statuesque, strict way he carried himself. The stern, tough way he treated his underclassmen and the disdain he showed towards those he considered his enemies. One look from him was enough to make you feel criticized in an instant, and his emotions were kept in tight restraint, only occasionally allowing them to flow at extreme intervals beyond frustration and satisfaction.
“I think I do,” you said with a nod of your own. “Alas, for the Ice Queen has thawed most unbecomingly!” wailed Rook melodramatically. “To see his snowy beauty reduced to muddy puddles is a poison more bitter than any he could concoct!” “Could you say it in English, please?” drawled Grim, hiccuping between cans of tuna. “Vil’s been absolutely INSANE lately,” Epel explained. “He flies off the handle at anybody who doesn’t understand what he says. And I don’t mean he scolds them or makes some passive-aggressive remark, no, he starts SCREAMING, stomping his foot, like he’s having a tantrum! It’s even worse than Riddle’s rages!” You blinked, shocked. “That’s not like Vil at all,” you said, flatly. “Oh, it gets worse,” Epel said, grimly. “He orders everyone around like some prima donna-” “You say that as if he ISN’T a prima donna,” Grim snickered. “Not like this,” Epel defended. “He’s always going on and on about how HE’S in charge, how we should do what HE says. Anytime someone tries to stand up to him, he curses them and forces them to do labor in the dorm till they ‘behave themselves.’ He orders people to bring him food, and doesn’t even seem to remember anybody’s name anymore half the time!” You frowned, sharing a look with Grim. “Sounds like when Jamil tried to take over Kalim’s place,” you observed. “Nya. Kinda does,” Grim nodded, and tilted his head. “Do you think maybe Vil is under that hip-whatsis like Kalim was?” “Hypnosis,” you corrected, somewhat testily. “I doubt it,” Rook put in. “I don’t know anybody in Pomefiore skilled in such a talent, and neither Monsieur Multi nor a certain serpent have anything to gain from this that I can find.” “How long has this been going on?” “A week,” Epel said. “The first couple days, we thought it might just be that Vil was having some rough times or something, but it’s only gotten worse.” “How so?” The Pomefiore pair looked at each other and then back at you. “I have been the Roi du Poison’s faithful chevalier for a good while now,” Rook said. “He does not always AGREE with me, but the two of us have an excellent rapport. He listens to me, and I try to do my best by him.” “But he’s not listening to you anymore/” “Non!” Rook confirmed with a shake of his head, a look of dismay upon his features. “Instead, he turns his toxic eyes upon others he’s never trusted before!” Suddenly, a thought occurred to you. “Can I make a guess?” you said. “Has he been listening to that Raphael guy more?”
“How did you guess it was Monsieur Price?” gasped Rook. “I’ve never seen Vil show so much animosity towards anyone, except maybe Leona…nor anyone in Pomefiore towards him,” you explained. “If it’s someone that’s got you really concerned, he and his two friends seem the most likely candidates.” “Wow. It’s…kind of obvious when you put it that way,” blinked Epel. “Elementary, my dear Epel,” you said, in a jokingly hoity-toity way, then snickered to yourself before turning serious again: “What about Raphael’s boyfriend, or the bat, on that note?” “Philippe and Nostra?” Epel checked. “Well, here’s the answer in a nutshell: we’ve never seen Vil with Raphael, but he’s always talking about how ‘Raphael said this,’ or ‘Raphael wants that,’ and we’re expected to go along with that like he’s suddenly the only one Vil cares about! And whenever Vil is around, Nostra is ALWAYS with him.” “Always?” “Always,” confirmed Rook, gravely. “In the lounge, in class, in the cafeteria…anywhere Vil goes, he takes Nostra with him, with only the barest exceptions. Sometimes Philippe is there, too, but not always.” “And whenever Raphael is around, he threatens to tell Vil if we do anything he doesn’t like…a couple people made the mistake of questioning that, and I think they’ll be deaf for a year,” shuddered Epel. You winced at that thought and scratched your cheek. “Yeah…none of that sounds like the Vil we know,” you agreed. “Nya…but what do you want us to do about it?” wondered Grim. “Well, we’re actually not sure what you CAN do,” Epel admitted with a sigh. “But we weren’t sure who else to talk to besides you or the Headmage. And I think we all know who is more reliable there.” “I’d take that as high praise if Crowley wasn’t such a low bar to live up to,” you droned. “Could you come by the dorm in the near future?” Rook pressed. “Perhaps, my dear Trickster and Peluche, if you can see the problems with your own eyes, you could help us figure out what is ailing our beloved Roi du Poison.” I’ll do my best,” you promised. “And we can come by today.” “Right now?” Epel piped up hopefully. You agreed at once. After all, it WAS your day off. By now, it made sense that meant you’d have to spend it solving someone else’s problems. Honestly, there were days you felt you were the only thing keeping the whole campus from going up in smoke…
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You weren’t entirely sure what to expect when you entered Pomefiore. To be perfectly honest with all and sundry, you’d half-expected to walk in and discover nothing whatsoever amiss; while it was highly unlike Rook and Epel to be unduly alarmed, sometimes people make misjudgments, and pranks cannot be overlooked as options. Of course, you should have presumed better. All the same, you weren’t at all prepared for what you saw when you reached the lounge area. Vil was there, reclining upon the dorm leader’s reserved throne in its curtained alcove. He was garbed in the flowing, ornamental, regal arraignment of his Dorm Uniform. None of this was surprising…but what WAS surprising was the position you found Vil in. Vil was not sitting in a straight, tall, imposing sort of manner: instead, he was rather slothfully lounging in his throne, head in one hand, one leg kicking slightly as it crossed over the other. His green eyes were half-lidded, but lacked their usual sharpness; instead, he just looked…bored. His other hand held a bundle of grapes, and instead of plucking them off one by one, he was scraping them off the branches with his teeth, cheeks stuffed with fruit as he chewed, licking juice from his lips in a manner that wasn’t like Vil at all. To top it off, the Lounge seemed less like a “Lounge” and more like stepping into a throne room…mostly because you could see one Pomefiore student was standing beside the throne and fanning Vil with a large paper fan, while another was on their knees, using a mini-vac to clean up some spots on the carpeted floor. A third was scrubbing and wiping down the gilded walls to make them squeaky-clean, and a fourth was at the foot of the throne, shining up one of Vil’s boots. The whole scene felt like something from when Jamil had gone into Overblot, or perhaps if Leona got a little TOO full of himself (not that he wasn’t already, to be fair), more than anything you’d expect to see in Pomefiore. It only got stranger when Vil began speaking: he SOUNDED like Vil, in terms of the actual voice itself…but the words, the tone, and everything else seemed completely and totally wrong. “Fan harder, you luddite!” he snapped, swiping a hand at the student beside him. “I am SIZZLING in this blasted costume! Where is that lemonade I demanded?!” “H-Here, Housewarden!” a voice called out, as another student entered the room. They bowed before taking the grapes from Vil and offering him a glass of ice cold lemonade. Vil snatched it up with a snarl and a sneer, and took a sip…then the snarl and sneer intensified. “Too sour!” he exclaimed, and (admittedly inadvertently) kicked the person at his feet as he stood up fast, glaring down at the one who had brought him the drink. “What swill is this?!” “Y-You wanted it handmade!” peeped the student, trembling. “I-I’ve never tried before, it-” “NO EXCUSES!” bellowed Vil, and pointed off. “One more chance! Get it right! GO!”
With an “eep!” of fright, the student zoomed off again. A rough, snickering laugh alerted you to the presence of Nostra Feratu. The bat-boy was standing on the opposite side of the throne from the student with the fan, and was filing his nails, a sort of mean smirk on his face. He raised an eyebrow, his ears pricking up, when he heard the student on the floor mumble something under his breath. “Hey, boss,” he called out to Vil, and pointed with the nail file at the student. “I think somebody’s got something to say.” Vil glanced towards Nostra, then looked down at the student with the mini-vac. Said student froze up at the look in the acid green eyes. “Well?” Vil sniffed, crossing his arms. “HAVE you got something to say?” “N-No, Housewarden, I-” “Ohhhh, I think you DO,” smirked Vil, leering down at the student as he approached, like a tiger stalking its prey. “Come now. What’s the matter? Does someone think I’m being a little unfair? Hmmm?” Vil’s voice was a mocking, petty croon; again, very unlike the proprietorial dorm head. The student with the vacuum bit their lip and shook their head. Vil smirked wider, a look of victory on his face, and playfully patted the student on the head. “Good boy,” he cooed…then sneered and smacked their cheek. “Now. Back to work.” The student obeyed in an instant.Vil then glanced back at the one shining up the walls, quickly; the student, who had been giving him a dirty look behind his back, immediately looked away. Vil smiled smugly, and began to return to his throne. He stuck his nose up and waved his hands in a shooing motion at the one with the shoe shine. They instantly took off in another direction. “Nostra? Remind me to tell Raphael we need to assign new students to clean-up duty soon,” he sighed irritably. “Good help is so hard to find these days…” “Maybe we oughta let Philippe handle the rejects?” suggested Nostra. At the mention of the corpulent catboy, everyone shuddered and groaned with a sense of dread. “Perhaps,” nodded Vil, thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair and letting out a yawn. “I’ll ask those two, we’ll see.” While all this was going on, yourself, Grim, and the Pomefiore duo were hiding behind the wall, peering around the corner. You all ducked back. “See what we mean?” Epel whispered. “Nya…this isn’t right,” frowned Grim, then looked up at you. “How come he gets pampered and my Minion doesn’t even brush my fur some days?” “Way to miss the point, Grim,” you sighed in annoyance. “This is not even the worst,” Rook said, gravely. “The Roi du Poison has always been strict, but…well…the newest form of punishment he’s concocted is-” “HOW DARE YOU?!”
All four of you jumped at Vil’s shout. You looked into the lounge again. The student with the lemonade had returned…but, evidently, had tripped over the student on the floor, spilling the lemonade all over Vil’s dorm uniform. Vil seethed with fury, fingers clawing at the air, as the two groveled at his feet. “It was an accident, Housewarden!” whimpered the Drink Server. “It won’t happen again!” pleaded the Cleaner. Vil glared, breathing heavily…then let out a heavy sigh, calming down. “Oh, my dear Bartholomew…Sebastian…I’m afraid you’ve both gone and upset me…” Vil grinned devilishly - a look of pure, maniacal spite that you had only seen him wear once before, and that was when he was covered in inkstains as he sought to destroy his rival. He reached into his robes, as the two students looked up with pale looks of terror. “You know what happens,” Vil said, darkly, “When someone upsets me now.” Nostra, the student by the wall, and the student with the fan, all stopped what they were doing. They looked on with apprehension, as Vil pulled a golden bell from the folds of his robe and gave it a ring. RING-A-DING! Heavy footsteps filled the Lounge…and a few moments later, a vast shadow crept across the carpeted floor. The two students that had upset Vil screamed and clawed at his robes, begging him to forgive them, but Vil just yawned, as if he didn’t even hear them. Moments later - as you frankly expected - Philippe Felidae entered the Lounge. Vil didn’t say anything to him, just made a sort of dismissive gesture towards the pair clinging to him. Philippe smirked, mrowled, and grabbed hold of the two, hoisting them clean off their feet and into the air. “You know what to do,” Vil said with a smile. “Don’t hurt them permanently.” Philippe licked his chops and nodded, and lumbered off, hauling the wailing students off with him. You had a good feeling of what he was going to do to them, and it would have made you blush under other circumstances.
“Let’s move,” you hissed to the others. “I’ve seen enough.” Grim, Rook, and Epel all nodded in agreement, and the four of you quickly but carefully moved away from the Lounge and began to walk back towards the exit from Pomefiore. “What are we gonna do?” Epel sighed. “Vil’s out of control!” “Wrong,” you said. “Vil’s not out of control. Vil isn’t in control at all.” “Isn’t that the same thing?” Grim wondered, crinkling his snout. You shook your head seriously. “Out of control indicates Vil is still there,” you answered. “What are you talking about?” Epel blinked, and pointed back where you’d come from. “Vil IS still there!” You narrowed your eyes, then looked at Rook, who was walking with his eyes dead-set forward. “You’ve been watching him,” you presumed. “Have you come to the same conclusion I have?” Rook glanced towards you, then looked ahead again…but not before giving a sharp nod. “Oui,” he said. “I believe I have.” “Would you two just spill the beans?!” spat Grim, moving in front of the group and halting your progress. “What’s really goin’ on here?!” “If you both think you know, why not just tell us?” Epel urged in agreement. You and Rook paused. You looked at each other, then Rook addressed the other two. “The Roi du Poison isn’t acting like himself…” “...Because,” you finished, “The ‘Roi du Poison’ ISN’T himself.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Isn’t it obvious, Epel?” you hissed, and this time it was you who pointed back. “What we just saw wasn’t Vil losing his mind and becoming a tyrant.” You glanced back with a foreboding look in your eyes, then looked meaningfully into Epel’s own, voice lowering an octave for impact… “What we just saw wasn’t Vil at all.”
To Be Continued in Part Two…