Encounterlogs
Trevors Odd Encounter Sr Lauren 240511
On a peaceful evening, Trevor experiences a mysterious chill while watching TV, leading him to trust his instincts that something is amiss. Despite confirming that all windows are closed and there's no logical source for the draft, he tries to dismiss his unease and concentrate on the program in front of him. However, his comfort is short-lived as inexplicable goosebumps and a sudden, intense hunger for raw meat overtake him. These sensations intensify as he watches a lion hunt a gazelle on TV, pushing him towards a hunger he can't understand. Despite attempting to rationalize these thoughts as mere hunger, the urge to consume raw meat grows stronger, driving him out of his apartment into the night, torn between the forest and civilization in his quest for satisfaction.
Choosing civilization over the wild, Trevor finds himself at Hogar del Mundo, demanding raw meat in a state of frenzy that borders on the primal. His interaction with Clara, the employee, is fraught with tension as his demands become more desperate and animalistic. Eventually, Clara provides him with an assortment of meat products, which Trevor hastily consumes, barely managing to pay before leaving. As he consumes the raw hotdogs, an uncharacteristic howl escapes him, signaling a temporary reprieve from the unknown force that had driven his actions. This moment of clarity doesn't last long, as he soon finds himself returning home, now burdened with more raw meat than he knows what to do with and a sense of loneliness that had not been there before. The once captivating nature documentary now holds no interest for him, as he is left to reflect on the night's strange events and the unexplained urges that had overtaken him.
(Trevor's odd encounter(SRLauren):SRLauren)
[Fri May 10 2024]
In a spacious, living room of timeless elegance
Deep, reddish tones of the mahogany wood flooring bring a sense of luxury and depth to the living area in its herringbone pattern. A neutral colour palette with a grey accent wall accentuates the rich tones of the leather furniture. The large room is illuminated by contemporary fixtures sunk into the ceiling, and an antique, Edwardian-style floor lamp adds a softer, more ambient glow.
It is night, about 62F(16C) degrees, and the sky is covered by thin white clouds. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Outside, the waxing moon hangs in the sky that's just barely beginning to lighten, the horizon still cast in darkness with the occasional early bird chirping from treetops. The sound of the rare passing car or rustling of leaves is muffled this far into the apartments, and even the night owls amongst his neighbors have gone to bed, letting a peaceful quiet settle across the area. Inside, the program on the television drones on, filling the apartment with a low, ambient noise. The room is lit in gold by the soft, warm glow of the floor lamp, the perfect ambiance to simply bundle up cozily and relax while unwinding at the end of a long day.
Where Trevor sits watching the TV, the fine hairs at the back of his neck suddenly rise on end with a chill that crawls down his spine, goosebumps prickling at his skin. There might be a cold draft coming from somewhere, because he's chilly enough to be shivering all of a sudden. Did he leave a window open somewhere?
Humans are by nature, instinctual creatures. Trust your gut. That's a popular saying. Always trust your gut. And in this case, Trevor does.
He did not leave a window open, he knows that. Where is the draft coming from? The chill grows colder - making him shiver.
A car passes by in the distance, a door slams somewhere deeper in the apartments - one of the those night owls getting up for a late night snack.
Trevor looks around, glancing to the door of his living room and beyond. The door is still closed, and he never heard it open. Nope. Nobody is inside. And so he settles back into the couch, finding comfort in the plush pillows, and the visceral roar of a lion as it chases down a poor gazelle on the TV.
His gut may have been on to something, but how quickly the human mind can be deceived with the false promise of safety. The door is still closed, so there's nothing behind it. When your feet are tucked under your blankets, the demon under the bed can't drag you down by the ankles. If you can't see the monster, the monster can't see you. There's definitely nothing to be worried about at all.
The goosebumps are all the way down Trevor's arm now, skin pinpricked with little bumps that don't seem to have gotten the memo regarding personal safety. Perhaps they're trying to tell him something in braille. Whatever it may be, Trevor has chosen to simply sit and stare at National Geographic instead, and so it's a wild gazelle-chase his senses are introduced to instead. The antelope bounds across a stretch of plains, followed by the lion in hot pursuit - the program, all of a sudden, seems a lot more riveting than it did before. Unbiddenly and perhaps bemusedly, saliva suddenly pools in Trevor's mouth as he watches the gazelle on screen, his teeth suddenly aching for something to sink them into. A thought crosses his mind - of tearing the gazelle's throat out with them and relishing in the hot, bloody chunks of meat. Intrusive thoughts, am I right?
Maybe he's just hungry. And still cold.
Trust your gut. The words replay in his brain, but unfortunately Trevor can't read braille. He won't get that message. It's really hard to trust your gut when it's hungry. There's something about not doing things on an empty stomach, but, wow, the gazelle looks incredibly delicious at this point. He was relaxed, if not a few moments earlier, but now he's wide awake, sitting up. Staring at the screen.
The lion chases, sprinting, roaring.
Go. Something urges in his brain. Go. Go. GO. GOGOGOGOGO. Tear.
The lion wins, and an adrenaline like surge races through Trevor. Oh man is he *ever* hungry, when was the last time he ate? Couldn't have been too long ago...
Could it? He's eating right now, isn't he? The scent of fresh blood in the air, sharp fangs tearing into gamey gazelle.
No, no he's not. Images on a screen won't fill his empty belly that's growling to be fed, and his fingers seem to curl into claws all by themselves as the lion continues to feast upon his prey. He's all hot and cold now, moments of freezing chill that's sunk bone-deep into his skin interspersed by flushes of hot yearning and Trevor can't sit still any longer. Mindlessly, his body climbs to his feet and makes for the door, finding himself out of the apartment without grabbing anything along the way. The door clicks shut behind him - tough luck if he didn't have his wallet on hand, because he's making his way out of the apartment already, and something - him? not him? - wants him to go out, into the open, where the moonlight can shine upon his skin and the cold air can fill his lungs.
He's left the TV on, sadly for his electricity bill. His feet are carrying him outside the apartments where he pauses, his body his own for now, even if the urging in his brain is still very present - there's the forest to the north, not too far away, and plenty of shops to the south.
Forest to the north, shops to the south. Trevor is at a crossroads here, literally and figuratively. He made his way out of the apartment and onto the late night streets of Haven. He walked, step after step and found himself at an intersection.
Looking to the north - to the forest, he stares into his depths. Are gazelle native to America? Are they native to the forest surrounding town? His stomach rumbles at the thought.
Tear, then eat.
No, there's no gazelles. And he didn't bring hunting equipment with him. Shops is it is. Turning on his heel, he marches south, towards the bigger variety of choice.
Does he need hunting equipment to chase down a rabbit? A squirrel?
... probably, to be honest. It's not that easy to chase down wild critters, even if his mouth waters at the thought of getting his hands on one of them and sinking his teeth right into their fat, furry belly, rich with the bounty of spring, and feel their coppery blood fill his mouth when he chews upon the nutrient-rich organs, feels their heart that had been racing with fear slow and give out and--
To the shops it is. Hogar del Mundo isn't far away, and that's where his feet take him, straight up to the counter where a bored girl mans the dead hours of the morning, too early for even the early risers to be getting their breakfast. Good thing there's no line, too, because impatience burgeons inside him, surging high. He'd better get to ordering fast.
'Raw', the back of his mind whispers to him. That doesn't sound safe nor healthy, but it's what makes his stomach growl again, loud enough for the girl behind the counter to break out of whatever thought she was in to glance up at him.
You should always trust your gut. "Raw," Trevor half-shouts at the poor girl behind the counter. Raw? That's not an order. "Raw meat." She's most likely gone from raw to weirded out. "Now."
The girl behind the counter doesn't move, she blinks slowly, trying to process the order that this man just demanded of her at 5:30 in the morning. "I'm sorry?" she asks, a suspicious tone to the question.
A primal sounding growl builds from inside him and he let it out. "Raw meat. Rabbits, squirrels, gazelle. Anything. Now." She's too slow. Trying to process this, and Trevor looks at her -- hungrily.
A thought crosses his mind - of tearing the girl's throat out with his teeth and relishing in the hot, bloody chunks of meat. Intrusive thoughts, am I right?
Push that aside. Hurry. HURRY. Something inside of him screams, his body growing hot.
She definitely doesn't get paid enough for this. The girl - whose nametag reads out 'Clara', if Trevor so cares to sneak a peek - glances over behind her back for just a split second to see if she's got someone else from the staff around for backup - she doesn't, unfortunately, and she can't bring herself to let her eyes stray away from Trevor for more than that brief moment either. All alone in this with a crazy-seeming customer on a Friday morning right before her shift ended. Just her luck, the poor unfortunate soul.
"We don't sell raw-" Clara starts, cuts off mid-sentence when she properly looks up at Trevor, her eyes a little wide at something in the man's demeanor, and the girl takes yet another step back. "I- I'll see what I can do. P-please, um. Please wait." And then she's taking another few steps back and veritably fleeing into the kitchen behind her, apparently not wanting to bare her back to the man either because she's just moonwalking all the way back there and just barely managing not to trip over her feet. He can hear the sound of frantic rummaging through freezers not long after, and, well, he didn't really say what /kind/ of meat apart from 'raw', nor what he wants it for, so she's probably going to take a few moments longer to compose herself.
Meanwhile, there's a half-eaten hamburger on top of the trash can not far away from Trevor, someone's bite marks present where the remaining half has been eaten away. He wouldn't... would he? Surely not. We wouldn't swoop that low...
Unless?
Or he could just wait patiently for his raw meat.
That hamburger looks like a four course meal at this point. Trevor's eyes dart around the room. Nobody else around? Good. Clara's still in the back rummaging for something? Good. Slow, careful, quiet steps are taken towards that garbage can. Hungry. So hungry...
A few more steps towards the worlds juiciest, tastiest burger. That garbage can must be a three star restaurant with how perfectly crafted it was. Giving one more look around Trevor's hand comes closer, creepingly closer. And..
A sound from the backroom -- and Trevor turns away from the award winning hamburger he was about to enjoy, returning to the counter patiently, greeting the poor girl with a frazzled smile.
His frazzled smile may as well have been a baring of predatory teeth for all that the poor girl shrinks away from Trevor's gaze, her arms laden with packets of meat - ranging from well-frozen to room-temperature, depending on the item, and not quite as raw and dripping with fresh blood as he'd like, but surely it'll do. "We've-... um, we've got... sausages, and- and hot dogs, and meatballs, and some ground beef, um, w-what kind of meat were you looking for?" She's placed them all on the counter now, where she stands warily eying Trevor.
He really should've just gone to a butcher's instead, but what kind of butcher is open at four in the morning? Does Haven even /have/ a butcher's shop? Still. Meat. There's steaks, ribs, chops, balls, roasts, and whatever else he can dream of, right there in front of him for the taking. "I-if you come by later in the morning, we're having a special breakfast sandwich promotion running right now," Clara tells him quietly, her customer-service voice dimmed.
"No," Trevor almost growls as the food is placed on the counter, and Trevor eyes it, his stomach growling in the dead of night, a booming sound as it seemingly fills the store. "That's fine," Trevor reaches out, snatching whatever his arms can carry and piling them into his arms. Shifting the weight awkwardly, he rummages around in his pocket. And fortunately for Clara, she will be collecting payment from the crazy, frazzled, raw-meat eating fiend in front of her.
Stuffing money on the counter, he tears a package of hotdogs open with his teeth.
Hungry. SO HUNGRY. Food. Meat. It's right in front of him. Eat. EAT. EAT!
Chomp. Trevor's teeth dig into the hotdog. It's not that raw, bloody meal he was expecting, or longing for, but it'll do. He lets the flavour it him, before savagely ripping apart the rest of the hotdog. Once finished he flashes poor Clara another smile, flecks of meat in his teeth, a baring of fangs and he dashes out, packages of meat in hand. Back to safety, back to his den, to enjoy his gazelle.
"That's not-..." Poor, poor Clara can't bring herself to tell Trevor he didn't pay in full for all the meat he just yoinked right off the counter, but she'll probably count it as a 'didn't bite the worker' discount. She's watching with wide horrified eyes as he scarfs down the hot dog, wisely choosing to not engage the frenzied man any further. The quiet, mousy "thank you" behind him goes almost unheard, though her sigh of relief is palpable and very heard when Trevor finally steps away from the shop.
It's halfway down the street and another raw hotdog down his gullet that he freezes in his tracks again. Trevor - or maybe the unseen, unknown presence that has accompanied him this morning - tilts his head back and opens his mouth. A low-pitched howl bursts free from his throat, his human vocal cords doing the best they can. It echoes throughout the street and beyond, the noise rumbling in his chest, mournful for reasons he isn't privy to, and then, finally the feverish chill that had overtaken Trevor finally ebbs, and all of a sudden he's too /himself/, the hunger that had clouded his thoughts flowing away, and his senses suddenly seeming dimmer all of a sudden. Dimmer, or just his usual senses now back to normal, previously heightened to a point he didn't realize?
Whatever the case may be, he's got a newly-aching throat, the taste of raw hot dog in his mouth, and suddenly, he's more alone than he was, even if the number of people on the lone street remain the same as before.
Back home it is, with his arms filled with raw meat products he didn't pay enough for, to his TV that's still playing wildlife documentaries, now a little less riveting.
Choosing civilization over the wild, Trevor finds himself at Hogar del Mundo, demanding raw meat in a state of frenzy that borders on the primal. His interaction with Clara, the employee, is fraught with tension as his demands become more desperate and animalistic. Eventually, Clara provides him with an assortment of meat products, which Trevor hastily consumes, barely managing to pay before leaving. As he consumes the raw hotdogs, an uncharacteristic howl escapes him, signaling a temporary reprieve from the unknown force that had driven his actions. This moment of clarity doesn't last long, as he soon finds himself returning home, now burdened with more raw meat than he knows what to do with and a sense of loneliness that had not been there before. The once captivating nature documentary now holds no interest for him, as he is left to reflect on the night's strange events and the unexplained urges that had overtaken him.
(Trevor's odd encounter(SRLauren):SRLauren)
[Fri May 10 2024]
In a spacious, living room of timeless elegance
Deep, reddish tones of the mahogany wood flooring bring a sense of luxury and depth to the living area in its herringbone pattern. A neutral colour palette with a grey accent wall accentuates the rich tones of the leather furniture. The large room is illuminated by contemporary fixtures sunk into the ceiling, and an antique, Edwardian-style floor lamp adds a softer, more ambient glow.
It is night, about 62F(16C) degrees, and the sky is covered by thin white clouds. Waist high mist flows through the area. There is a waxing crescent moon.
(Your target is possessed by an angry spirit that is forcing them to act out and putting themselves and/or others at risk. They must either defeat it or find a way to calm it down.
)
Outside, the waxing moon hangs in the sky that's just barely beginning to lighten, the horizon still cast in darkness with the occasional early bird chirping from treetops. The sound of the rare passing car or rustling of leaves is muffled this far into the apartments, and even the night owls amongst his neighbors have gone to bed, letting a peaceful quiet settle across the area. Inside, the program on the television drones on, filling the apartment with a low, ambient noise. The room is lit in gold by the soft, warm glow of the floor lamp, the perfect ambiance to simply bundle up cozily and relax while unwinding at the end of a long day.
Where Trevor sits watching the TV, the fine hairs at the back of his neck suddenly rise on end with a chill that crawls down his spine, goosebumps prickling at his skin. There might be a cold draft coming from somewhere, because he's chilly enough to be shivering all of a sudden. Did he leave a window open somewhere?
Humans are by nature, instinctual creatures. Trust your gut. That's a popular saying. Always trust your gut. And in this case, Trevor does.
He did not leave a window open, he knows that. Where is the draft coming from? The chill grows colder - making him shiver.
A car passes by in the distance, a door slams somewhere deeper in the apartments - one of the those night owls getting up for a late night snack.
Trevor looks around, glancing to the door of his living room and beyond. The door is still closed, and he never heard it open. Nope. Nobody is inside. And so he settles back into the couch, finding comfort in the plush pillows, and the visceral roar of a lion as it chases down a poor gazelle on the TV.
His gut may have been on to something, but how quickly the human mind can be deceived with the false promise of safety. The door is still closed, so there's nothing behind it. When your feet are tucked under your blankets, the demon under the bed can't drag you down by the ankles. If you can't see the monster, the monster can't see you. There's definitely nothing to be worried about at all.
The goosebumps are all the way down Trevor's arm now, skin pinpricked with little bumps that don't seem to have gotten the memo regarding personal safety. Perhaps they're trying to tell him something in braille. Whatever it may be, Trevor has chosen to simply sit and stare at National Geographic instead, and so it's a wild gazelle-chase his senses are introduced to instead. The antelope bounds across a stretch of plains, followed by the lion in hot pursuit - the program, all of a sudden, seems a lot more riveting than it did before. Unbiddenly and perhaps bemusedly, saliva suddenly pools in Trevor's mouth as he watches the gazelle on screen, his teeth suddenly aching for something to sink them into. A thought crosses his mind - of tearing the gazelle's throat out with them and relishing in the hot, bloody chunks of meat. Intrusive thoughts, am I right?
Maybe he's just hungry. And still cold.
Trust your gut. The words replay in his brain, but unfortunately Trevor can't read braille. He won't get that message. It's really hard to trust your gut when it's hungry. There's something about not doing things on an empty stomach, but, wow, the gazelle looks incredibly delicious at this point. He was relaxed, if not a few moments earlier, but now he's wide awake, sitting up. Staring at the screen.
The lion chases, sprinting, roaring.
Go. Something urges in his brain. Go. Go. GO. GOGOGOGOGO. Tear.
The lion wins, and an adrenaline like surge races through Trevor. Oh man is he *ever* hungry, when was the last time he ate? Couldn't have been too long ago...
Could it? He's eating right now, isn't he? The scent of fresh blood in the air, sharp fangs tearing into gamey gazelle.
No, no he's not. Images on a screen won't fill his empty belly that's growling to be fed, and his fingers seem to curl into claws all by themselves as the lion continues to feast upon his prey. He's all hot and cold now, moments of freezing chill that's sunk bone-deep into his skin interspersed by flushes of hot yearning and Trevor can't sit still any longer. Mindlessly, his body climbs to his feet and makes for the door, finding himself out of the apartment without grabbing anything along the way. The door clicks shut behind him - tough luck if he didn't have his wallet on hand, because he's making his way out of the apartment already, and something - him? not him? - wants him to go out, into the open, where the moonlight can shine upon his skin and the cold air can fill his lungs.
He's left the TV on, sadly for his electricity bill. His feet are carrying him outside the apartments where he pauses, his body his own for now, even if the urging in his brain is still very present - there's the forest to the north, not too far away, and plenty of shops to the south.
Forest to the north, shops to the south. Trevor is at a crossroads here, literally and figuratively. He made his way out of the apartment and onto the late night streets of Haven. He walked, step after step and found himself at an intersection.
Looking to the north - to the forest, he stares into his depths. Are gazelle native to America? Are they native to the forest surrounding town? His stomach rumbles at the thought.
Tear, then eat.
No, there's no gazelles. And he didn't bring hunting equipment with him. Shops is it is. Turning on his heel, he marches south, towards the bigger variety of choice.
Does he need hunting equipment to chase down a rabbit? A squirrel?
... probably, to be honest. It's not that easy to chase down wild critters, even if his mouth waters at the thought of getting his hands on one of them and sinking his teeth right into their fat, furry belly, rich with the bounty of spring, and feel their coppery blood fill his mouth when he chews upon the nutrient-rich organs, feels their heart that had been racing with fear slow and give out and--
To the shops it is. Hogar del Mundo isn't far away, and that's where his feet take him, straight up to the counter where a bored girl mans the dead hours of the morning, too early for even the early risers to be getting their breakfast. Good thing there's no line, too, because impatience burgeons inside him, surging high. He'd better get to ordering fast.
'Raw', the back of his mind whispers to him. That doesn't sound safe nor healthy, but it's what makes his stomach growl again, loud enough for the girl behind the counter to break out of whatever thought she was in to glance up at him.
You should always trust your gut. "Raw," Trevor half-shouts at the poor girl behind the counter. Raw? That's not an order. "Raw meat." She's most likely gone from raw to weirded out. "Now."
The girl behind the counter doesn't move, she blinks slowly, trying to process the order that this man just demanded of her at 5:30 in the morning. "I'm sorry?" she asks, a suspicious tone to the question.
A primal sounding growl builds from inside him and he let it out. "Raw meat. Rabbits, squirrels, gazelle. Anything. Now." She's too slow. Trying to process this, and Trevor looks at her -- hungrily.
A thought crosses his mind - of tearing the girl's throat out with his teeth and relishing in the hot, bloody chunks of meat. Intrusive thoughts, am I right?
Push that aside. Hurry. HURRY. Something inside of him screams, his body growing hot.
She definitely doesn't get paid enough for this. The girl - whose nametag reads out 'Clara', if Trevor so cares to sneak a peek - glances over behind her back for just a split second to see if she's got someone else from the staff around for backup - she doesn't, unfortunately, and she can't bring herself to let her eyes stray away from Trevor for more than that brief moment either. All alone in this with a crazy-seeming customer on a Friday morning right before her shift ended. Just her luck, the poor unfortunate soul.
"We don't sell raw-" Clara starts, cuts off mid-sentence when she properly looks up at Trevor, her eyes a little wide at something in the man's demeanor, and the girl takes yet another step back. "I- I'll see what I can do. P-please, um. Please wait." And then she's taking another few steps back and veritably fleeing into the kitchen behind her, apparently not wanting to bare her back to the man either because she's just moonwalking all the way back there and just barely managing not to trip over her feet. He can hear the sound of frantic rummaging through freezers not long after, and, well, he didn't really say what /kind/ of meat apart from 'raw', nor what he wants it for, so she's probably going to take a few moments longer to compose herself.
Meanwhile, there's a half-eaten hamburger on top of the trash can not far away from Trevor, someone's bite marks present where the remaining half has been eaten away. He wouldn't... would he? Surely not. We wouldn't swoop that low...
Unless?
Or he could just wait patiently for his raw meat.
That hamburger looks like a four course meal at this point. Trevor's eyes dart around the room. Nobody else around? Good. Clara's still in the back rummaging for something? Good. Slow, careful, quiet steps are taken towards that garbage can. Hungry. So hungry...
A few more steps towards the worlds juiciest, tastiest burger. That garbage can must be a three star restaurant with how perfectly crafted it was. Giving one more look around Trevor's hand comes closer, creepingly closer. And..
A sound from the backroom -- and Trevor turns away from the award winning hamburger he was about to enjoy, returning to the counter patiently, greeting the poor girl with a frazzled smile.
His frazzled smile may as well have been a baring of predatory teeth for all that the poor girl shrinks away from Trevor's gaze, her arms laden with packets of meat - ranging from well-frozen to room-temperature, depending on the item, and not quite as raw and dripping with fresh blood as he'd like, but surely it'll do. "We've-... um, we've got... sausages, and- and hot dogs, and meatballs, and some ground beef, um, w-what kind of meat were you looking for?" She's placed them all on the counter now, where she stands warily eying Trevor.
He really should've just gone to a butcher's instead, but what kind of butcher is open at four in the morning? Does Haven even /have/ a butcher's shop? Still. Meat. There's steaks, ribs, chops, balls, roasts, and whatever else he can dream of, right there in front of him for the taking. "I-if you come by later in the morning, we're having a special breakfast sandwich promotion running right now," Clara tells him quietly, her customer-service voice dimmed.
"No," Trevor almost growls as the food is placed on the counter, and Trevor eyes it, his stomach growling in the dead of night, a booming sound as it seemingly fills the store. "That's fine," Trevor reaches out, snatching whatever his arms can carry and piling them into his arms. Shifting the weight awkwardly, he rummages around in his pocket. And fortunately for Clara, she will be collecting payment from the crazy, frazzled, raw-meat eating fiend in front of her.
Stuffing money on the counter, he tears a package of hotdogs open with his teeth.
Hungry. SO HUNGRY. Food. Meat. It's right in front of him. Eat. EAT. EAT!
Chomp. Trevor's teeth dig into the hotdog. It's not that raw, bloody meal he was expecting, or longing for, but it'll do. He lets the flavour it him, before savagely ripping apart the rest of the hotdog. Once finished he flashes poor Clara another smile, flecks of meat in his teeth, a baring of fangs and he dashes out, packages of meat in hand. Back to safety, back to his den, to enjoy his gazelle.
"That's not-..." Poor, poor Clara can't bring herself to tell Trevor he didn't pay in full for all the meat he just yoinked right off the counter, but she'll probably count it as a 'didn't bite the worker' discount. She's watching with wide horrified eyes as he scarfs down the hot dog, wisely choosing to not engage the frenzied man any further. The quiet, mousy "thank you" behind him goes almost unheard, though her sigh of relief is palpable and very heard when Trevor finally steps away from the shop.
It's halfway down the street and another raw hotdog down his gullet that he freezes in his tracks again. Trevor - or maybe the unseen, unknown presence that has accompanied him this morning - tilts his head back and opens his mouth. A low-pitched howl bursts free from his throat, his human vocal cords doing the best they can. It echoes throughout the street and beyond, the noise rumbling in his chest, mournful for reasons he isn't privy to, and then, finally the feverish chill that had overtaken Trevor finally ebbs, and all of a sudden he's too /himself/, the hunger that had clouded his thoughts flowing away, and his senses suddenly seeming dimmer all of a sudden. Dimmer, or just his usual senses now back to normal, previously heightened to a point he didn't realize?
Whatever the case may be, he's got a newly-aching throat, the taste of raw hot dog in his mouth, and suddenly, he's more alone than he was, even if the number of people on the lone street remain the same as before.
Back home it is, with his arms filled with raw meat products he didn't pay enough for, to his TV that's still playing wildlife documentaries, now a little less riveting.