It was sometime in the middle of the night—or what passed for night here, since it was always dark. In any case, it was the time when most people were sleeping.

Moran snapped awake, the foul reek of alcohol and spoiled butter heavy in the air, sticking to his nostrils.

The little wooden hut that has been designated to be his prison was barely large enough to call a house.

It had room for little more than the bed he lay on, its frame roughly carved from wood and piled high with dried grass and woven reeds.

In the center of the room stood a "table" fashioned from hardened mud, molded into a rough cube that almost seemed to sway if you looked at it too long.

Groll had thrown him in here two days ago, under near-constant watch by two guards who swapped in and out every few hours, trading scowls and stares between them as they observed him.

They often talked with each other, completely ignoring him. For the massive danger she supposedly posed, they regarded him quite carelessly.

Moran pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes as he squinted toward the doorway.

Standing there, framed in the pale light from outside, was a man who looked like... a monkey.

The guy wore nothing but short blue pants, which sat low enough on his hips to reveal a sturdy, lean frame.

He was slightly smaller than the woman guard, but it was hard to tell because his upper body was humped forward.

A mess of short, bright yellow hair covered his head, with a thicker patch running down his cheeks to form thick, bushy sideburns that gave him an odd, almost regal look.

But the strangest thing about him was the tail—a thick, fur-covered appendage that poked through a hole in his pants, curling twice around his waist like a belt.

A flask dangled from it, along with a wooden pipe that swayed as he shifted his weight.

"Finally awake?" the man asked, his voice smooth but slightly rough at the edges.

He grabbed the flask from his tail-belt, took a slow, deliberate swig, and fixed Moran with an unreadable stare.

Either he was staring right into Moran's soul or too drunk to focus his vision.

"Who are you?" Moran asked, distrust edging his tone.

At the question, his guards took a wary step back, as if to escape the sour stench now wafting into the room.

The man gave a thick, drunken chuckle, his eyes glazed but shrewd. “They call me Bithlehem," he slurred, his words tumbling together. "But you—hic—you can call me Bith.”

He punctuated his introduction with a loud, wet belch, prompting the guards to retreat another step, wrinkling their noses in disgust.

Moran grimaced and fanned a hand in front of his face.

"Lovely," he muttered, giving his best not to choke.

"Have the elders come to a decision?" Moran pressed, unable to hide the edge in his voice.

Bithlehem swung his head in wide, erratic circles, as if trying to stir his own brain.

“Ah, you youngsters,” he muttered with a wheezy chuckle. “Always so hasty! Ain’t this exactly what you wanted? Bed, two meals a day. Hell, I’d even share a bit of my own fine brew with ya, if you wanted.”

He took a step forward, holding the bottle out with a shaky but honest grin.

Though he seemed sincere, the wave of stale booze and sweat that came with him made it feel more like a threat than an offer.

Bithlehem waggled the open mouth of the flask toward Moran, sloshing the dark liquid inside.

“Go on, take a sip! Can’t beat a little warmth in the bones.”

"No!" Moran shouted, raising both his hands. "No, thank you."

Bithlehem smacked his lips in apparent disappointment, his yellow eyes glinting with mild amusement.

"You sober folk are nooooooo fun."

Bithlehem tilted his head, seemingly pondering the question as he drew a loud, wet sniff up his nose—NNNCHHH.

To Moran's horror, it was followed by a thick, unmistakable gulp as Bith swallowed it down.

Moran clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to gag once again.

He glanced around, noticing that the two guards had put a respectable distance between themselves and Bithlehem.

He wondered if they’d wandered out of earshot entirely, just to escape the vile stench that was spreading in the room.

Even if the man left, he sure would be able to appreciate his visit for quite a while.

"If the elders haven't come to a decision, then what is your reason for coming here?"

Bithlehem scratched his head, exaggeratedly thoughtful.

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“Reason?” he drawled, wobbling slightly.

“Ah, you sober folk, always trying to find meaning in everything.”

He chuckled dismissively, while the hand with the flask creeped closer towards Moran's mouth, like he was trying to make him drink without noticing.

Moran brought his hand between him and the drink.

“What, you think I’m not here to chat?”

Realising his sneak failed, Bith lowered the drink and gave the younger man a yellow teethed grin.

“Can’t an old monkey just drop by without needing a reason?”

Moran narrowed his eyes. “Most people do.”

Bithlehem laughed, the sound more a raspy bark than a chuckle.

“Well, most people don’t get locked up either,” he shot back, sounding like a child.

"I didn't plan for it to happen," Moran shot back slightly salty.

He scratched his cheek, unwinding his tail from his waist and using it to secure his flask and wooden pipe, the thick fur wrapping around them with surprising precision.

Now freed, he set his hands on his hips, leaning slightly forward like he wanted to inspect Morans chin.

"Life tends to spoil all plans," the monkey said. "And that's where booze comes in."

His eyes slid slowly up and down Morans body like he was searching for something.

After a long pause, he reached for his pipe, brought it to his lips, and plucked a few hairs from his tail.

He stuffed them into the pipe, then snapped his fingers just above it.

A small spark ignited, catching on the hairs and settling into a steady orange glow.

The monkey took a deep drag, exhaling the smoke through his nose in two thick streams, the orange light casting strange shadows across his face.

For the briefest of moments, Bith looked almost... ancient.

His eyes were half-closed, either in a drunken glaze or back in the times no one had lived through then him.

Despite the thick smell and his overbearing attitude, for just a flicker, Moran felt something close to reverence.

Perhaps Groll’s chop to his head had done more than just know him out for a couple seconds.

“You should be grateful we’re lending you a home in our village,” Bithlehem said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind of rasp one might get from years of breathing smoke.

That snapped Moran back to reality.

"Grateful?” he asked, surprised. “This isn’t a home—it’s a prison!”

His words came out more sharply than he had intended, but the monkey just chuckled, taking another deep drag on his pipe.

When he exhaled, the smoke drifted out in lazy spirals, swirling through the open doorway like wisps of fog, dancing in the dim light that radiated from the jars behind them.

“Home, prison—what’s the difference?” Bithlehem gave a loose, sloppy wave of his arm, nearly tipping over in the process, his body swaying like an unsteady ship at sea. “Both are perfect places to enjoy a good brew.”

Moran instinctively raised a hand, prepared to bat off yet another offer of the monkey’s reeking drink.

But Bithlehem didn’t extend the flask this time. Instead, his milky eyes drilled holes into him.

“You’re lucky, you know,” Bithlehem began, his tone slipping into that of a lecturing grandfather.

“Got yourself a place to sleep, meals twice a day… don’t even have to worry about freezing your bones out there in the open.”

He gave a lazy grin, the pipe hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth, and for a second, Moran could swear he saw a line of drool sliding down the wooden stem.

“All you have to worry about,” Bithlehem continued, his voice trailing into a low rumble that morphed into a short cough before he could go on, “is what the elders decide to do with you. If you’re particularly lucky, they might think you’re too much of a risk to keep around.”

He shrugged. “Then you’d have to trade your nice, little prison for a spot in the cooking pot.”

Upon hearing the man's words, a chill ran down Moran's spine.

His face must've given away his through because Bithlehem tilted his head as if was searching for another flask of alcohol under Moran's chin.

The monkey shifted his pipe to the opposite corner of his mouth with a slow, thoughtful drag before exhaling, sending a fresh puff of smoke into the room.

“You are messing?” Moran’s voice came out barely above a whisper. "No way you guys are cannibals!"

Kai would have told him that, wouldn't he? On the other hand, if they really were, it would be the most natrual thing in the world for him.

Bithlehem tapped the ash off his pipe, then nodded with an exaggerated, almost theatrical slowness.

“Meat’s hard to come by around here,” he murmured.

“Every pound counts, you see.” He scratched his cheek with the pipe stem, his face unreadable, as though he was simply stating that the sky was black.

"And I don't think you could call that cannibalism. You aren't a Shapeless after all."

The words hung heavily in the air.

Moran’s mind raced, struggling to grasp whether this was some kind of sick joke or a grim reality of life among these people.

He searched in the man's milky eyes for an answer or the hint of a smile that might spoil the joke, but all he found was resignation.

His pulse was hammering in his neck as he cleared his throat to sound right.

"Right,... of course,” he managed, but his voice was shaking despite his best efforts.

Getting cooked alive sounded like the worst fate imaginable.

He’d never experienced it, obviously, but every fool knew it wouldn’t be a gentle way to go.

Maybe, he thought grimly, the fisherman who’d pulled him out of the water should have just let him drown.

It seemed like a gentler way to go.

Bithlehem continued to watch him closely. Finally, after what felt like hours, a cheeky grin conquered his face.

“Relax,” he said, chuckling as he leaned back. “Just pulling your leg. You youngsters are so easy to rattle.”

Bithlehem's behavior, or by now his whole being, sent a surge of frustration through Moran.

For a split second, he wanted nothing more than to punch the man into his monkey like face. But he held back, deliberatly opening his hands and stretching his fingers.

Bithlehem, oblivious or unbothered, tried to take another drag from his pipe but realized he had already discorded the ashes.

He slid the pipe back into the loop of his furry tail, which wrapped snugly around his waist to form the makeshift belt again.

“So, when can I expect a decision?” Moran asked, barely keeping the edge out of his voice.

The monkey-man’s eyes rolled in their sockets like he had to endure the nagging of a child.

“Oh, whenever they feel like it, I suppose.” He shrugged, waving a hand as if Moran’s fate were no more pressing than the zip of his flask. Having known him for roughly five minutes, Moran's was sure to Bithlehem it was. “We elders like to take our sweet time.”

Moran, completely missing the pronoun in his last sentence, ground his teeth as Bithlehem turned and ambled toward the door, arms crossed behind his back.

"An interesting fellow indeed," he heard the man mutter. It was now that Moran realised what had slipped his attention a second ago.

"Wait," he called out, moving instinctively to follow the man in order to keep the conversation going, but just as he took a step, his guards reappeared at their posts, long sticks in hand, blocking his path with firm, wordless insistence while holding their noses.

Bithlehem chukled, his form already merging with the dark.

"Get some good rest, my friend." He said. "You might just need it."