Nothing followed him but the piteous sounds of the bird. Teyouma slowed his escape, crouching low in the dark with his extra limbs folded close, his tail curling against the ground initially, then flicking at the end in the manner of a curious cat. He turned around, kind of, and peered out of the dark at the sad bird from between his long limbs; if Kyrak were to seek out his gaze, the two shining red irises could be seen through the gap between elbow and rib cage. The bird did not follow; but the sounds it made, its sad croaking and crying, made something new bubble to life within the mutated newborn.

Laughter. It was as ominous, as disjointed, as everything else about Teyouma.

One voice was shrill and keenly entertained; the other seemed to mimic the bird, going deeper, sounding more like a wheeze. Together the voices chorused in disharmony, and soon Teyouma was cackling to himself without control or care. The monkey fell back against its bloodied stumps, rolling upon the floor as if he were unwounded - something about the baby bird's pain was just so funny to him.