Flycatcher Downs Ring ring, the bartender please?

"My souls are sick. My souls are sick. What am I saying? My souls are sick." Her ears pricked to catch the voice of the mumbles; practically the only part of her body that would move without need of encouragement. When the voices continued, only then did she realise it was her own maw that was parted and speaking this nonsense. A small part of her strained to grip her humanity, to snap her jaws shut and banish all insanity from her tongue. Yet half and half refused to make a whole and the muttering continued, intertwining amongst the jubilant attempts of the being as her body shivered beneath his gaze.

"My souls, Racoon, though my stomach has consumed you fuck. Ah, my legs are broke." Not literally. Her words spewed not in protest nor agreement. Just mere delusion.