In the moment the thing so adeptly moved to intercept and, as closely as I know how to describe, “grab” me, time slowed to a near halt; like the moment your car’s wheels gently lift into the air as it starts to roll, side over side, into some final resting position that hopefully will either leave you instantly unalive, or with only a few scratches and bruises, barely hurt at all – but with any luck, nowhere in between. And in this ten-thousand-frames-per-second vantage, I was able to see in great detail, surprisingly enough with simultaneous shock and calmness, the image of such a small slice of the man? beast? something else? in such minutiae as to be as much intrigued and awe-inspired as I was horrified.
Issuing in a row along the entire length of the underside of its arm were dozens, perhaps hundreds of dark, thin but engorged fronds like the fringe on a stereotypical American Native’s hide jacket. But they were each more akin to wanton tendrils, ranging in length from two or three to perhaps five inches. And all of them curled and spiraled and licked and quavered like slowly writhing tendrils, every one seemingly with a will and hunger of its own.