“No, not a disease,” he mutters. His fingers are restless, twitching, picking at the threads of his sleeves. His eyes are still flat, cold, glittering like ice. No warmth. “A curse. This is no ashen blood disease, as we first surmised. It is deeper. It is a blight of the mind. A stain upon the soul.”
Micolash puts on a smile, but it’s just as superficial as the look in his eyes. Leaning forward from his seat upon the table, ignoring whatever papers or pots he knocks over, resting his palms on the edge. Leaning in towards Ashlynn. He’s not blinked once since the change in his demeanor, since the revelation of his friend’s true nature.
“Early stages of what?” he echoes. “Of the curse, Ashlynn! Of your impending beasthood! I could try to fix you. I could try to reverse it. Don’t you want to be human again? Don’t you want to halt your degeneracy? I could try. I want to try.”
A plasma sample to start, he thinks. A hank of hair next. Infusions of untainted blood and purified quicksilver. Tests for blood drunkenness. Locked in a room with a small, tempting prey animal would be ideal. What else is she hiding if she hides the ears? Tail? Fur? Mutations unseen? Amputations would fix that. What if they grew back? Wouldn’t that be funny? How many times would he have to remove things before they stopped trying? Before the scar tissue was too thick and too gnarled that recovery is stunted?
Micolash’s mind is racing with horrible things. Wretched ideas.
no subject
Micolash puts on a smile, but it’s just as superficial as the look in his eyes. Leaning forward from his seat upon the table, ignoring whatever papers or pots he knocks over, resting his palms on the edge. Leaning in towards Ashlynn. He’s not blinked once since the change in his demeanor, since the revelation of his friend’s true nature.
“Early stages of what?” he echoes. “Of the curse, Ashlynn! Of your impending beasthood! I could try to fix you. I could try to reverse it. Don’t you want to be human again? Don’t you want to halt your degeneracy? I could try. I want to try.”
A plasma sample to start, he thinks. A hank of hair next. Infusions of untainted blood and purified quicksilver. Tests for blood drunkenness. Locked in a room with a small, tempting prey animal would be ideal. What else is she hiding if she hides the ears? Tail? Fur? Mutations unseen? Amputations would fix that. What if they grew back? Wouldn’t that be funny? How many times would he have to remove things before they stopped trying? Before the scar tissue was too thick and too gnarled that recovery is stunted?
Micolash’s mind is racing with horrible things. Wretched ideas.