( He seems to consider, head tipped to the side in the way of a curious animal who is considering whether the predator in front of him isn't small or slow or stupid enough to become prey.
Then, there's a scratch on the side of a plank, as an amputated, decayed hand crawls up — and the child turns to greet it, calling it close with two curling fingers. Nothing, at first, beyond the pitiful creature's struggling crawl on the bridge. The dark of the night conceals the first, soft, subtle accrual of spores that begin to extend the hand, first to elbow, then to shoulder, then to building skeleton, layered with flesh after, organs rounding, skin, the accessories of a young man, gasping in confused terror, even his clothes —
The man persists alive and in health for no more than a few heartbeats, before mould consumes his body, and he succumbs to an accelerated version of the coal sickness: the coughing, the blood secretions, the sudden and inexplicable decay. With a frustrated groan, the child releases his magic, dispelled into dust that he kicks off the planks along with the shaking hand, before returning to Wrathion again: )
I don't. Know. How. That's all I can do. I can't make that stop, so they're not sick, and my friend can't either. And you. Can't. Even do. What I can do. You're no use at all.
no subject
( He seems to consider, head tipped to the side in the way of a curious animal who is considering whether the predator in front of him isn't small or slow or stupid enough to become prey.
Then, there's a scratch on the side of a plank, as an amputated, decayed hand crawls up — and the child turns to greet it, calling it close with two curling fingers. Nothing, at first, beyond the pitiful creature's struggling crawl on the bridge. The dark of the night conceals the first, soft, subtle accrual of spores that begin to extend the hand, first to elbow, then to shoulder, then to building skeleton, layered with flesh after, organs rounding, skin, the accessories of a young man, gasping in confused terror, even his clothes —
The man persists alive and in health for no more than a few heartbeats, before mould consumes his body, and he succumbs to an accelerated version of the coal sickness: the coughing, the blood secretions, the sudden and inexplicable decay. With a frustrated groan, the child releases his magic, dispelled into dust that he kicks off the planks along with the shaking hand, before returning to Wrathion again: )
I don't. Know. How. That's all I can do. I can't make that stop, so they're not sick, and my friend can't either. And you. Can't. Even do. What I can do. You're no use at all.