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As the elven woman continued with a line that offered more of an explanation for her exasperation, Hector found himself rapidly losing interest in her as well as the rest of those around him. The one called ‘Aoren’ spoke after the human girl, as well, and though all of their words were heard and understood, the boy’s gaze flitted ‘round the room before landing on the crackling pillar of aether ‘round which the stairs twined. Something about it called to him, something about it was–
Though Hector’s Aidolon was as yet still a separate entity from him, the two were indelibly bound by contract. The miasma that composed him, at this point, was near omnipresent, lurking within Hector’s shadow, always subtly licking at his form, and it was he who was the first to notice the eldritch mark now upon the back of the boy’s right hand. Between the two of them, words needn’t be exchanged to communicate, and with the spirit’s suggestion, Hector lifted his hand to look. The mark was drawn in an ink as black as night, though it glinted in an array of color when light struck it– the symbol, however, he did not recognize.
The elf blinked in confusion, surprised as he was. His immediate compulsion was to push aether through and attempt to cast with it…but would such a course of action truly be wise? And was wisdom something he really ought to care about? His gaze drifted from the newly granted mark to that entropic pillar of energy again. Part of him wanted to approach it, rip aether from it using himself as a catalyst, and then let the chips fall as they would. This calm, this almost manufactured-feeling order was…boring. Unsettling.
While Hector contemplated his next course of action, Vergil listened to those around him. Aoren’s words were wise, but it would appear the blinded elven woman cared not about the state of her health. Given what it was that’d apparently been asked of her and the punishment for declining, part of him doubted that restoring her eyes would give her sight back. Nevertheless, choosing to continue to exist with sockets like that was a markedly bizarre decision, even only regarding risk of infection and comfort. However, that was, apparently, not his problem…and so he would let her be.
Rather, his attention would be given to the two from whom it was requested. When Imogen opted to pry free a bit of the aetherite herself, he grimaced. “Imogen, I’d suggest not messing much with that yourself lest you…aggravate the wounds overmuch.”
But along with those words, he cut his own palm briefly, drawing out some of his own blood and infusing it with aether. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it flying through the air in Imogen’s direction, and once in contact with her, his blood would be absorbed through her skin. The point of this was to infuse her system with his vitale, and having done that, the wounds on her body that weren’t presently obstructed by crystal would rapidly heal by his subsequent cast of innervate. The ambient aether in the air was just as dense as before and made casting this even less effort than it otherwise would have been– the notable difference being that it at least felt far more stable here than in the ruins.
To Imogen, again, “I’ve two options for you. One, I force your body to ‘push’ out all of the crystals at once. This method is much faster but would be very painful and carries with it greater risk. The other would be that I carefully excise each crystalline mass. For now, I’ve stabilized you, so feel free to think on it– or opt to wait for…however long you’d like. You know how to contact me, even after this all ends.”
He’d give her a moment to decide, but for now, helping the girl whose hands had turned to stone was more pressing. As he moved to approach her, however, a clockwork automaton approached the group, labeling itself ‘Servitor 117.’ Vergil looked at the construct, his eyes briefly narrowing, but otherwise expressed little as he turned his gaze back to Hilana. Holding a hand out to her, he asked if he had her permission to examine her hands. Though he’d been a doctor for the majority of his life at this point in time, he’d not encountered a malady quite like this before.
And, apparently, the girl herself hadn’t either, saying as much as she presented her hands before him. Taking one of her petrified hands in his, he would at first attempt to innervate the condition away, regenerating flesh in place of the stony petrification– but to his surprise, this did not work. Even with the ease with which his magic came to him here, no push of his aether resulted in stone turning back to skin.
The look he gave her was a serious one, though it wasn’t grave, and his words would sound reassuring. “Hm…given you’ve knowledge of a shattered pact, I assume you’re a healer, too? I’m sure you’ve also come across scenarios where a limb simply cannot be saved…as your hands can’t be, even with my skill with Vitalis– but don’t worry, that only prolongs the journey. The end result will be the same– you’ll have functioning hands.”
Vergil would move to slip the bag he carried from his shoulders, but he’d pause, ears picking up the sound of footsteps as Hector had begun to walk towards the crackling pillar of red aether. Vergil, of course, knew not the origins or function of such a thing, but what he did know was that allowing Hector anywhere near it would probably usher in disaster of some sort. The man raised a hand and Hector would find his system briefly seized by the other’s rhabdomancy. This wasn’t meant to control him, since realistically, Hector’s own mastery of Vitalis would be able to wrest control back should he choose the path of resistance– the gesture was little more than a silent command to the boy, letting him know he ought to cease his path.
Hector sighed, but he would listen, knowing that the other possessed far more common sense than he did, and through experience, most things ended far better when he listened than not. Vexed as he was, he did turn back…he was just…so bored, and so bothered, for that matter, by the relative tranquility that had fallen ‘round them. Mayhaps he could bother the dragon? Imogen? The elven woman seemed as if she were no fun at all and the human girl was busy, so he’d opt to leave them alone– for now.
Hector turned away from the aether that roiled now behind him, tempting as it was. One thing that’d stuck out to him earlier was the use of the word ‘princeps’ when addressing the scaled giant earlier…was he a prince of a sort? He had a rudimentary knowledge of Solunarian customs, so he knew the title, beat over the head as he had been in recent days and months with whatever the Imperium had on foreign policy, affairs, culture, diplomacy, the like– which did include that gem in the desert, unlikely as it was that Hector would be sent there in the near future.
When the boy returned to the group, he would look first to Imogen, then Aoren, and then addressing those two, he’d show them the back of his hand– the new mark he bore. “Do the two of you have any idea what this is? I’ve half a mind to cast with it…but I’ve been told I should ask those around me more before taking risks,” the boy said with an impish sort of smile. “I didn’t have it before we arrived here– the aether of the blast, or maybe that voidcast man? appears to have bestowed it upon me.”
A spark of recollection appeared in the boy's eyes as he jolted for a moment, remembering something. “Ah, but you asked what the shade had requested of each of us?” He nodded to Aoren. “He asked for my blood– only one drop of it. Personally, it seemed like a markedly cheap deal, given that I don’t consider myself to be that special…my vampirism does render me a touch beyond merely mortal, but not by much, no?” Hector shrugged, then blinked. “...unless my blood carries with it more power than I realize?” He tilted his head in consideration, then laughed. “Nevertheless, it wasn’t much of a price to pay to buy us more time.”
Vergil’s concern about Hector’s interest in the chaotic aether waned as the boy’s mouth opened to speak to the others. Hector could talk about nothing for ages, provided those he conversed with put even the smallest amount of effort into engaging him. It was just that he was easily bored; he’d only be concerned if the boy was ignored. Assuming the others wouldn’t do that, he set his own focus back on the task at hand– fixing Hilana’s hands.
He drew what was, ostensibly, a bonesaw from his bag, though the design was different than what one might be used to. It was smaller and the serration almost appeared smooth with how impossibly fine it was. Keeping such a thing sharp would be exceptionally difficult if one couldn’t manipulate the material of the device at will, but a keen observer might note that the material from which it was made looked to be the same as the metallic blood Hector had wielded in an attempt to reinforce the shelter they’d searched for.
Tool in hand, Vergil would look Hilana in the eyes, “...offer little resistance and this will be quick. I promise you, your best interest is mine, too.”
With that, he held her right hand in his, and would lock her body in place with rhabdomancy. It might induce panic to lose control of one’s faculties, but this was more so for stability than anything else. In the same moment, he’d weave in pheromancy, taking control of her body’s release of adrenaline, cortisol, endorphins, dopamine, and serotonin. He’d alter the levels of each to keep the girl at peace, lower her pain levels, and keep her stress level at a minimum.
In his left hand he held the small bonesaw, and without fanfare, he’d raise it to her arm, just above the end of the petrification. Normally, one would want to rest the arm against a hard surface, but given there didn’t appear to be any tables nearby, he’d rely on the fact that he’d locked her body in place, the sharpness of his tool, and his own strength. Holding her arm tightly in place with his other hand, he would press down and begin to cut through tissue– skin, muscle, and bone all tore like paper beneath the force he was capable of applying, and it all broke cleanly from the blade’s sharpness.
Once amputated, he’d unceremoniously drop the arm, and swiftly innervated the stump, tendrils of flesh and blood weaving together to close the wound before moving onto her other arm. “Both will come off first, then I’ll go about getting you new hands,” he offered in clarification.
His words came quick, though his movements quicker– by the time he’d said that, he’d already readied the blade again at her other arm, and intent on repeating the same process, lined the blade up just above the petrification and cut through. Both of her arms discarded on the ground and maintaining consummate control of her body’s systems through his magic, he held her upper left arm with his left hand and spoke again: “...regrowth is a strange sensation, so brace yourself.”
It wouldn’t exactly be painful, per se, but profoundly uncomfortable, more akin to a nauseating sort of ‘pressure’ sensation at points. From the stump of her arm, her flesh would open, though it would not bleed; everything was held at bay by the mage as the bones in her forearm extended forward, bone tissue rapidly growing forward alongside the most basic of ligaments, muscle, and other connective tissues to hold her new skeletal hands together. Next, he’d regenerate each system in the limb one at a time, doing it this way so he could focus on making sure each one was correct– vascular, muscular, integumentary, lymphatic, and finally, nervous. The worst part would be when he restored her nervous system, as the crawl of new nerves through her flesh would feel electric in the worst way.
Vergil offered her a soft smile, something meant to be reassuring, “..onto the next, then,” before repeating the process with her other hand. He could tell from the way he’d been actively managing her hormones that this process would’ve been infinitely more excruciating without his meddling in that regard, and that even though he’d done so, the girl would still feel a tired sort of malaise and be covered in a thin film of sweat by the end. The energy expended was, gracefully, softened by Vergil making use of the aether in the air around them to galvanize his spells, so in the end, both of them expended far less energy that this would’ve normally required.
With both of her hands restored, Vergil nodded to her, let go of her arms, freed her from his magicked control, and then stepped back. “I…could still feel traces of the Sundering’s magic in you when I did that…I can’t tell how much of a hindrance that will end up being over time, but your hands are, physically, pristine. Unfortunately, it’s not within my power to purge magic of that potency from your system,” he clarified, the faintest hints of disappointment within himself at the end.
With that he would turn and nod to the others, indicating she was fine. "Imogen, if you'd like me to do anything for you next, you need only say the word."
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Aidolon Speech
"Kathalan Tongue/Speech"
"Vallenor Tongue/Speech"
"Common Tongue/Speech"
"Mythrasi Tongue/Speech"
