middaeg | Aguril catchall

[It's a comment that gets a blink of surprise, followed by a curious look.]

Did he? I imagine he enjoyed it... or at least found it amusing. I can't say I appreciate the sensation myself. With his body though, I wonder how that felt....

[Who would even try to set a robot on fire.]

And I suppose still others feel the need to help, even when there's no call for it. Even when it amounts to no more than fussing and getting in the way.

I thought you knew...[And that had been what he'd been referring too. But if he didn't know, that meant there was more people like that.

Terrifying...] Can his descriptions of how things are felt be trusted? [Given he was still learning, she'd had to explain to him what a strawberry tasted like. It wasn't an experience the fae wanted to repeat, how did you describe a flavor to someone who'd never tasted before? Probably not how she'd done, but being good with words had never been her strong point.]

It does explain why the coven healers are so strict about what they'll heal. If people go running up to them at every little thing.

[Emet-Selch is also now considering this fact... terrifying, indeed. But he only shakes his head.]

I would say his descriptions... would be simultaneously most and least trustworthy. New as he is to them, anything he offers would be free of a lifetime of bias. Yet at the same time, his interpretation of anything is... like to be creative. He thinks flavors have colors.

[Emet-Selch will still not accept this, just out of pointless stubbornness. But it's a muttered statement he concludes with a huff.]

And I assume you deigned not to waste a healer's time despite all around you warning of immanent catastrophe should your wound not be treated by a legion of mages?

[So much enthusiasm in one person was a force. Mikasa wasn't sure she could deal with.]

I think the colours are the same as the food. I think he said strawberries tasted red...[Then anything that tasted tart like a strawberry was also called red. She sighs.] I don't think I've seen him dislike something.

[A challenge for her. Though Mettaton had already found a thing she didn't like. At the question, he gets a small snort.]

No. I'd rather let it heal on it's own. Most the people I know who've been learning that magic only have a months prac-

[There's a small gasp, then she's hunching over with a shudder. That lump on her back was straining a little more. Something damp pressing against chitin and fabric.]

[Emet-Selch only sighs again; Mettaton had also told him that spicy foods would likely be considered red, so how could those and strawberries both taste as the same color?? Complete absurdity, his whole color-flavor-theory was falling apart the more he considered it!

Though any reply is cut off, flavor-or-healer-related alike, as he's distracted entirely by Mikasa's show of- discomfort? Displeasure? It gets a look of mild curiosity instead, as he tilts his head, watching. Showing no signs of sparing her any kind of discretion for what was happening.]

Is that...? [A brief, thoughtful sound.] I've never seen a monster undergoing their changes before. How fortunate, to have me as your audience.

[It's light, if not quite friendly. If nothing else, Emet-Selch is neither concerned nor particularly disturbed at what seemed to be happening. Backs were not meant to have straining, damp lumps like that. Yet fae seemed to all have wings, Mikasa was a fae... the Ascian can guess what's most likely to be trying to emerge from her now.]

Edited 2020-08-31 10:14 (UTC)

[If pressed to answer about her current feelings, she was more bothered by the warm liquid trickling down her back. Soaking into her shirt.

Once the discomfort passes, the guy just got a slow stare that morphed into a squint. Meettaton's food taste forgotten for now. You serious.]

Thanks. [As dry as the air was during the pixies' reign of terror.] Have you rea-

[Then there's the noise of fabric tearing and the fae freezes up again. Not out of pain. More out of the sudden, awkward fear that she didn't have a jacket or anything. She wasn't far from home and there was still that odd urge to remain as still as she could. Like moving would cause something to go wrong.

And what emerged was wings. Two pairs of them. The smaller upper layer had been the part that had managed to rip through, the ridged chitin casing standing on end.

The dampness was quickly explained by the sheer membrane that was starting to unfurl from underneath. It was sticking to it's self as it stretched out for the first time.

She wasn't going anywhere fast, not until those dried out. There wasn't enough structure until everything hardened.]

[Mikasa just sighed at the predicament. Head hanging, words are forgotten. ]

[And backs were certainly not meant to be leaking that much fluid. Emet-Selch continues to watch, idle curiosity remaining, as fabric tore, and soft wings began to unfurl from where they had been surely growing. Developing. Finally becoming large enough that they could no longer be contained, to break free and meet the open air. The miracle of metamorphosis.

The awkwardness of it as well, as the newly-exposed wings were clearly useless as they were, requiring time to dry out, harden. Become as sturdy as they ever could be. And he waits, until this initial part of the process appears to be about as complete as it's going to be, Mikasa sighing in seeming resignation for her new situation.

Still, not as terrible a process as he would have expected. And he wondered if there would be, at all, any sense of relief in having the wings finally freed.]

...Congratulations on becoming, [A pause; a slow scan along what he could see of those extremely wet, extremely fresh wings.] even more of an insect.

[She did look awfully damp, though, and with her shirt all torn up....

Sighing after a moment, Emet-Selch raises an arm, and snaps his fingers. All of the Ascian's magic was gestural, Conjuration included. Without warning or explanation, a large, soft towel manifests in the air a few inches above Mikasa's legs, to fall into her lap. It's a deep violet (because he favored the color; also to hide any potential stains), and large enough to both dry off a bit, and wrap up a bit more, if desired.

Creating some manner of usable jacket, to take into account the state of her wings wasn't something he was quite sure he could manage, but it was better than nothing, he thought.]

[There's a horrible wet peeling noise as the wings gave the slowest of waves. Sections separating and unsticking from themselves as the limbs spread to air out.

With the wings out, the itching. The itching that made it difficult to move abruptly vanished. Replaced with the sensation of the clear blood dripping down. Mikasa's mouth opened for a moment-

But she didn't get time to respond before he clicks his fingers. A fluffy towel falls on her, covering her lap and the hands that had been resting there as she hunched over. Her head hanging to blink at the sudden fabric. Then the witch.

...Why did witches get to have such useful spells? She could just smell magic.

Still as nice and helpful as the gesture might have been, it got narrowed eyes.]

Why are you giving me this? [Because fae.] ...Because I helped Mettaton? [She hadn't needed repaying for helping the panicked puca. He'd been too distressed that the idea of not helping hadn't occurred to her.]

[That wasn't a very pleasant sound either, moist and sticky. But his expression remains neutral, even as his gaze slides over the gradually unfurling wings. Fascinating- or at least, mildly diverting, though he didn't envy Mikasa the task of dealing with the wet appendages. But his eyes return to her face at her statement, and while he hadn't necessarily expected thanks--

It does get a puzzled frown, and a shake of his head.] I already expressed my gratitude for your help. If you were expecting gifts on top of that, you'll have longer to wait. No--

[And then Emet-Selch has to pause to consider his own motivations. The Ascian was not a terribly thoughtful sort, but nor was he particularly cruel. While he could've just shrugged and left her to her dripping, buggy fate, he could just as easily not, if the mood struck him.

In the end he shrugs. Occasionally his whims could land in a positive direction. It wasn't as though creating a simple towel cost him anything at all.]

You don't especially annoy me, and I felt like it. Nothing more.

[She'd stopped looking at this point. Her dipping to look at the fuzzy that was now in her lap. Awkwardly poking at it, unraveling it where it'd gotten bunched up on her legs. Eventually tugging it over her shoulders like a fluffy cloak.

Then why? Did this mean she owed him now? But no, it wasn't that at all. It does get a snort here.]

Thanks. You make that sound like a rarity. [But she'd rather that than the odd pity she got whenever she was suspicious of someone giving her something for nothing.] I think I'm going to be here awhile. [Until these wings aired out.]

Oh, I can be quite magnanimous when I choose to be.

[He just rarely chose to be. But her statement has him nod in agreement; she would be stuck here for some time with her wings damp and her clothes torn. She would probably not provide much more in the way of entertainment- and this seemed like the kind of thing best done without someone watching and making idle commentary about it.

So it's for both their sakes really that Emet-Selch decides to move on, walking past, waving back at her with a distinctive few flicks of a wrist.]

Well, then I shall leave you to your laborious drying out. Do take care.

Aguril catchall

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incoming body horror.

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done

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