#Also just so you know my Gale has an arm that's ravaged by the netherese orb and it bleeds often--especially when he casts too much

[recitedemise]

It's cruel how fate works. When one errs so terribly, wrongs in a way that cuts thorough to bone, they would feel it only in the beating of their heart--but to see it, touch it, is twice as hard. He looks down to his hand, blight-bitten flesh devastated and gnarled. Having casted those spells, his body yowls in protest, and wrapping with care the cracks in his skin, Gale wears, boasts, and bleeds his faults. Curling his hand, blood oozes midnight out his fissures. Smelling the faintest hint of springtime, the wizard at last jolts. Oh!

"Rather light on your feet aren't you?" he startles, looking up from his work. There she stands. Noonlight drapes her in a drusy shawl, and upon the swell of her cheeks, posies vibrant in their color ooze like honey. Quickly, Gale studies her for any wounds left ghastly by those treacherous druids, before finally, quietly, he stops rolling his gauze. "I suppose all the better to avoid trampling those first stubborn growths of the season," he jokes. "I'm flattered, though I'd hardly call myself some delicate orchid. Do try not to sneak up on me. You look well--all things considered."

@appleyed.