ORIGIN

Imp had... questions.

First of all, nobody had noticed, it seemed, that he'd gone and snagged a painting of Nemean complete with a bit of male genitalia for a nose--and hung it on the ballroom wall--partway through the dance. Vargas had tried to warn him that this was probably Nemean's party, but instead of taking that warning Imp had pushed his luck.

Well, nobody seemed to have noticed, and that was fine--because those questions were now rising in his mind.

Like, why the hell had Nemean actually accepted his RSVP (he still didn't quite know what that meant)? Why invite HIM to a party? Especially if she wasn't gonna like, rip his eyeballs out again? That thought had given him some pause, but he'd come to realize that she was as much a lazy shit as he was. Maybe she hadn't gone over the invitations at all. Maybe she'd just made Eggbert or Isra do it. Maybe she'd only scanned the list shitfaced drunk, as she apparently was now.

He watched, and listened, leaned against the wall (safely out of puke range) and watching her. Vague satisfaction (she'd suffered, she was still suffering by the looks of things) twinned with equally vague malice: the urge to paint Nemean, far larger than life, puking at a party now ingraining itself in his mind. Yeah-... he'd do that.

But mostly he found himself pleased. He'd pretty much gotten his revenge, now, and... well, she didn't seem all that keen on following up. She didn't even notice him, which was equal parts very mildly insulting and relieving.

Huh.

Well--okay. He'd gotten more eyes than he'd started with, and jammed her in a hole to boil for awhile. Or, at least, he'd helped. Now he was living in a fuckin' Palace as an official artist, and shit, and Nemean was puking on a floor. And he'd been invited to the party. Yeah, it was probably partially a prank--given the way a few elegant dancers were now stumbling and squeaking on the floor. And the fact they'd all been turned into soft-skinned weirdos. But... He could paint better, that way, if the form turned out to be permanent after all.

Imp grinned, and decided his revenge was... mostly complete. One more painting--Nemean throwing up!--and he'd consider them even at last.

There was some faint satisfaction that he'd been right, but it was faint. He'd sort of cheated, having worked with Nemean off and on for many years.

Some remnant sense of duty (she is a traitor) clashed briefly with concern in him: Nemean had always been an asshole, yes, but a carefree one, for the most part. On the surface, anyway. Fickle, malicious, whatever--he wondered if being this drunk was a sign of something else.

Trauma, perhaps. Like that of boiling alive for months.

"Congratulations," he began. "It is good to see you out." Polite, non-committal--not that the drunk Master would remember him even being here, anyway, once she'd sobered up.

Vargas quickly sidestepped the tiny spray of fairy vomit. His steps honked, and he blinked--and looked toward the sudden cacophony of squeaking steps stumbling from his side. Obieth was staring into her drink, and Vargas (mildly irritated by her proximity) took some satisfaction in Nemean's aim before turning to wander off.

His mind was on his work. He had questions about Nemean, questions only one person could really answer and that person was not here. So for now he'd leave well enough alone--leave the fairy to her games, and go find something else to do for as long as this transformation lasted.

His was a delicate dance, and one he preferred not to make with honking footsteps.

Fahl had never had to do too much to hide his emotions. That was the advantage of being a reptile: rigid scales prevented more than the most basic expressions of joy and annoyance. The mere act of refusing to fidget in place could keep anyone from catching onto the presence of nerves, and even though he'd been "gifted" with a colorful hide, it took attentiveness to connect hues and shades to the complex thoughts brewing beneath the surface. These stripped away from him and replaced by soft skin that creased and stretched, this privacy could no longer be naturally achieved. A frown easily thinned lips, eyebrows furrowed to etch lines between them, and nostrils flared in an instant as he registered the impossible being flying overhead.

Nails dug into palms, knuckles paling, at the sight of someone who certainly should not be here. The clenched fists tightened further once she loosed a foul spray of vomit. Drops spattering onto clothes broke him out of frozen disbelief, and he reeled backwards, face contorting in obvious disgust. Taken so off guard by Nemean's appearance, not much commentary could be offered at first other than spluttering confusion.

"What the—" He flailed and desperately tried to brush the bits of throw up off him. "Shit!" Fingers only succeeded in smearing the gross bodily substance all over rainbow fabric.

Hands flapped, and Fahl spun, honks chorusing with every step, to dispel the awful stench clinging to him. Once this also proved a failure, not soon after he directed a glare above. The very real sensation he was afflicted with made clear this was no trick of the light or a delusion imposed onto the masses. That knowledge destroyed any amount of decorum he might have possessed in his awkward fleshy state, unfiltered rage spilling through opened floodgates and drowning it out.

"You... scum-sucking... piss-guzzling... flittering fuckwad!" Scalp feeling like it was on fire, Fahl buried his fingers into spiked hair and tugged on its roots. Despite having just begun, his throat was already going hoarse, each word a struggle to force past tensed muscles. "Should've stayed in the mud puddle your... puke-spewing ass! Crawled out of! How? How the? Fuck!"

And that was the question, however inarticulately he'd phrased it: How?

Farina and Artio had trapped her. He'd not been there to personally witness it himself, but he'd heard as much. No way would he dare consider Imp's recounting of events to be inaccurate. So what force would deem fit to go over the heads of two Masters to unleash what they had called a betrayer to menace everyone all over again?

One of those Hands he'd been told about? The Creator who Aquarian had mentioned in his melodramatic fit, perhaps more forgiving of her than their other underlings had been? Someone else, another shadowy figure too powerful for him to deal with, capable of turning him into a bloody stain on the ground with a simple roll of their eyes?

Nothing good could come of this. If she was out, others needed to be warned. The last thing he wanted was for some gullible Gembound to fall prey to her sadistic games. Or, more frustratingly, Nemean deciding she needed more than one set of eyes for souvenirs.