This post contains potentially sensitive material:
This thread is by request, with the intention of--depending on rolls--killing one of the characters involved. It will have mature themes, mostly revolving around disease.
Wicker stood quiet, staring into the crystalline pool beneath the waterfall. He was in a good mood--a cheerful mood; this was a new place for him, and he was hoping it might have a new strain of disease for him to play with. Or to mutate. Or to create, with the clarity and cold some sort of inspiration. He would have to create something, and grant it to a rat or mouse. But would he release it afterward? Spread his gift farther? Or was it the sort of thing he'd watch play out, content with his generosity, and then consume? He had not yet decided, but seeing the results of his work was always beautiful.
While he wasn't an outright sadist, he'd never really connected suffering with disease. Logically it was the case, but there was such a wondrous, bittersweet poetry in it all that he'd wandered, doe-eyed and lost in artistry, through a line of writhing Lessers.
Time to add to his arsenal?
He gathered up what he found there: bacteria, as with anywhere; and he inspected it with his magic, turning over a hundred little cells in a matter of seconds with powers his conscious mind would never have been able to replicate. His magic found one, potentially dangerous. Not enough on its own. A Gembound might have lapped it up, swallowed it down and never known what their immune system, or stomach acid, or whatever else, might have killed.
But Wicker turned it over and over with awe, then bent down. He drew it into himself carefully, threading the cool water that drifted down his throat with magic, embracing it. He took it into himself, altering it, replicating it, changing just enough features that it would do what he wanted it to. Rot. Necrosis. Cold flesh; not so much pain as simply death of the tissues.
@V-Hiddenite-One