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? LET'S SEE, he thought, and reached his magic questioningly for the water.

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.

YES, he thought. THIS IS THEMATICALLY APPROPRIATE. And it was; as he lifted his head and looked around, the idea of crystallizing, bitter-cold flesh seemed perfectly fitted to this cave.

He turned, roused from his pleasant trance by the sound of a stranger's voice. A look around and he'd settled glowing eyes on Hiddenite. "HELLO," he greeted cheerfully. He turned, head dipping down a little to come more to the dog's level.

It occurred to him already that this creature might be a fine recipient of his would-be epidemic. Would it be happy, to experience the ecstasy of its rot? Blessed, to feel the wretched fury of its death throes? Oh--but a question. Distracted, he lifted that great head again, looking around him.

"ANOTHER MAGIC. I DON'T KNOW WHAT. THEY CALL IT ORDER, BUT I HAVE NEVER KNOWN ORDER." Had never cast it, he meant. Had never felt this 'order' magic for himself.

He looked back down. "IT IS GOOD TO HAVE SOMEONE HERE. I AM WICKER, AND I HAVE A GIFT. WHAT IS YOUR NAME--AND WOULD YOU LIKE IT?" He sounded genuinely pleased--and he was. The honor this stranger might hold, being the first to be given such a wonderful, such a perfected strain!

"HIDDENITE," Wicker repeated back, as if savoring the name. "IT IS A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU TOO." He swept into a low bow, one knee nearly touching the ground, muzzle likewise.

He'd remember that name. If this one chose to take his gift, and didn't survive it--or returned to their gemstone to meditate on their wondrous experience--he would remember it. "IT IS SOMETHING I FOUND IN THE WATER HERE. THINK OF IT AS... CRYSTALS. PRECIOUS AND BEAUTIFUL, BUT FORMED OF MAGIC."

He was not lying, of course, and maybe that might make him seem more harmless. More genuine--because he was. Wicker turned, shuffling back to face the pool, dipping his head down to stare into its crystalline waters. "IT IS BEAUTIFUL WATER--IS IT NOT? AS IS THIS CAVE. ITS GEMSTONES. FILLED WITH COLOR AND LIGHT," and his tone was full of awed appreciation.

Pity struck him, concern, and it was quite real. He stepped forward, head lowering down, peering at the dog. A spell? And it had failed? He could see nothing visibly wrong, and wondered what it was; did Hiddenite perhaps carry its own gifts-?

But then, if he were weakened, it primed him for the gift. Ah-! What joyous serendipity! "YOU WILL BE ALL RIGHT," he assured. Although even to himself, he was wondering how to define 'all right.' Head still low, close to the dog, he sent out his cloud of the new and beautiful bacteria. Sent it swirling, churning, and he imagined with wondering joy the beauty it would have shown had it been visible. "THE GIFT," he said, without quite explaining, and pulled back some.

Surely it would be exquisite.

He lowered himself to his knees before V-Hiddenite-One, and then lay himself down--still upright, but on his chest and belly, watching him with rapt and respectful eyes.

"IT IS?" he asked, but he sounded less surprised than pleased. "I WAS NOT SURE. IT IS BEAUTIFUL, ISN'T IT?"

Wicker gazed at Hiddenite almost lovingly. His voice was soft as he answered. "WHETHER IT IS ONLY SICKNESS, OR IF IT IS TRULY LOSS, OR DEATH... GRIEF... IT IS EXQUISITE, IS IT NOT?" A gift, yes. "SO MANY LIVES ARE WITHERED AWAY, WITH NOTHING ACCOMPLISHED. NOTHING GAINED. SUFFERING... FOR NO PURPOSE. BUT YOU-... YOURS IS A POINT OF AGONIZING BEAUTY. YOURS WILL BE REMEMBERED."

He paused, then, looking the dog over. His pain was clear, and a stab of sympathy struck Wicker, then. "I WILL MAKE IT FASTER," he assured him. Rushing such a gift was something of a travesty, but he had no desire to draw it out, either. It was beautiful, but he was not deliberately cruel.

A wash of magic passed from he to Hiddenite, an attempt to make the death... if not painless, at least relatively quick.