walk of shame

[galdorleod]

WHO: Howl & Ciel; Howl & you?
WHAT: On the afternoon of the second day of the TDM's events, Howl set out to make good on his lofty promise to take out Estinien. Once he found him, however, things did not go well. He returns at the end of the day with severe injuries, to be found by Ciel and whisked off for healing and rest. For the next several days, he stays sequestered in his room, but don't think he's so upset that he won't see visitors willing to give him sympathy and attention.
WHERE: Kenoma Lodestone (closed); Howl's quarters (open)
WHEN: Approximately April 27-April 30
WARNINGS: Description/discussion of Howl's pretty significant physical injuries; plus there's a good chance of self-loathing/self-destruction/vaguely suicidal ideation. He is a Kenoma after all, and he's having a bad time.

If you wanna plot something specifically for this, you can PM me here or poke me at lazdo/OddLazdo#2470!


CLOSED: for Ciel (April ~27)

[ The day is turning to late afternoon when the magic of a far-off returning stone glimmers beside the Regent's Lodestone. In the next moment, a large, sticky black mass of feathers appears. The Aion buried somewhere inside shivers in shock and relief as he realizes the spell finally executed, but that quick pulse of emotion drops off sharply as the cold floor crashes against the torment permeating through his entire body. And then, gradually, comes a pervasive aura of not just despair, but tangible physical pain, emanating off the broken wizard like poisonous gas.

A few cultists turn from their current tasks to gawk at the monster that is now, suddenly, bleeding profusely in the Regent's grand and austere hall. They glance at one another as if wordlessly debating who should approach, if anyone. Before any of them move, the pile of feathers does; it rises as if trying to turn itself into a pyramid before two distinct but mangled wings peel away from the mass, along with arms and legs. There is no head to speak of, or at least, no protrusion that can be recognized as a head.

The creature turns very slowly towards the nearest archway leading out of the Lodestone's hall and begins to shuffle towards it. It leaves a trail of blood and iridescent black feathers in its wake. The cultists gawk, unaware of what exactly to do, but to any fellow Kenoma Aions nearby, the creature's mind is familiar. This tortured glob of malleable feathers is clearly, obviously the Wizard Howl, and he is not well. ]

OPEN: for all (April 27-30)

[ In the days following his return to Achamoth, Howl has done his best to keep to himself. Unfortunately his best cannot account for the tenacity of the others here, who to his dismay, have somehow already found out what had happened to him. Whether they know the details, Howl has no idea, but the mere fact that people know that he returned to the city in defeat after a day of fighting inflicts a kind of humiliation on him so severe that he cannot bring himself to show his face outside of his room.

Sadly, this has not stopped people from contacting him through communion — or even attempting to visit. Howl can't decide which is more dreadful: being trounced so thoroughly or suffering the concern of others.

At the same time, it is so very boring in this room, and Howl has never been able to bear being alone with his own thoughts. Regardless of who you are, there's a strong chance he will answer your message, and a fairly good chance he will yell back at your knock that the door is open. ]

Comments

[expiera]

[Howl did graciously answer her demand when Ciel proposed a practice bout on the spot after the Kenoma's preparation call, then proved himself adequately when they sparred. There was no denying they didn't part ways on a high note after, however; to him, she was likely an annoying and overly fussy nag, and to her, he was an overconfident and pompous magus - the label said enough on its own. He may not be from her world, but it's far too uncanny all the same, how much he acted and sounded exactly like those Clock Tower Lords.

She doesn't think back on it. With any luck, he won't beeline straight into Estinien, there's far too much to do once the shrines became active to fret over everyone on their side. Whether it be luck or misfortune, she was in the middle of discussing logistics with citadel staff when it happens; someone has returned, and with it--

--The biting smell of iron, and the suffocating pressure of pain and despair that cannot be perceived by any of the five senses. Projected through a sixth one only available to them now as Aions, there's only one possible source where it could originate from.

She's in the selfsame hall within the next moment, issuing sharp and concise orders that have the startled cultists soon moving again and dispersing without delay. Prepare a room, fetch warm water and clean towels, maybe a stretcher if they can find one (or she will carry the mass of feathers herself, one must do what must be done--), bring some painkillers and first aid supplies (whether they'll be used or not), clean the floor up, there's a LOT to be done that no one should be idling about. The mass of blood and feathers ambling onward may not be able to fully register every sound and movement around him, but before long, he will find a figure standing in his way, impeding his crawling advance.]

Howl.

[It's halting concern, coated with a faint layer of both exasperation and disapproval. This (headless) man is in no condition to be going anywhere by himself.]

You're badly hurt.

[Obviously. And just as obviously, he needs to be treated as soon as possible. Setting aside the cause to his ugly injuries, she does respect his will and person enough to not forcefully handle him - at least not immediately, not without giving him a chance to willingly listen and come along. Can he... Even hear her? It takes more self control than she expected, to not immediately whisk him off personally to the nearest empty room on the spot.]

[galdorleod]

[ The hulking creature stops when Ciel steps in front of him, and seemingly in response to her words, he begins to slump. Howl is in there, he's just buried beneath several layers of transformation magic, applied and reapplied in an effort to keep himself from dissipating. Despite how contorted his form has become as a result, it worked — he is still alive.

As cultists start to hurry around him, his survival begins
to sink in. The slump of his posture turns into a complete slump to the floor, which sends the cultists in a tizzy, but does not signal any change in the ambient mood of his mind. ]

...yes. I am.

[ Howl's communion voice feels quiet. One of his long feathered arms reaches up into the battered overcoat of feathers covering his chest to pull out his Shard. Holding his open palm up, he shows it to Ciel. Despite the horrible shape that Howl is in, and the layer of dried blood soiling the surface of his Shard, the gem itself is pristine. ]

Not... in the way that matters, though...

[ The mental impression that comes with this statement is not one of triumph. Yes, he will recover, but after confirming as much, his despair continues unabated. If anything, Howl might've sounded slightly disappointed about that fact.

A pair of cultists hurry over in the same moment with a stretcher. Howl does not move to get up. They're going to have to put their hands on his bloodied body and lift him. ]

April 28th

[vapour]

[ Childe will knock on the door, open and step in and close the door behind before opening his mouth. Even then, he doesn't say a word initially, choosing to silently look around to see where Howl has currently set himself up. The bed is where one would normally assume, but ... that's not as given.

Either way, once the Harbinger locates the wizard, he will approach, a slight crease to his brow as he observes in an attempt to get an idea of what the damage was like. When he saw Estinien on the field, he looked pretty fresh so he's sure it was before Howl managed to get to him, but now he has to wonder how much the other Kenoma managed to do or not do to the dragoon before the battle was called.

It's not that he feels Estinien is any more dangerous than they have been predicting (at least but h what he's been predicting himself,) but he has to wonder if Howl took perhaps a little too much of previous knowledge for granted in how he set off to do things? He's less inclined to believe Estinien simply was the better participant of the match.

That's a question for later, though, so for now: ] Any idea how long it'll take for you to physically recover?

[ As Childe speaks he pulls out a deck of cards, a silent offering to play a couple games while they chat that might make the discussion less awkward. ]

[galdorleod]

[ Howl is indeed laying in bed when Childe enters, his upper body propped up slightly by a half-dozen pillows at the head of the bed (and dozens of stuffed animals strewn all over). The wizard keeps himself reclined, head and body resting back on the cushions with his eyes focused on the ceiling above, as he listens to the door open and shut and the period of silence that follows. Howl can feel the other man's eyes on him, studying him, maybe judging him, but after the events of the last few days, he does not have the energy to be anxious about whatever Childe is thinking. ]

Several more days, at least.

[ That Howl was transformed when he was injured so severely is the only reason he did not dissipate. Even so, the magic he expended to survive long enough to get back to Achamoth and endure the pain — including the pain that comes with the transformation magic wearing off — has left him completely exhausted. And even if being transformed is what saved his life, it doesn't meant he got away without any injury to his real body either. Unbeknownst to Howl, Emet-Selch came to offer his healing powers, taking care of the worst of it — but not all. Gauze wrapped around both of his hands and wrists will make that clear to Childe, but with most of Howl covered in blankets, any other injuries are hidden for the moment.

Howl finally glances in Childe's direction. Seeing the cards, he gives a slight nod and beckons him over with the twitch of a few fingers. Doubtlessly, Childe has questions, but Howl will leave it to him to ask them. ]

30th

[lachtara]

Those who visit the shrines are a common topic of conversation around the city. People talk of new Aions, they talk of returning Aions, along with other tidbits of information. Questioning citizens about what they know would not do given their continued...aversion to speaking with him. Instead, Emet-Selch makes sure to listen from the shadows to anyone who discussed it. It is of personal interest to see if there is any mention of his dealings at the Shrines. Rumors of him meeting Pleroma could not be allowed to circulate before he could formulate a plan and obtain an audience with the Regent.

It is because of this attentiveness that he hears a curious bit of information; something about a boy returning to the city in a withered plume of feathers. Then comes a name. Followed by an adversary. Emet-Selch puts a hand to his forehead and sighs through his nose; It seems that Howl had lost his battle with Estinien.

A few hours later, he makes his way to Howl's room and stands at his bedside to provide the unconscious boy with what healing magic he can contribute. He was expecting to provide some measure of healing but this was far beyond what he thought would be necessary. A grimace becomes clear on Emet-Selch's face - Seeing him in such a state only frustrates him. Stupid boy and his pathetically fragile body, he thinks bitterly.

When he leaves, he only becomes more frustrated. The feeling steeps over days.

He returns some days later with the same cloud of aggravation weighing on him. It could be seen from the sharp look in his eyes and somehow felt as he enters the room. “Oh, it seems that our unsung hero has finally awakened.” Even the way he snaps the door shut behind him seems to seethe with irritation.

[galdorleod]

When Howl called out to let the visitor in, he did not expect it to be Emet-Selch. Now that he's here, glowering at him from the front door, the last of Howl's anxieties has arrived.

The wizard is in bed, shirtless and sitting upright against a plethora of cushions, with a book in his hands. He looks good, almost fully recovered, but the faint traces of bruises still pepper his body. Frowning at the tone of Emet-Selch's voice, he looks away. It sounds like he's about to be scolded — and arguments are the fastest way to put him on edge and drive him away.

"Come to join the chorus in calling me a fool?" Howl asks quietly. He'd started to wonder if Emet-Selch would ever be coming to see him, as he'd undoubtedly hear about what happened eventually, but now he's wondering if he should have let him in.

[lachtara]

The tone he replies with is very touchy. "You are only a 'fool' because you did not succeed. They would hail you as a hero if you had triumphed. Such is the fickle view of men." Far be it from him to repeat the words that others had spoken to exhaustion.

"No, I came for another reason." Emet-Selch crosses the room and starts to sift through Howl's belongings. He makes no comments about the particularly odd ones - such as the plethora of stuffed creatures. "I cannot keep you from making such decisions nor do I intend to. The most I can do is prepare you for meeting the consequences of your own hubris." 

With that, he retrieves a shirt and stalks over to the bed so that he may throw it onto Howl's lap. "Get up. We are going outside so I may do everything within my power to ensure that this does not happen again."

There is a point to having given this visit a few days. That point was a slim margin of recovery. 

[galdorleod]

The moment Howl realizes that Emet-Selch is crossing the room for the purpose of rifling through his property, Howl throws the bed sheets off his lap with pronounced irritation and looks ready to leap out of bed. A moment later, the shirt appears in Emet's hand, which stays Howl's panic enough to keep him in place. But what is the old man — no, old 'Ascian', he should be saying — even talking about?

"Come to lecture me, then," Howl says bitterly. He peers the shirt and does not touch it. Then he peers back at Emet-Selch. So, Howl has disappointed him, then? Like every other old uptight geezer who finds themselves qualified to harangue on how he ought to act, Howl thinks to himself.

"You didn't tell me Estinien could fly." It is an accusation.

[lachtara]

"I did not hoist this fight upon you, Howl; You intended to challenge him regardless of what I said." Emet-Selch counters. "I told you all that I know so that it would help you succeed." He has no interest in seeing other Kenoma fail.

"Ergo, your options are to learn how to better defend yourself and your shard, or resign to the sidelines as support and stay out of the fray." His eyebrows furrow. "The next foe you chase may not be as merciful as the last." It doesn't take much conjecture to draw the conclusion that the only reason he lived at all was through a show of Mercy.

"So I am offering to help you. If involves lecturing you, then so be it." Although it is being presented less as 'offering' and more like 'ordering'...

[expiera]

["Not in the way that matters".

His very phrasing tips his feelings away, the emotional echo of communion only serves to cement the last nail in the coffin of her suspicion. She recognizes that sinking pull just as much as it gives rise to a bubbling sense of frustration in her own chest, and it's not only from how he's been outmatched as she had incessantly warned him about before. She takes no satisfaction in being correct, and while he may have fought and lost, there must have been more than just martial and magical combat arts exchanged to leave a soul so battered and resigned. What happened?

She highly doubts he would tell her, even if she asked (politely) and he were well.]

Please, don't be silly. This isn't a good time for your theatrics, we need to get you treated now.

[She can't quite swallow the faint edge of something chiding in her tone, sparing no more than a passing glance at his Shard before shifting her gaze away to scrutinize his form once more. This man...

Without further ado, she closes what remaining distance there was between them to do what must be done herself. There's something close enough to being man-shaped beneath that mass of jet black feathers she should still be able to handle, she just also wants to be mindful to not further cause him pain despite the pressing need to put him to bed and administer medical care as soon as possible. The cultists make room for them to move, some clearly relieved at the prospect of NOT having to touch or carry Howl directly themselves.

Squatting down to a knee right beside him, she beings with attempting to support him up by carefully propping an arm under a winged shoulder.]

Can you stand? Lean on me.

[She could carry him too, but then he'd have to either lay down in full or get up from his knees. ...No need to voice those options out loud, not yet, not unless he proves uncooperative and leaves her with no other choice.]

[galdorleod]

[ In Howl's mind, this is the perfect time for theatrics. What else is there for him to say through all this? Ciel is right to assume that Howl is not about to open up to her and gush forth with honesty, especially when she was clearly in the right to doubt his ability to take care of Estinien. (There's a earful in store for her, though, about how less right she is than she thinks she is.) Nor does Howl have the energy for as much as the mildest of tantrums. Between his grave injuries and the effects of his prolonged and over-invoked transformation, his body and mind are wracked with pain.

Howl groans woefully as Ciel prompts him to get up, and for now he spares her any commentary. After hefting his weight against her small frame, he slowly begins to rise to his feet, but the other Aion is likely to notice that Howl is heavily favorite his right leg over his left. The wing draped over Ciel's back is similarly limp, being one of the three main sources of Howl's continuous bleeding — along with his crippled leg and a serious stab wound in his chest.

With a huff and a shiver, Howl collapses onto the stretcher as soon as he's stood up enough to do so. The two cultists are unprepared and nearly drop him, but they manage to steady themselves and maintain their hold. In the process of moving, the mass of feathers that is Howl's body seems to change shape yet again, shrinking and stretching out slightly at the same time. When the wizard groans woefully against the fabric of the stretcher and turns into his side to let himself breath easier, the bottom half of a face can be seen peeking out from within a head-like cloak of feathers that has reformed on his shoulders. ]

Where... are you taking me? What are you... going to do...?

[ Howl does not completely trust her to treat him with care, although it's mostly out of stubbornness. ]

[galdorleod]

Scowling, Howl glances back down at the shirt, lacking the courage to look Emet-Selch in the eye as he makes painfully true deductions about the fight. The one and only thing he has not told anyone yet, and that nobody has yet guessed, is how Estinien offered to dissipate him for the purpose of taking him back to the Pleroma. To save him. To Howl's credit in the eyes of his master and companions, Howl explicitly turned this offer down, but the wizard is aware of the uncomfortable deductions that could be made from the fact that such a discussion happened between them at all.

"I would have acted far differently if I had an accurate idea of what he can do."

Despite his tone and defensive willingness to argue, Howl puts the shirt on. He does not bother to smooth the garment down or even tie the rope fastening that pulls the collar closed. With a grunt, Howl places his feet on the floor and stands, but he subtly favors one leg over the other as he does. Emet-Selch will remember how mangled Howl's avian left leg was a few days ago, broken in two places and pouring blood and nearly torn off in Estinien's attempt to break free of Howl's talons. Compared to then, Howl's leg is virtually pristine, but the fact that he's limping slightly is a signal of his recovery being incomplete.

"Well? Lead the way then."

[lachtara]

Lead the way he does.

It's at a slow and leisurely pace; although he is very visibly frustrated, Emet-Selch is aware enough to see that the injuries still have a hold.

He finally stops in a grassy clearing within the Citadel. The racks of weaponry on the fringes of the arena made it clear that this is a designated place for training. Surely, there would be no complaints about making a mess here.

Emet-Selch folds his arms, "Describe the battle to me. What happened?"

[galdorleod]

The two of them walk in silence, but Howl simmers anxiously in his head. Like it or not, Emet-Selch is the closest thing he has to a friend in this place, and yet the Ascian did not deign to visit him until two days after he woke up. And now that he's here, he's speaking to him like he's a useless child — just like Madame Suliman did. Thinking back to his old apprenticeship mistress evokes a mix of conflicting emotions in Howl; she's yet another precious person from home, dead and gone, but their relationship had turned... antagonistic, to put it mildly, over the past few years.

Thinking about his dead world does nothing for Howl's mood. By the time they reach the open training field, Howl is gazing longingly at the sky. He does not immediately react to Emet's question, but he isn't ignoring him. He's thinking about how to answer it. Whether to answer. He's talked about what happened with a few others already, but for some reason he feels a stronger obligation to tell Emet-Selch the full truth. This sense of obligation does nothing to alleviate his aversion to actually speak extensively about the defeat. Couldn't they... do something else? Walk around the city, enjoy a kettle of tea together — something easier, something relaxing...

"He dropped from the sky as I was flying," Howl finally answers. "His attacks caused me to crash."

It is a true answer, but nowhere close to being a full explanation.

[lachtara]

The delayed answer provides some time for his irritation to settle, to which he follows Howl's gaze to the sky. He had seen the boys transformation from a distance before, but it's true capabilities and skills beyond that are unknown. It's difficult to plan if he doesn't know what he's working with.

Emet-Selch glances back. "What did you do to counter him?"

[galdorleod]

"Tried to flee, at first," Howl confesses, eyes still skyward. "But he'd already got me. He injured my wing with the first blow, a surprise blow. After that..."

After that, Howl let him drive his spear into his body. In the process, Howl was able to grab him around his abdomen with one enormous set of talons, and he remembers driving those knife-like claws into Estinien's flesh. And Howl... had held back. He could have killed Estinien there, but that had not been his aim. And that is when Estinien stopped trying to stab him in the chest and started trying to sever his leg. Three severe injuries were too much at that point, and Howl could not keep himself in the air. The blows Estinien landed on him were deep and life-threatening, but that sudden stop when he hit the ground is what really demolished his body.

Howl looks away from the blue above and sets his gaze on the old mage. He looks dejected and tired. The defeat has weighed on him heavily over the past few days.

"...after that, I took a second blow in order to get him close and keep him there. But at the end of it all, I could not keep myself in the sky."

[lachtara]

"Oh, for the love of..." Emet-Selch puts both hands to his face and rubs his eyes out of sheer exasperation. He doesn't even try to hide the frustrated sigh that he loudly emits.

After momentarily grumbling, he lets his hands fall back to his side. "I explicitly told you that he is a Dragoon that excels in close-quarters. Yet your method of handling his offense was to ensure that you kept him as close as possible?" The last few words are in a raised tone of disapproval.

Emet-Selch folds his arms and mutters in a huff. "...No wonder your injuries were so grievous."

[galdorleod]

Howl will not argue. Not because he has nothing to say in response — he gave him the short version on purpose — but because he hates arguing. Arguments make him anxious and test his patience and temper. He simply stares at Emet-Selch, his once somber expression turning cold and empty. Emet-Selch doesn't know what he's talking about, Howl tells himself — he didn't see his injuries.

"Not that you'd know," he mutters. "For someone acting so concerned, it took you long enough to come ask these things. Now, why did you bring me out here?"

[expiera]

[Perhaps some dramatic men will always have a need for theatrics in their lives regardless of timing or circumstance, their death beds being no exception, but there's a limit to that too, one Howl's evidently hit with the lack of any quip even through communion. It's more proof that he's truly unwell, if he lacks the energy to utter a single complaintive thought. Yes, let's save the petty back-and-forth for later; she'll happily welcome it once he's better, for him having the energy and will to sass back again will be a positive sign of steady recovery.

She makes mental note of his condition as she motions for the Achamites to follow her and move along, her eyes remaining trailed on his form.]

To the nearest empty room sufficiently well equipped to tend to you. You wouldn't want to take all this to your personal room, do you?

[All the blood and broken and singed feathers and worse, surely a peacock-like man of his stature wouldn't take well to his personal room getting dirtied?]

We'll start by cleaning you up. I should be able to stop your bleeding and heal up the more shallow wounds, maybe help you with stabilizing the flow of your magical energies too if you would permit me. [Would that even do any good? What made her exceptional back in her world was the incredible amount of mana her body was capable of storing and using, but now that they're in another world, there's no telling how well different systems of magic may mix. She is nevertheless willing to attempt a transfer of magical energies in lieu of blood, provided that it's something that may actually help him and with his explicit consent. How they feel about each other personally has no bearing over her sense of responsibility, she will do whatever that's in her power to assist all allies indiscriminately.]

[lachtara]

Again, this boy complains about him not being present. Ugh. He had overseen entire nations that required less attention.

"I know given that I was at your bedside while you were unconscious." He informs evenly. "I knit many of your wounds back together, but the extent of your injuries pushed the magic I possess here to its limit. I was not able to return because I required rest thereafter." A spell to heal a few bruises made him tired when they had first met. Though his skills of manipulating the strange energy of this place grows day by day, healing such an extensive array of wounds came at a cost.

And judging by the way Howl walks, his magic is far from perfected.

[galdorleod]

This new information makes Howl pause. He has, of course, wondered how he recovered so much so quickly. The possibility that Emet-Selch came at some point while he was unconscious to lend his healing powers had occurred to him, but it was only one possibility of several. After not seeing or hearing from the old man after he awoke, Howl had considered it unlikely and assumed that the cultists or some other person had helped mend his injuries. For him to have come after all, to help him at expense to himself... for this wizard, it's a shock.

Howl does not know what to say, but a change in attitude is plain on his face. His defensive posture softens and he regards the Ascian with a gentler, almost childish gaze, although he is still just as haggard-looking.

"...I see," he finally says. "I wasn't told. I... well. Thank you."

[galdorleod]

My room... [ A vague feeling of amusement, the communion equivalent of an audible chuckle, transfers into Ciel's head. ] ...at least my room would have... my toys, and... my beautiful bed...

[ No energy to complain, but plenty left for jests. And yes, Howl's room is full of toys, and stuffed animals, and trinkets, and dirty dishes, and discarded clothing. Still in the mood to distract himself from his present dire circumstances, he projects an image of the inside of his room to Ciel for her to see for herself.

But, underneath his fake brevity, Howl knows that there's going to be much more to stabilizing him than what Ciel is saying. He's been transformed for too long and pushed the transformation too far. The next hour or so is going to be hell from that alone. And his injuries on top of that... He can't help but wonder if it's alright to let Ciel try to help without telling her what's in store. Howl doesn't know the extent of her command over magic. ]

...maybe... you should just let me die. Dissipate... whatever they insist on calling it...

[lachtara]

In turn, Emet-Selch's eyes open a little wider and he gives a few innocently startled blinks at Howl's recognition - like he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have. He averts his gaze without further comment.

In a calmer tone this time, "I brought you out here so that you may learn to better defend yourself so that it does not happen again. Given that I am a disciple of magic, I thought I may have a perspective that would be of use." He motions out to the field around them with a hand. "Although I need to be more familiar with the type of magic you wield to do that with any amount of effectiveness."

[galdorleod]

The shift in tone away from resentment and towards something more understanding, fostered by a greater understanding of the truth, puts Emet-Selch's earlier orders in a new light. Sensing that Emet-Selch's odd reaction to words of thanks might be making him uncomfortable, Howl looks away, but he is carefully considering the proposition in his silence.

From his recollection, his transformation had not receded completely before he passed out. In his effort to keep himself alive long enough for the returning stone's spell to execute, he'd applied several layers of the transformation on top of the original one. He knows from his formal education — and from his own past experience — that this had only increased his suffering at the time, even if it was necessary to stop himself from dissipating. How much of the spell had worn off by the time Emet-Selch came to heal him? Possibly none, but possibly all of it.

After a moment of thinking, he speaks again. "You are asking me to show you the magic I used," he states matter-of-factly. "I can only assume that by the time you came to help, most of it had worn off." Emet-Selch wouldn't be asking the question so openly if it hadn't, Howl reasons.

Is it a good idea for him to transform again while he's still recovering? He's not sure. He certainly still feels tired. Pushing the transformation as far as he had on that day is undeniably a bad idea, but that seems to be what Emet-Selch wants to see.

Howl sighs and slips his hand behind the untied neckline of his shirt. A second later, he has his Shard in his hand. Affixing his eyes on it, he focuses his mind and envisions an approximation of what he looked like that day in his head — but only an approximation; it's not like Howl had checked himself in a mirror at the time. Two feet taller in height, a hundred pounds heavier, body covered in glossy black feathers. The image shifts once he's given Emet-Selch a moment to digest the first one. What was still recognizable as Howl becomes something more horrible and fearsome: less human, more monstrous, with a hulking posture and an even thicker coat of feathers; two legs lengthened and bent to resemble the mighty legs of an eagle, similarly equipped with the long-toed feet of an eagle and wicked black talons. Accompanying both images are the feelings Howl experiences while under the effects of the transformation, mainly an energetic intensity and the exhilaration of flight, but also a faint sense of dread and guilt, especially when it comes to that larger and more contorted form.

[lachtara]

His eyes narrow to a focus when the shard emerges from within Howl's clothing. The few images of feather creatures flicker through his mind, and he takes a moment to assess them accordingly. Not only the images... but the feelings along with them.

Emet-Selch motions with a hand. "Suppose that your opponent could not fly, how would you have intended to keep them at a distance using this transformative magic?" Swooping at a dragoon with a lance at the ready seems like it could afford a worse outcome than what had actually happened.