[He can do it both unconsciously and easily, so easily that he never even realized he'd raised the skeletons in the truck until they came rattling from the back. He's always had to channel through his hands to release such energy, whether it was for healing the flesh or obliterating the undead. How did it travel so far without his knowing? Why could he not feel it?
He folds his arms against himself much like Qubit, his fingers picking at a wrinkle in his sleeve as he caters to his nervous habits. He has no idea how long he spent as the Blight Heir. The final annuls of the Town Chronicler only cover a year and half after his death, but with the way the town looked, it had to be much longer than that before he awakened as himself once more. How much had his abilities changed in that time, his attunement shifting toward the necrotic? How much had they intensified after his passing? Was it possible they were enhanced in some way?
He fidgets uncomfortably, his mind turning. His capacity to heal had always been a gift in life, his true talent -- he'd mended gruesome wounds that would otherwise kill a man, brought back a number of individuals from the very brink of death. He had such a command over his energies that people were almost willing to excuse the fact that he was the cursed son of the Longinmouth line. His only real limitation had been the frailty of his mortal frame -- and it was a severe one, given how his condition tolled his health from the inside and out. His arms would go numb if he channeled through them for too long; the more energy he expelled, the worse the pounding in his head would be, so thunderously loud that it became far more bothersome than the ink that trailed from his mouth, his eyes, his fingernails.
In his final year, he could hardly work for how impairing it was. His body was exhausted, but his energies remained alive, agitated more and more with each passing day. And once he was dead, the shackle of his affliction was gone; his energies were unbridled, unrestrained, and in the worst possible way. The people of Bear Den -- his congregation, his elders, those who had looked to him for help and who he'd known his entire life -- never had a chance, did they?
He trembles silently. He can't think about this -- not now, not out here with Qubit. When they get back, but not now.]
My long-term strategy should be to rend myself from this existence, Mister Qubit, [said so matter-of-factly, as though it's something he's accepted for longer than he's been undead] but... I was unaware I would rise like this. Who is to say the remains of my aura will not somehow manifest themselves as an incorporeal wraith once my physical body is gone? And what humanity would I have left in that form, if any?
[He shakes his head.]
I cannot risk that. Not here, not- not ever again. If there is- if there is any way to mitigate the danger I- that my abilities present to others, I am more than willing to listen, if you would help me.
no subject
He folds his arms against himself much like Qubit, his fingers picking at a wrinkle in his sleeve as he caters to his nervous habits. He has no idea how long he spent as the Blight Heir. The final annuls of the Town Chronicler only cover a year and half after his death, but with the way the town looked, it had to be much longer than that before he awakened as himself once more. How much had his abilities changed in that time, his attunement shifting toward the necrotic? How much had they intensified after his passing? Was it possible they were enhanced in some way?
He fidgets uncomfortably, his mind turning. His capacity to heal had always been a gift in life, his true talent -- he'd mended gruesome wounds that would otherwise kill a man, brought back a number of individuals from the very brink of death. He had such a command over his energies that people were almost willing to excuse the fact that he was the cursed son of the Longinmouth line. His only real limitation had been the frailty of his mortal frame -- and it was a severe one, given how his condition tolled his health from the inside and out. His arms would go numb if he channeled through them for too long; the more energy he expelled, the worse the pounding in his head would be, so thunderously loud that it became far more bothersome than the ink that trailed from his mouth, his eyes, his fingernails.
In his final year, he could hardly work for how impairing it was. His body was exhausted, but his energies remained alive, agitated more and more with each passing day. And once he was dead, the shackle of his affliction was gone; his energies were unbridled, unrestrained, and in the worst possible way. The people of Bear Den -- his congregation, his elders, those who had looked to him for help and who he'd known his entire life -- never had a chance, did they?
He trembles silently. He can't think about this -- not now, not out here with Qubit. When they get back, but not now.]
My long-term strategy should be to rend myself from this existence, Mister Qubit, [said so matter-of-factly, as though it's something he's accepted for longer than he's been undead] but... I was unaware I would rise like this. Who is to say the remains of my aura will not somehow manifest themselves as an incorporeal wraith once my physical body is gone? And what humanity would I have left in that form, if any?
[He shakes his head.]
I cannot risk that. Not here, not- not ever again. If there is- if there is any way to mitigate the danger I- that my abilities present to others, I am more than willing to listen, if you would help me.