don't talk to me or my furry friend ever again

Low effort canon-divergent RP blog for Quincy from NU: carnival.

Canon-compliant as far as events go, but divergence is that as opposed to Eiden being the only one able to stabilise/contribute to Quincy’s essence (magic power), sex with anyone achieves the same effect. Quincy is also not romantically attracted to Eiden by default, but I’m willing to work for development to happen through RP.

rules.

Don’t be an asshole.

OCs and crosscanon always OK.

Happy to AU Quincy as needed.

Will only write with people above the age of 18. NU: carnival is an 18+ game, so 18+ content will occur regularly.

NSFW stuff tagged #nsfw but not under read more unless requested.

M/M, M/F, M/NB, M/* ships are fine. Quincy’s a top.

Writer is 21+. PM if you have any questions.

Header credit.

Sometimes, Quincy wishes he had the heart to tell Gaea to find somewhere else to stay. He lives too deep in the forest for a regular human to be close to him, deep where the magic is strongest and the essence is high. She’s gotten better at telling what and what not to touch, but there’re certain things that’re beyond a human’s control-- things like when female trees become receptive to their male counterparts.

The system is efficient enough. One tree affects the next, so on and so forth, and it causes the forest’s reproduction to be healthy and regular. On a purely plant-based standpoint, that sort of thing ought to be harmless, but essence isn’t quite so clean-cut. Essence from the forest has filled Gaea from head toe simply because she’d walked down the wrong path, and-- hungry as she is now for touch, for seed-- now Quincy has tied her up to keep her from moving. She does have that issue about trying to get away when things are too much.

Considering the noises that leave her as he does little more than look at her, Quincy has a good sense that “too much” will come sooner rather than later.

His hand touches her belly, palm between her navel and her pussy. To Gaea, the touch must feel blazing hot. After all, Quincy’s gemstone’s begun to glow in response to the essence in her body.

“It hurts here,” he says, “doesn’t it?”

“I’m s-sorry,” Olivine stutters out, the words catching in his throat momentarily as he feels the careful touch to his gem.

Truthfully, he’s unsure of how he had managed to overexert himself. It didn’t seem like anything more than what he was used to in the moment. But then, it must have been fairly obvious if even Quincy had cautioned him to be careful in the midst of their brawl.

Not that any of it matters now. Now, the only thing that matters is the way the large, work-roughened hand feels as it grips him through the thin layer of his clothing.

“Please~” Olivine gasps, arching up towards the hand on him.

Despite his best efforts to keep from appearing too needy, Olivine’s fingers curl into the fabric covering Quincy’s arms. He’s incapable of doing much else but look up at the forest protector through hooded eyes, silently pleading for the other to take as he sees fit.

While this isn’t their first moment of shared intimacy, there’s still a shyness to him. Whenever the subject of his desires are brought up, there’s an inherent bashfulness to him, and when in the actual moment arises, he grows far more sheepish and needy.

He should be more prudent, he knows, but when a man like Quincy is offering to take care of him, it’s near impossible to keep his thoughts pure.

Olivine’s mouth dries, but he attempts to gulp nonetheless as he silently begs Quincy to touch more of him, his hold tightening ever so slightly.

On any other occasion, maybe he’d draw the torture out. Trysts like this are few and far between, and Quincy isn’t above getting what he wants when he has the opportunity for it.

But Olivine’s gemstone glows in unsteady shifts, alternating between bright bursts and gentler lights. The instability of it is worrisome, and he’s sure Aster wouldn’t appreciate his returning the priest to his Master in anything less than tip-top shape.

So Quincy doesn’t wait once he’s given permission. Olivine’s trousers are removed, exposing his already pink cock to the air, but as obviously strained as it is, that isn’t what Quincy decides to focus on. Instead, he hikes Olivine’s knees up with his palms on the backs of them, and as he spreads his legs (Olivine’s easy, so easy) he exposes the man’s hole enough to spit on it.

quincy  says  to  ENDURE,  and  ethan  almost  sobs.  hasn’t  he  endured  ENOUGH?

the  EMPTINESS.  the  NEED.  can  he  not  see  that?  can  he  not  see  how  desperate  ethan  is?  why  does  he  not  take  pity  on  him?  why  doesn’t  he  give  him  what  he  needs?  is  he  enjoying  this  in  some  sick,  twisted  way?

ethan  moans.  he  writhes  beneath  quincy’s  touch,  desperate  for  more.  

MORE,  MORE,  MORE.

if  ethan  was  still  in  the  right  frame  of  mind,  he’d  UNDERSTAND  ;  he’d  know  that  they’re  testing  something.  never  before  has  ethan  been  THIS  desperate  ;  it’s  something  different,  something  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  handle.  he’d  felt  as  if  he  were  on  FIRE  earlier,  as  if  he  would  die  from  the  ACHE,  and  quincy  had  promised  to  help.  his  head  is  foggy,  clouded  by  that  overwhelming  want.  that’s  all  forgotten  now.  he  can’t  think  about  anything  but  the  hand  around  his  cock,  the  hand  on  his  chest.  

are  you  aware  of  what  your  body’s  doing?

head  is  thrown  back,  teeth  sinking  into  bottom  lip  hard  enough  to  draw  blood.  if  it  weren’t  for  the  SQUEEZE,  he  likely  wouldn’t  have  even  heard  him  speak.  likely  wouldn’t  have  noticed  it.  ethan  barely  shakes  his  head  as  an  answer  ;  arches  his  back,  thrusts  up  into  quincy’s  touch  without  even  meaning  to.  he’s  not  consciously  aware  of  it,  the  black  decay  that  steadily  crawls  up  quincy’s  leg,  until  he  asks  the  next  question  :

do  you  feel  me  through  the  mutamycete  you’re  making?

does  he  feel  him?  the  answer  is  YES.

ethan  thinks  he  manages  to  say  it  aloud,  but  he’s  not  positive.  

it’s  not  the  same  as  physically  touching  him,  but  it’s  THERE  nonetheless.  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  explain  it,  especially  not  right  now,  but  he  can  feel  him.  the  mold  is  an  extension  of  himself.  it’s  trying  to  TAKE  what  it  needs.  what  it  wants.

[  GROW.  SPREAD.  CREATE.  ]

it’s  like  a  voice  in  the  back  of  his  head  ;  a  thought  that  isn’t  his  own,  that  he’s  barely  aware  of,  but  one  that  his  body  is  BEGGING  for.  ethan  is  almost  positive  that  he’ll  die  if  it  doesn’t  get  it,  too.

higher  the  mold  goes,  a  couple  inches  at  a  time.  ethan’s  fingertips  are  black  with  it  ;  the  veins  of  his  neck  are  the  same  way.

“  don’t  tease,  quincy,  ”    he  murmurs,  eyes  squeezed  shut.  hand  rises  to  grab  at  the  wrist  of  the  hand  on  his  chest.    “  please  don’t  tease.  i  need  you  …  god,  i  need  you  …”    

Ethan’s mouth doesn’t move, but Quincy hears that “yes” all the same. It’s a whisper in his ear, a caress-- a word underlined with seduction as Ethan and his Mold try to get him to do whatever they want. He’s felt a bond similar to this before, back when the Grand Sorcerer was still present in his life. Feeling what he feels, understanding instinctively what it was that the man wanted of him... Quincy knows that it’s because magic comes from nature, from the earth, and is older than whatever language man’s created to express himself. It’s more raw, more honest, more real.

That said, he knows that Ethan isn’t magic. But his mutamycete, however corrupt it’s become under Miranda’s hand, comes from nature too.

There isn’t any fear in him even as the Mold starts to engulf the toe of his other boot. The parts that Ethan can’t control want to consume him, but he doesn’t know why.

What he does know, though, is-- “You both need me.”

Ethan’s cock weeps under his hand as a rough palm caresses the curve of it, drawing moisture out the tip. The sounds of it are wet as his fist slides up and down, working Ethan’s dick as his other hand reaches up to grasp Ethan’s jaw. It’s big enough it doesn’t take any effort at all.

Fungi survives as an extant form of life. Quincy’s gemstone, full of magical essence, has made him live forever. Surely that must mean something.

“The megamycete was destroyed,” he murmurs, his posture shifting so he looms over Ethan’s prone body. His hand moves at the same pace, in the same deft motions, and he twists his wrist as his grip tightens towards the head of Ethan’s dick in every upward pull.

“You might be the last of your kind.”

Quincy dips his head, lips brushing Ethan’s flushed ear.

“What would you create if you were full of my seed, Ethan Winters?”

ethan  doesn’t  know  what  the  hell  is  going  on.  not  in  the  slightest.

he’d  ended  up  in  this  village  after  following  the  trail  after  the  accident,  following  the  blood  and  footprints.  the  intention  had  been  to  find  chris,  to  find  rose,  and  yet  now  he’s  ended  up  in  this  creepy-ass  fairytale  village,  trapped  inside  this  shack  with  these  MONSTERS  surrounding  him.  

he  feels  bad  for  the  old  man  ;  the  one  whose  house  he  had  first  went  in,  the  one  who  had  handed  him  the  pistol.  the  image  of  him  being  grabbed  through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling,  blood  and  viscera  cascading  down  afterwards  and  screams  piercing  the  air,  is  still  seared  into  ethan’s  brain.  he’s  only  just  arrived  in  this  shitshow,  and  already  people  are  dying.  already  he’s  witnessing  destruction  and  decay  at  the  hands  of  monsters.

not  just  on  other  people,  either.

no,  ethan  himself  has  experienced  it  :  fangs  had  bit  down  on  two  of  the  fingers  on  his  left  hand,  RIPPING  them  off  afterwards.  yes,  already,  he’s  going  through  hell  here.

he’s  trapped  inside  a  neighboring  shack,  doing  the  best  he  can  to  hold  those  fuckers  off.  there’s  only  so  many  bullets  in  this  gun  though.  only  so  long  he  can  keep  this  up.  needless  to  say,  ethan  isn’t  expecting  the  beasts  to  start  RETREATING,  isn’t  expecting  them  to  start  running  outside.  what  the  literal  hell.

it’s  probably  not  the  smartest  of  moves,  but  ethan  scrambles  for  the  window,  trying  to  see  what’s  got  their  attention.  it’s  hard  to  see  in  the  darkness,    but  there’s  flashes  of  bright  yellow  light  and  the  lycans  steadily  fly  through  the  air.  one  of  them  hits  the  window,  thrown  and  discarded,  and  it  startles  him  enough  to  make  him  scramble  back  from  it  like  a  child  caught  doing  something  they  shouldn’t  be.  god,  he  has  to  get  out  of  here.

despite  the  fact  that  whoever’s  out  there  had  helped  by  distracting  the  lycans,  it  doesn’t  stop  ethan  from  immediately  raising  his  gun  as  soon  as  the  door  opens  and  the  newcomer  stroll  inside,  drenched  in  blood.  ethan’s  ability  to  trust  people  at  the  moment  has  completely  gone  to  shit,  and  he’s  running  off  of  pure  adrenaline.  not  a  good  combination,  admittedly.

“  how  the  FUCK  did  you  do  that?  ”      meaning,  how  did  he  fight  them  off.  no  one  can  fight  off  those  things  that  easily.  THAT,  ethan  is  already  certain  of.

the  pistol  is  still  aimed  at  the  man,  but  ethan’s  finger  is  nowhere  near  the  trigger.  it’s  just  a  defense  mechanism.  a  shield.  he’s  SCARED,  even  if  he  doesn’t  even  realize  it  himself.

Of course the man is pointing his gun at him. Quincy doesn’t bother hiding the displeasure that twists his mouth, unimpressed as always with the mindless singularity of human nature (never mind the fact the man’s finger isn’t even on the right place; the gesture alone disgusts him enough).

As much as he’s perfectly capable of withstanding a few bullets, the little animal that rides his shoulder isn’t. So Quincy raises both his hands in as perfunctory a manner as he can around Topper’s concerned squeaking, hating that he has to surrender for something as foolish as a man with eight fingers left.

His answer is simple, to the point: “Magic.” And he doesn’t conceal it, either-- the gemstone embedded in the back of his right hand glows when he speaks, seemingly on his silent command. It lights up part of his face in a gentle, golden shine before fading out.

“You entered this place unprepared.” Quincy’s tongue clicks in mild irritation. “Tell me why.”

Olivine isn’t certain what’s caused this. His whole life he’s managed to maintain a sense of control over his essence. Even at its worst, he was always able to keep it under wraps until he was alone to take care of it. 

He had been good at keeping his levels where they needed to be, and yet, whenever he’s around Quincy, they deviate from their normal ranges.

Olivine’s grateful that Quincy has no qualms in lifting him up and carrying him to wherever they needed and that, especially if helping stabilize his essence is something he’s doing out concern and obligation more than anything else, he cares enough to do it for the priest.

The priest buries his face into the crook of Quincy’s neck as he attempt to steady himself. The acrid smells around him should be enough to ground him to reality in some sense, and yet, it’s not phasing him in the least. Not when he has Quincy’s natural musk flowing through his nostrils. 

A soft whimper puffs through his parted lips, his face flushing further as the feeling of Quincy’s body against his own grows more apparent over the discomfort he feels throughout him.

“Quincy~” he breathes faintly, his hold on the man tightening ever so slightly.

“Yes,” he answers simply. Much as he tries to keep himself controlled, however, the strain of his essence reacting to Olivine’s dries his throat in a way that roughens even speaking a single word.

Quincy focuses on moving. “We’re almost there.”

The camp is largely untouched when they return. It’s a few minutes’ walk away from a nearby river that cuts through the forest, and so the flora close to it teems with life and nutrition. When they arrive, Quincy crouches in front of the tent he’d set up for himself, and with Olivine’s back supported by his palm he uses one hand to pull the tent open.

A bedroll’s already been laid out, of course, as his only priority for comfort goes. Quincy’s favourite pillow sits at the head of it in wait.

Sticking his head into the tent, Quincy lowers Olivine there, and now that he isn’t moving he allows himself a proper look at him: the flushed cheeks, the parted lips, and the near blinding bright glow of the gemstone in his bellybutton.

“You overdid it,” he mutters, which is as much scolding as he’s capable of. With his right hand, Quincy’s thumb brushes over Olivine’s gemstone, and he shudders as his own stone starts to glow in response. It makes him feel raw, like his senses are heightened even more than usual, and given his proficiency with the work, he hasn’t felt this burst of uncontrollable essence in a while.

His palm moves down, and without hesitation it curves around Olivine’s cock through his trousers.

Quincy can’t say he isn’t surprised that Olivine’s capable of overload. The young man wields magic with surprising deftness for his age and experience, but then again, he supposes overestimating someone is just as poor as underestimating them would be.

He’s no Grand Sorcerer. His gemstone glows in response to Olivine’s own, of course, but for all his ability to wield magic, stabilising another Clan member’s essence won’t come to him with as much ease as it would Eiden.

Still, Olivine’s fingers cling onto him, crinkling the fabric of his shirt as his nails dig in. It would be better for everyone if he could take him to Eiden and his special crystal, but...

“I know,” Quincy says instead, placing his hands on Olivine’s to guide them to wrap around his neck. “But not here.”

The deaths of the monsters they’d taken out remain in the area around them like a foul stench-- something dark and impure amidst the magic inherent in nature. Quincy’s already starting to warm from Olivine’s essence running amok; the added influence of their surroundings isn’t necessary.

He picks Olivine up then, and as he focuses his magic towards his legs he propels himself into a dash that has him rushing through the foliage. Topper, seemingly able to understand the situation, separates from him then to forage for food.

NAME: Quincy AGE: Old, appears to be in his late twenties / early thirties

OCCUPATION: Hermit, unofficial “protector of the forest” AFFILIATIONS: The Grand Sorcerer’s Gemstone Clan

CANON POINT: Up to date until Ch. 6 of Nu: carnival’s main story, more or less caught up with Quincy-related event stories

SUMMARY:

Quincy hails from the Klein Kingdom, where the amount of essence in a person directly affects their magic abilities. After making a deal with Klein’s Grand Sorcerer to serve him to his dying day, Quincy was gifted a gemstone imbued with the sorcerer’s essence-- essence that he honed and mastered so well he’s veritably immortal now.

When the Grand Sorcerer was alive, Quincy did a myriad of things for him, with his main job being the protection of a gemstone altar in his territory. When the Grand Sorcerer disappeared, however, Quincy began to engage with society less and less, leaving him a hermit who’d much rather live in the wild with his furry, weasel-esque companion.

Those who live in the forest he protects view Quincy as a foul omen. When monsters appear-- animals touched by the essence that exists there-- Quincy’s own work to protect the villagers from them is viewed more as a sign that “wherever he goes, monsters will follow”. That said, he’s shunned by all, feared by most, and through the years the tales of the “old hermit of the forest that brings death with him” have gotten worse and worse.

“Endure,” Quincy says, his voice steady even as the Mold creeps ever higher up his leg. The way this man-- this experiment-- writhes with nothing more than a palm on his chest and fingers around his cock is delicious, but it’s precisely that that reminds him why he has to be in control.

Another pull of the hand, another bead of moisture. Ethan leaks all over his fingers and still Quincy is as focused as ever, though the gemstone embedded in the back of his right hand starts to glow a faint yellow.

“We want to know why your body is doing this,” he says, “remember?”

At the very least he knows that touching him will stave the ache off. Earlier Ethan had said something about feeling like he was dying. Now he just begs like a bitch in heat, leaking out the slit of his dick and leaving Quincy’s hand positively shiny.

He should’ve known it’d be an endeavour to take care of this man. But Quincy’s never been one to back down from his word.

“Ethan,” he says, squeezing around his cock at the base for his attention, “are you aware of what your body’s doing?”

The Mold around his leg crawls higher, completely covering his boot now. Quincy licks his lips, resuming his stroking as his free hand traces circles around Ethan’s nipple.

arthur  hadn’t  meant  to  get  twisted  up.  normally,  with  his  compass  and  map  combined,  he  can  usually  figure  his  way  out  of  most  places  ;  he’s  just  gotten  a  bit  more  lost  than  usual.  other  men  —  ones  that  are  less  stubborn,  less  headstrong  —  would  turn  around  and  take  the  long  way,  but  not  arthur  morgan.  no,  he’s  determined  to  take  the  shortcut,  no  matter  how  twisting  and  confusing  it  may  be.

a  stubborn  asshole,  through  and  through.

he’s  been  traveling  for  far  too  long.  arthur  is  absolutely  positive  of  THAT,  at  least.  he  knows  he  needs  to  stop  and  make  camp,  regain  his  bearings,  but  he  doesn’t  have  time.  time  is  a  luxury,  and  he’s  still  MILES  away  from  the  gang’s  hideout.  if  he  wants  to  reach  it  before  nightfall,  he  needs  to  find  his  way  out.  it’s  ironic,  really  :  he  had  taken  this  way  because  he  had  thought  it  would  be  QUICKER,  yet  now  he’s  gotten  himself  lost  in  these  goddamn  trees.  yes,  the  irony  is  most  certainly  not  lost  on  arthur.

as  he  walks,  arthur  is  acutely  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  probably  does  need  to  stop.  his  vision  is  almost  BLURRED  around  the  edges,  the  forest  floor  before  him  practically  swimming  in  front  of  him.  everything  feels  unsettled,  as  if  every  single  sound  ECHOES.  it’s  dehydration.  he  hasn’t  stopped  for  a  drink  in  a  while,  and  now  his  body  is  rebelling  against  him.  treachery,  truly.

it  reminds  him  of  being  hungover  :  everything  louder  than  it  should  be,  everything  brighter  than  it  should  be.  

he’s  pondering  this  when  he  hears  it,  the  roar  that  breaks  through  the  air.  that  one  thing  is  enough  to  snap  him  out  of  this  stupor  enough  to  LIVE,  hand  immediately  reaching  for  his  revolver,  and  it’s  as  if  time  itself  slows  down  as  arthur  turns  to  face  the  BEAR  that’s  now  fucking  charging  towards  him.  goddamn  it.

most  bears  don’t  charge.  you  just  stand  still  and  they  go  about  their  own  business.  you  don’t  bother  them,  they  don’t  bother  you.  that’s  the  way  it  works  —  but  apparently  not  right  now.  

everything  moves  in  slow  motion  as  the  pistol  is  raised  and  fired.  one  shot.  two  shots.  three  shots.  four  shots.  he’s  not  even  sure  if  they  connect,  but  he  shoots  them  anyway  and  RUNS  like  hell  afterwards.  it’ll  slow  it  down,  if  nothing  else.  

the  ground  is  MOVING  beneath  him  as  he  runs,  sticks  and  leaves  crunching  beneath  his  feet.  for  a  moment,  he’s  fairly  certain  that  he’s  going  to  be  sick,  but  he  cannot  focus  on  that  right  now.  right  now,  fleeing  is  the  main  goal.  if  he  were  in  his  right  frame  of  mind,  arthur  would  perhaps  notice  that  the  sounds  of  the  bear  have  ceased,  but  in  this  state?  no,  it  doesn’t  quite  register  with  him.

It’s always the guns with these humans, and for that Quincy mourns the bear that moans as it’s shot in the flank. The bullet doesn’t hit anything important by some miracle, but as it lands in the dirt the ground beneath it seems to glow as it teems with life. In this time, with the forest working to reproduce, everything is bursting with essence. The bear starts to heal, against all odds, but at the same time the roots of the trees around it start to creep forward to engulf its living magic wholly.

The human continues to run. Quincy continues to pursue him.

The bear may be out of commission now, but he’s purposeful as he makes noise: leaves rustling behind him, twigs and branches shuffled and cracking as he moves. He wants the human to run away from him. He wants him to run towards a trap he’d set up a few days ago for meat. As he sends Topper away to help him corner their prey, the little weasel-like creature squeaks before disappearing into the foliage.

Together, they create the illusion of predators through rustling noise, and if the human’s got any sense of awareness left in that instinct of his to flee, then he’ll run away from the noise of his pursuers to an unseen depression in the earth. It’s masked expertly by leaves and the natural shade of a tree-- enough to fool an animal, yes, but also a human suddenly overflowing with more essence than he knows what to do with. Sure, it’ll end with the human caught in a dangling net, but Quincy thinks it’s safer to see him squirming and trapped instead of running around a forest in the middle of its reproductive cycle.

He’d felt it before he saw it-- the infection that’s running rampant in that little village. The abomination the crazy woman uses to make nature bend to her will isn’t magic in the least, but Quincy is so acutely attuned to the world around him that the infestation of lycans feels like an ulcer in his belly.

And, indeed, his suspicions are only confirmed once he actually gets there.

He can hear gunshots popped in one of the emptied shacks, no doubt one of those stupid human guns. Quincy’s initial reaction is irritation; his second reaction, upon realising this is a human most likely fighting for his life, is a sense of urgency that propels him forward through the snow.

Topper clings to his shoulder as he moves, his pupils gone wide as magic essence collects in his fist and connects with the ground. It makes the earth around him tremble, and the shockwaves has the monsters surrounding the little shack lifting into the air with cries of confusion.

For years, Quincy has stayed out of this village’s affairs. He realises now that that was the wrong call.

There’s a faint glow with every punch he throws, bursts of yellow energy poured into his fists as bones crack beneath his knuckles and blood is spewed. The monsters that had been in the shack with the human no doubt sense something’s wrong and pour out of it; Quincy picks up one of the lycans and throws it, without hesitation, at its brothers.

In the near darkness, bursts of yellow light appear as punch after punch after punch is thrown. Necks snap, limbs are torn off, and by the time the lycans decide to retreat, Quincy’s clothes are covered in blood. To say it annoys him would be an understatement.

But he approaches the shack, panting heavily as he does. He isn’t empty on essence just yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to visit his altar as soon as possible. After he makes sure the human is safe, anyway.

...even if, now that the lycans are gone, it occurs to him he feels no such human aura around him.

It’s no surprise that the man’s gotten lost. Quincy has been watching him, albeit in bits and pieces, but the stranger’s taken too many turns in a way that he can only call stubborn. Most would give up and try to leave the way they came by now; this is the first person he’s seen in a long time who’s fool enough to want to cut through.

Humans are always so troublesome. Quincy would’ve been happy to leave him be if the man hadn’t just walked through a cloud of tree pollen only a few minutes ago.

He’s probably feeling feverish now, though his body temperature must’ve been high already from the exertion even before the forest magic had worked its wonders. Wherever it is the man’s going must be important to him. Quincy, in all his years living in the wild, can’t imagine what a place like that would be.

With the pollen on his skin, the man’s natural levels of magic are peaking higher than they should ever be in his lifetime. Regular humans can’t handle that very well-- it leads to hallucinations, to heightened senses, to headaches and dizziness, to hunger and thirst unlike any other. Quincy wonders if the man will lose his balance and collapse, but he has to get him out before he hurts himself or anybody else.

The forest wouldn’t appreciate it very well if an idiot died in it.

Just as he’s about to leap from his place in the trees, however, a snarl comes from a few metres away. Quincy feels the inconsistency in the magic around him sharply-- in the same way that regular humans can change, so too can the animals if they pass through pollen. He turns his head in the animal’s direction and the sight of the bear, its fur a deep black with a hint of green in the right angle, makes him click his tongue.