Hyoid

Hyoid's clawtips were scorching, yet not from the flames of her birth flight, but that of the Rot that rolled through her blood. She pressed a claw into the small, outstretched palm before her; disease seeped into the wound she had created. The Mirror did not shirk from her touch, his expression remained fixed for a moment before the corner of his mouth flickered. His eyes, the color of dried blood, squinted. Hyoid regarded him, waiting. "This is a fetching strain of Rot that Mother has gifted you." He clenched his infected hand into a fist a few times, quelling the disease, "Now, you say that you can use it to cure other forms of Rot?" His words seemed to wilt with doubt, doubt that the Guardian had become well acquainted with since returning to the Scarred Wasteland. Her family had advised her that resistance would come swiftly, and she knew as much. The foreign lands seemed eager to force her out as a popped pustule-- No, not the lands. No, that is what they erroneously accepted, the Necromancers, their Council. The land was the source of her power, the very wellspring of Rot as theirs.

"This Rot, if used with restrain, it stirs the natural defenses, recruits defenses that follow like a daisy chain. It then trails competing disease and alerts the body to its presence," she spoke, her voice was gentle, monotone, yet firm, "In this way, it is a map to alternate diseases of the body and rallies the humors towards the invasive pathogens." She spoke both as if she had rehearsed her words a million times and with the passionate tremble of one holding back.

"Fascinating--"

"I would like entry into the Council. I can cure like a Necromancer." A beat passed between them. The Necromancer's jaw oscillated.

"Well, I would hesitate to concur, 'like a Necromancer'. A Necromancer can draw the Rot from the blood, and your tactic is an entirely new approach, but certainly you are a very talented Servus with a special boon from Mother, and I would sponsor your--"

"This is not what I seek. I do not want a sponsor. I want equal standing."

"Hyoid, you are a very talented Servus," he reiterated, "A Servus-- by Her Left Hand-- it was deemed by Her just as the Rot She bequeathed you." The Guardian seemed unsatisfied with his response. She snorted, her breath entwined with disease and black smoke.

"And if I neutralize a virulent Ghoul with Her Rot?"

"If you can Neutralize a ...? Hyoid, you are welcome here, I support your efforts in our territory and your development..." he trailed off, far too curious to halt her. She had already turned from him without a lick of pomp and circumstance.

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