[There's a certain dryness in every letter of that text.
This talk of 'infection', though... he doesn't argue Mettaton's immunity, his lack of blood or organs to be tainted by anything untoward. Magic could affect him as readily as anyone else (and their recent history with the lung blossoms only proved it), and if their dragon had bitten him in such a way as to mark him... it was wholly possible that some other magic had been left behind with it.
Concerning, if not outright alarming. This mark itself seemed relatively benign- even a touch sentimental in feeling, to have some mixture of themselves transcribed over metal. Emet-Selch had never been the one to leave permanent or semi-permanent traces of himself on the robot's body (ignoring the lovebites of a werewolf, which had needed to be repaired). That was just the nature of their respective compositions; he was organic, full of blood that could spill, and skin that could bruise or scar, and Mettaton was not.
(He was retroactively a touch miffed that Mettaton's first response to seeing his magic inscribed on him was to want to wash it off. Neverminding that the idol didn't know what it was....)
Regardless, if there was some other magic afoot, dragon-inspired, it was hopefully as harmless as some impromptu engraving.]
Thank you for reminding me of one of my more irritating deficiencies. You'll wait for as long as it takes. A test of your patience and my legs.
[His legs were fine. Even without teleportation, it's only a handful of minutes later that he's at the door, and returned inside. An outing uneventful, while all the drama was contained at home... though a glance around reveals their dragonlet napping contentedly in the sun, looking pleased as anything about what it had done (or it was just enjoying the warmth). Emet-Selch frowns at it habitually, before plodding onward to the couch and the rectangle reclining patiently upon it.]
Whatever's wrong had best not be contagious.
[He offers in greeting, as his eyes soon land on the design, which seemed that much more vivid in person. Sitting down next to him, he turns towards it, reaching out a hand to brush the very edge of the pattern- not that he expects to discover much of anything by prodding it.]
no subject
[There's a certain dryness in every letter of that text.
This talk of 'infection', though... he doesn't argue Mettaton's immunity, his lack of blood or organs to be tainted by anything untoward. Magic could affect him as readily as anyone else (and their recent history with the lung blossoms only proved it), and if their dragon had bitten him in such a way as to mark him... it was wholly possible that some other magic had been left behind with it.
Concerning, if not outright alarming. This mark itself seemed relatively benign- even a touch sentimental in feeling, to have some mixture of themselves transcribed over metal. Emet-Selch had never been the one to leave permanent or semi-permanent traces of himself on the robot's body (ignoring the lovebites of a werewolf, which had needed to be repaired). That was just the nature of their respective compositions; he was organic, full of blood that could spill, and skin that could bruise or scar, and Mettaton was not.
(He was retroactively a touch miffed that Mettaton's first response to seeing his magic inscribed on him was to want to wash it off. Neverminding that the idol didn't know what it was....)
Regardless, if there was some other magic afoot, dragon-inspired, it was hopefully as harmless as some impromptu engraving.]
Thank you for reminding me of one of my more irritating deficiencies. You'll wait for as long as it takes. A test of your patience and my legs.
[His legs were fine. Even without teleportation, it's only a handful of minutes later that he's at the door, and returned inside. An outing uneventful, while all the drama was contained at home... though a glance around reveals their dragonlet napping contentedly in the sun, looking pleased as anything about what it had done (or it was just enjoying the warmth). Emet-Selch frowns at it habitually, before plodding onward to the couch and the rectangle reclining patiently upon it.]
Whatever's wrong had best not be contagious.
[He offers in greeting, as his eyes soon land on the design, which seemed that much more vivid in person. Sitting down next to him, he turns towards it, reaching out a hand to brush the very edge of the pattern- not that he expects to discover much of anything by prodding it.]