He’d known what it was like to get carved up—it was merely part of life for a swordsman, after all. But this pain…it’s as though someone had taken a knife to him and written a crude message over his skin, and it’s nothing that he can comprehend with how the pain numbs him, and then…

And then there’s heat, blooming from that same spot. He feels a strong urge to tear off his clothes, if only to see what mark has been placed upon him, but some part of himself still unaffected by that magic keeps his hands firmly at his sides, clutching at chunks of earth and foliage in an attempt to make him forget just how nice it would be if he’d bared himself, let himself cool off a little with the maddening heat of his clothes out of the way…

“Drop it,” he grates out, not bothering to elaborate if he means Serpico’s weapon or his feeble protests. Does it matter anyway? They’re both doomed to a slow, agonizing death, with whatever that poison fog is clouding up his senses, setting his nerves alight. His legs feel heavy; he can barely even feel them as he attempts to rise to his feet, before stumbling to his knees before Serpico instead.

“Gods,” he mutters in a shaky voice, the word coming out like a curse. “What…What’s happening?”