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You are Charlotte Fawkins, god-blooded heroine/detective/adventuress/heiress. Three years ago, you drowned yourself in a quest to find a long-lost family heirloom... though nowadays, you're just generally c̶a̶u̶s̶i̶n̶g solving problems with the help of trusty retainer/swarm of beetles Gil and un-trusty mind-snake Richard. Bizarrely, few people seem to like you, though you've never done anything wrong in your life.
Right now, you have busted into a private conversation between Monty and Eloise, and have noted that the black goop oozing from Monty's arm stump is suspiciously arm-shaped.
"Oh!" you say. "Oh, that's a real- is that an <span class="mu-i">arm?</span>"
Monty reddens. Eloise's quirked lips slip into a small frown, and she clasps her hands. Being in a position of dominance, and all that, you see no reason to heed these omens. "I mean- not that it's a <span class="mu-i">bad</span> thing to have a, a, arm. Even a weird arm. Can I see it?"
It's still pincered behind his back. His face is (to put it politely) not quite a 'yes.' But Eloise glances at him, and he glances back, tightens his lips, and twitches the arm onto his desk.
For it <span class="mu-i">is</span> an arm, certainly. It is a long slender twined thing that ends in a hand: a hand with four pointy, inky fingers, sure, but a hand. And admittedly it does seem to be made of goop, but the nasty liquid stuff you saw yesterday has gelled into neat tendrils. It's not puddling on the desk or anything. You want badly to touch it.
«Are you insane.»
No! You just— it looks <span class="mu-i">squishy,</span> okay, and you already knew Richard wouldn't understand, because he's just a little tube of bones and hatred. But Monty's jaw is tense, so you pivot to something safer. "Can you... feel with it? Or is it just—"
"Yes," Monty says. Eloise shifts in her seat.
"Oh!" you say. This is impressive. "And you can move it around? I mean, it's just like a real—?"
After a moment, he taps each of the fingers against the desk. The movement is stiff. They make no noise. "...Not with much dexterity."
"At least for now," Eloise says mildly. Monty glances at her again, but doesn't say anything, and she doesn't elaborate.
Which suits you fine, because you're still fixated on the fingers, which have piqued— which have piqued a—
<span class="mu-i">Your gargled 'please stop choking me' noises give way to a scream as Monty's hand— his other hand, tenebrous and four-fingered— braces against your face. It burns like acid. It is extracting from you a promise.</span>
You touch your forehead gingerly, wilt a bit under Monty's steady gaze, and play it off as brushing hair from your eyes. "...And is it magyck?" you say, before Richard can stop you, or you yourself.
The moment is longer and colder this time. Eloise looks sideways. "What?" Monty says.
You are in control. You are in the dominant position here. (Positive thinking.) "Is it magyckal? Like... a manifestation of your, uh, magyck powers? Or it's granted you—"
(1/5?)
