Normally, Herbert would have been in no danger. Normally, Foster is subservient by default--by force of his own will, he remains in his place even despite the foolishness and negligence of those around him. Normally, he never would have dared to touch another person. Or their tie.
But the tie slips between his claws, and he has to catch himself--in more ways than one, because the dizziness and nausea rise swiftly, lurching up in him as he grabs the edge of the bed instead, eyes on Herbert until the last second, when he narrowly avoids throwing up right onto the floor.
Even with disaster (or at least regurgitation) avoided, though, the inside of his head is ringing. No, screaming, a wailing unitone like a siren, growing higher and higher and louder and more distant, and he briefly feels an increased density inside of his skull, which subsides only partway in the next second, leaving him feeling... stranger, but somehow more present.
"You need... you need my brain," he manages, and in speaking, he opens his mouth; in opening his mouth, saliva stretches between his upper teeth and his bottom lip, hanging in a string from that latter same.
"My brain, without me? The brain... the brain is rot, the brain is rot and you want the rot without the rotting?" It's kind of impressive that he hasn't fallen off the bed, because he's looking strangely drawn and pale. He sucks some of that spittle back into his mouth, but it just makes his words... wetter. "I am my disease," he spits. "I am my disease, I am my disease, there is no brain, no brain without disease, no brain without rot--"
no subject
But the tie slips between his claws, and he has to catch himself--in more ways than one, because the dizziness and nausea rise swiftly, lurching up in him as he grabs the edge of the bed instead, eyes on Herbert until the last second, when he narrowly avoids throwing up right onto the floor.
Even with disaster (or at least regurgitation) avoided, though, the inside of his head is ringing. No, screaming, a wailing unitone like a siren, growing higher and higher and louder and more distant, and he briefly feels an increased density inside of his skull, which subsides only partway in the next second, leaving him feeling... stranger, but somehow more present.
"You need... you need my brain," he manages, and in speaking, he opens his mouth; in opening his mouth, saliva stretches between his upper teeth and his bottom lip, hanging in a string from that latter same.
"My brain, without me? The brain... the brain is rot, the brain is rot and you want the rot without the rotting?" It's kind of impressive that he hasn't fallen off the bed, because he's looking strangely drawn and pale. He sucks some of that spittle back into his mouth, but it just makes his words... wetter. "I am my disease," he spits. "I am my disease, I am my disease, there is no brain, no brain without disease, no brain without rot--"
Another ragged breath--
"I am the rot!!"