Foster doesn't notice Herbert immediately. He's making eye contact with the... whoever this is, smiling while he tightens his grip. The pressure between his claws crushes the mouse's neck and pushes its head forward, severing its cervical vertebrae. It's already dead, but it spasms for a couple of seconds, kicking and jerking in his palm.
He's not very strong, but he doesn't have to be.
Mice are not very sturdy.
He releases it, dumping it perfunctorily into the centre of the patterned circle he's carved in the snow and soil with his claws.
"Obviously... you need to start by having something dead."
Once upon a time, not all that long ago, he would have marked the points of the circle with candles and then lit them, but he has found the memento mori can be adjusted to his needs. Or whims. This time it's mostly whim. He has marked the circle out with candles, but he doesn't light them. They were already lit a few days ago and have now burnt out, their wicks black and charred. There are twelve of them, spaced perfectly around the inner border.
"But you don't need a circle. You don't need any... any shape. What you need is the ritual. What you need is your symbols. Your frame of reference."
He moves around the circle clockwise, spacing out his steps, pacing himself, counting. Numbers matter; meter can form its own symbology. And, as he paces, he recites a rhyme.
One that might or might not be familiar; it doesn't matter.
"Hickory dickory dock. The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, the mouse ran down--"
On the number 'one,' he has paced himself precisely so that he his steps match the tempo of a clock; he has paced himself precisely so that he's at one 'one o'clock' position on his symbolic, circular clock. He has paced himself precisely so that on that syllable, he draws the blade of a cooking knife across his arm (it was stolen from the kitchen, again), a cut both deep and swift--
He didn't have to go so deep, before, but now if he's too cautious, it'll soak into his fur--
But this time it wells up quickly and bleeds well, splattering over the candle marking that spoken hour.
"--hickory, dickory, dock."
The candles' burnt-out, smoke-scented ends sputter and spark, lighting up anew even as the mouse itself spasms, its tiny legs jerking to kick again. Despite its dislocated skull, it finds its footing, and sits up before running to him.
He kneels, and it clambers over his claws and into his barely-steady palm. He's light-headed, fast-pulsed and bright-eyed, just shy of overstimulated and somewhere beyond merely aroused or awakened. Magic--his own magic--is always a a kind of rush, an experience he would gladly repeat, again and again, however many times his body can stand it.
The only thing that stops him, really, is a want of purpose. And the fact that he only has so much blood.
He doesn't bother looking back up at Tyki here; the spell is done.
CW animal death, self-injury and blood. It's necromancy, okay.
He's not very strong, but he doesn't have to be.
Mice are not very sturdy.
He releases it, dumping it perfunctorily into the centre of the patterned circle he's carved in the snow and soil with his claws.
"Obviously... you need to start by having something dead."
Once upon a time, not all that long ago, he would have marked the points of the circle with candles and then lit them, but he has found the memento mori can be adjusted to his needs. Or whims. This time it's mostly whim. He has marked the circle out with candles, but he doesn't light them. They were already lit a few days ago and have now burnt out, their wicks black and charred. There are twelve of them, spaced perfectly around the inner border.
"But you don't need a circle. You don't need any... any shape. What you need is the ritual. What you need is your symbols. Your frame of reference."
He moves around the circle clockwise, spacing out his steps, pacing himself, counting. Numbers matter; meter can form its own symbology. And, as he paces, he recites a rhyme.
One that might or might not be familiar; it doesn't matter.
"Hickory dickory dock. The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, the mouse ran down--"
On the number 'one,' he has paced himself precisely so that he his steps match the tempo of a clock; he has paced himself precisely so that he's at one 'one o'clock' position on his symbolic, circular clock. He has paced himself precisely so that on that syllable, he draws the blade of a cooking knife across his arm (it was stolen from the kitchen, again), a cut both deep and swift--
He didn't have to go so deep, before, but now if he's too cautious, it'll soak into his fur--
But this time it wells up quickly and bleeds well, splattering over the candle marking that spoken hour.
"--hickory, dickory, dock."
The candles' burnt-out, smoke-scented ends sputter and spark, lighting up anew even as the mouse itself spasms, its tiny legs jerking to kick again. Despite its dislocated skull, it finds its footing, and sits up before running to him.
He kneels, and it clambers over his claws and into his barely-steady palm. He's light-headed, fast-pulsed and bright-eyed, just shy of overstimulated and somewhere beyond merely aroused or awakened. Magic--his own magic--is always a a kind of rush, an experience he would gladly repeat, again and again, however many times his body can stand it.
The only thing that stops him, really, is a want of purpose. And the fact that he only has so much blood.
He doesn't bother looking back up at Tyki here; the spell is done.