The fact that Syr doesn't fight him about his disinterest in healing arts would have made Foster suspicious were it not for the follow-up; something concrete, something tangible. Something... that sounds like exactly what he's thinking of.
"Blood magic?"
Just the name causes Foster to perk up immediately. Rather visibly, in fact--his ears lift, eyes bright with surprise and interest.
"I know blood," he says--not dismissively, but with fervour, with intensity, with passion. Blood is the core of his magical structures, the dark, deep pool in which his frame of reference must always anchor. Blood is what he knows.
Curses--
He hadn't thought of casting anything as a curse, had all but forgotten curses existed, so marginal were they to his awareness. But they exist where he's from. They exist, and suddenly he feels pieces fitting together, one or two of numerous, a picture though still incomplete.
But they fit. He himself was born with a curse--a curse no will could have undone. A curse of flesh, of rot, of disease. A curse not of magic, but of fate. A cursed fate. What better cast to his magic, after death, than a curse?
no subject
"Blood magic?"
Just the name causes Foster to perk up immediately. Rather visibly, in fact--his ears lift, eyes bright with surprise and interest.
"I know blood," he says--not dismissively, but with fervour, with intensity, with passion. Blood is the core of his magical structures, the dark, deep pool in which his frame of reference must always anchor. Blood is what he knows.
Curses--
He hadn't thought of casting anything as a curse, had all but forgotten curses existed, so marginal were they to his awareness. But they exist where he's from. They exist, and suddenly he feels pieces fitting together, one or two of numerous, a picture though still incomplete.
But they fit. He himself was born with a curse--a curse no will could have undone. A curse of flesh, of rot, of disease. A curse not of magic, but of fate. A cursed fate. What better cast to his magic, after death, than a curse?