Ears rammed back against cream and charcoal locks as Iliad's latest note reached his ears, truly, how the bard could continue to reach impossibly high and impossibly abnormal tones was beyond him. Surely, he'd thought, every time the silvery stallion opened his mouth, it couldn't get any worse. Everytime he was proved horribly wrong, already, his newest and latest discovery rattled through his skull even after it'd faded from existence. He'd be feeling that for the rest of the day. "It's beautiful. I love it. In fact I was you to sing it to yourself every night before you go to sleep whenever I'm not around. To remind you of me." He managed, it's useless. Iliad had caught his tone before he'd pulled himself up enough to give the second attempt of sounding normal a try.
It was a shared trait, being terrible comforters. Nicodemus had never been blessed with that particular talent, a rough shove and a wry joke had often been his go-to before he awkwardly offered a wing in more dire circumstances. He'd hover in the background uncomfortably, an ear tilted ready to listen but otherwise looking like a fish out of water. It's some small comfort that Iliad offers him a familiar brand of concern. He didn't like being coddled, and he doubted that it would ever change. "It's a little early for me to tap into my inner masochist for you." He lamented with a dramatic sigh, as though he was scandalized by the whole idea. It faded after a moment, the necromancer sucked in a slow breath and shuffled as his brows furrowed.
Part of him didn't want to admit it, because if he said it outl oud it would confirm the fact that he was no longer a necromancer. Part of him wanted it to be some insignificant little thing that he and his bard could laugh off and go to a burial site and have fun. Well, wholesome fun for him, not so much for the unfortunate relatives that got to watch their grandmother rise from her grave to do a jig, or chase down some thugs. Or that village he'd royally pissed off by resurrecting the local hero from his final resting place. It'd been funny, he defended still. The hero had been a real sport, as he danced around to the rattle of his own bones. It was a stab in itself to realize that he couldn't do that now.
Not when the spirits were silent, not when he'd nearly caused himself a stroke trying to drag them forcefully to him and found that the hole was indeed real. "It's gone." He offered simply with an exhaled breath. Realizing that his statement could mean anything, his moonglow eyes shifted off to the side, fixated on a nearby patch of grass as though it was suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet. "My magic. It's gone. Like it packed up and handed in some kind of leaving notice, only, without the leaving note." Nicodemus elaborated with an awkward shuffle, feeling entirely too uncomfortable with the confession.
"their speech goes here and this is the color
NICODEMUS
Throw me to the wolves
& I'll come back leading the pack
