He's rather lacking in details about the dragon thing ... about almost all of it, really; it had been offered as a point of comparison for what they might be going into shortly after they'd arrived here and little more. His future self had not seen fit to divulge exactly how much of that simulation involved rampant sex in all those strange forms.
Probably for the best. Anything that looked like it might head that way was a fantastic way to get him to immediately retreat, out the door or into his room. They were all allowed to do as they pleased, but he wasn't going to hang around to overhear any of it. He'd only been there for part of that town hall meeting, had missed that part as well but it had been explained afterward and found little consolation in it. They'd all know what lies beneath looking normal. "..but we won't be." They'll be monsters, wearing human appearances.
The long incision at least only felt like an incision and not a deep wound, dulled by cold a bit and moreso by the cup sitting off to one side; it still absolutely hurts, but it's ignorable, well within his tolerance. Surface level pain was better than muscle deep or bone deep, but it's still messy, brighter fresh blood mingling with the older and darker clots formed over several days and now jarred loose. It's easier to tell what sensations come from his back and what come from the wing being worked free by degrees, bloody little pins pulled upright in some unconscious effort to fluff against the cold and getting nowhere with it. And being able to feel it so distinctly from the cut scales is somehow worse than the wound itself, not because of pain but its indelible, inescapable marking of something he won't be able to hide. Won't be able to pretend isn't there, or continue to delude himself that he was in spite of all appearances, still human. The hitch in his breathing is subtle, squashed into regularity as best he can, but the tremor's back.
Through gentle nudging and massage, working the 'wrist' free of its scaly prison seems to be key to getting the rest out smoothly, for once it gets loose, long clawed not-fingers tightly curled as possible with so little coordination to try to prevent more damage, the rest slides free in a bloody smear, the still-trapped counterpart instinctively trying to follow the motion but still trapped where it was in another rolling distortion of hide and scale. When the feathers actually come in, by those little pinfeathers, the limb won't look so grotesquely deformed, might even cover most of the handlike structure and render it all a little less hideous. Right now though, a specimen jar might be better suited for something so ungainly looking.
no subject
Probably for the best. Anything that looked like it might head that way was a fantastic way to get him to immediately retreat, out the door or into his room. They were all allowed to do as they pleased, but he wasn't going to hang around to overhear any of it. He'd only been there for part of that town hall meeting, had missed that part as well but it had been explained afterward and found little consolation in it. They'd all know what lies beneath looking normal. "..but we won't be." They'll be monsters, wearing human appearances.
The long incision at least only felt like an incision and not a deep wound, dulled by cold a bit and moreso by the cup sitting off to one side; it still absolutely hurts, but it's ignorable, well within his tolerance. Surface level pain was better than muscle deep or bone deep, but it's still messy, brighter fresh blood mingling with the older and darker clots formed over several days and now jarred loose. It's easier to tell what sensations come from his back and what come from the wing being worked free by degrees, bloody little pins pulled upright in some unconscious effort to fluff against the cold and getting nowhere with it. And being able to feel it so distinctly from the cut scales is somehow worse than the wound itself, not because of pain but its indelible, inescapable marking of something he won't be able to hide. Won't be able to pretend isn't there, or continue to delude himself that he was in spite of all appearances, still human. The hitch in his breathing is subtle, squashed into regularity as best he can, but the tremor's back.
Through gentle nudging and massage, working the 'wrist' free of its scaly prison seems to be key to getting the rest out smoothly, for once it gets loose, long clawed not-fingers tightly curled as possible with so little coordination to try to prevent more damage, the rest slides free in a bloody smear, the still-trapped counterpart instinctively trying to follow the motion but still trapped where it was in another rolling distortion of hide and scale. When the feathers actually come in, by those little pinfeathers, the limb won't look so grotesquely deformed, might even cover most of the handlike structure and render it all a little less hideous. Right now though, a specimen jar might be better suited for something so ungainly looking.