Ichor looms. Ichor threatens. Ichor --
At the sound of Monday’s question—Do you ever worry about losing control?—Ichor’s inky body stills and shrinks back down to a shallow, oily puddle, surface rippling with a stuttering shimmer. Two bright pinpricks of light form atop the puddle, their attention clearly on the wand in Gertrude’s hands.
The bright lights contort into fully-formed human eyes. They are watchful, cold, waiting to see which way Gertrude’s heart will tilt under Monday’s subtle probing. After a few seconds, those eyes blink and dissolve. Ichor pools, quiet and alone on the unsettling periphery.
Take a token from G.'s ? and give it to the Ptisilith.