Ichor's spindly, undulating legs shuffle and shift it just beyond the circle of light cast by Rosy Chex’s stall. Damp tendrils strewn from the Ptisilith’s enthusiastic smash-through slowly rejoin the rest of Ichor’s amorphous mass, with a SCHURRRRLLLP! and a GROWLLLLOLLLIP! Ichor's mass begins to twist and bubble and with a slick coalescene it rises to grow into a pulsating, spherical mass with 1,000 rainbow-colored eyeballs.
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.
OOC:
Whoopsie: Suddenly transform into something monstrous.
Take a token from G.'s ? and give it to the Ptisilith.