There was a hint of a smile bubbling on Mon's features, and Reks hoped to god that he wasn't laughing at him. It was a serious question, damnit! The tips of his ears twitched again, and he crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head. It was good to know, at the very least, that Mon hadn't turned anyone into a cat... and for some reason, Reks trusted that he was telling the truth. He didn't seem like the type of mage that went around zapping people, but, one could never be sure nowadays. Better safe than sorry.
At Mon's question, Reks toyed with the tip of his ear, looking left and right, not really sure how to start. "Uh...yeah. Me. Kind of." His sentences were mere fragments, words chopped up, just like his memories of the islands — they were mere pieces that swam in his head now, a history that he did not want to look back on, or ever recall. "A while back, a witch put a curse on me that's supposed to eventually turn me into a cat— ah, panther — when I get angry. The ears are the result of me being pissed off one too many times."
He let his hands drop to his sides. Somehow, he had relayed the information so unceremoniously, as if he had been discussing the weather, or talking about the soup of the day. It was the first time anyone had bothered to ask about the curse, and it was the first time he had ever admitted to someone that he was broken. He took a deep breath, teetering on the edge of saying more, wondering if Mon even cared about this sort of thing, or whether he should just shut up, stop talking.
Something possessed him to roll up the sleeves of his cloak — sleeves which were a little longer than necessary, which hid the tattoos that decorated his arms. They were intricate, done up in black ink, swirling and twisting up towards his elbows. "As a joke, she branded me with these, too. They put me in a constant state of pain — makes it easier for me to get angry, which is—" He paused to laugh — at the situation, at himself, "all the time, pretty much."
Except now, for whatever reason.
"I guess— I just don't have the best history with mages."
Understatement of the century, Reks. He rolled his sleeves back down, hiding the tattoos, and was tempted to pull his hood back over his head — to hide the curse, hide the shame that came with it. He wasn't sure how it happened — how he put himself out there, made himself vulnerable to this guy, Monnayage, but it had, somehow. He could only hope that he wasn't coming across as whiny. Reks, the delinquent, the mercenary — the last thing he needed to be perceived was as a brat.
