Mixtape Ghost N
Location: The Avalon: Infirmary
Peregrin hadn’t bothered to answer Solomon as she was hard at work, but Solomon was able to spy that her hair was remarkably thick - as in, each individual hair seemed slightly thicker than wiry beard hair, but it was long and straight like a woman’s hairdo. She continued to rub her face against the pillow until it became apparent that there was something flaking around her hairline. Just as the princess walked in, and in the presence of the surgeon, two guards and a member of the royal family, Peregrin peeled off a swathe of transparent skin from her forehead and absentmindedly ate it. “Missssed some,” she hissed, ignoring the scowls of apparent disgust from the guards. Her voice sounded drier than it was a few hours earlier - less phlegmy, and more of a whispery, hissing, wheezing sort of tone. She very carefully scratched her cheek, each finger ending with a thick, black, stumpy but undeniably sharp claw, and regarded the bustling company with a sort of weariness that didn’t just come from exhaustion. She looked bored of the undue attention and very clearly expressed through her body language that this was not the first time she had been treated as some sort of exotic sideshow, and it would no doubt persist for many years to come.
That being said, Peregrin did not seem at all bored with her audience once she figured out who had come to gawk at her this time. The moment the word ‘highness’ escaped Solomon’s lips, Peregrin’s eyes widened and she started to laugh heartily. It sounded like someone was rattling a dusty birdcage, but it was side-splitting laughter of such enthusiasm that even the guards started to square their shoulders and prepare for the worst. She managed, just about, to sputter “another one!” in incredulity in between her giggles, and it took her a while to settle. Once she did, she took long, slow, wheezing breaths and undertook the difficult task of explaining herself. “Lossst ship. Lost-...Prin-ciss. King - Princ-ciss Father - sends another child...to find the fffirst.” Her eyes, once dull from the thick watery lenses of her fishform, were now bright and energetic after shedding their protective film. They were fixated on Brenna. “Did Father want manchildren? He send two daughters maybe to death.”
Peregrin rolled onto her back, the ebony sheet of what looked like hair trailing down onto the floor as she watched them upside down. “Doesn’t matter,” she croaked. “Maybe wrrong. Ssstill, we eat the unwanted. Is-...Faster. Lesss cruel.” The way she talked and sounded, coupled with the way her chest seemed to heave with each finished sentence, seemed to imply that talking actually hurt. She half-shut her eyes and breathed through her mouth as she watched the humans begin to prepare a familiar drink. “No tea. No hot. Only cold,” she stipulated firmly, brows furrowing with disapproval. Then she recoiled slightly as the upside-down face of Solomon filled up her field of vision. The poor surgeon was hit with the stench of rancid fish on her breath and the eerie brightness of her eyes, which could be bioluminescent, but it was hard to tell in such lighting. Her lips moved with his to mouth his name and she seemed to be able to do it perfectly well, but when she spoke she struggled again. “Am Perry-grin. Peh-...Peregrin. You now Sol. Or Dok-terr.” She said it with such finality and authority that, again, she exuded the impression of routine. These things were remarkably normal for her. “Only meat. I hunt. Need ssswim, three times each week. No touch hair. Will bite. No hots, no louds, no brights...Work better in dark.” She listed off her requirements whilst counting them on her fingers, with the careful, rehearsed tone of someone who’s extensively rehearsed it. She just sounded tired. That was the prevailing aura she gave off - weariness on several levels, a sort of listlessness that only broke slightly to giggle at the absurdity of man, and went back to being generally malcontent with her situation.