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So maybe the masks were a mistake.
Scar rolls over in bed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His teeth ache in a bone-deep, nagging sort of way, and it’s going to drive him right out of his head.
He’s not even entirely sure it was the masks that did it, is the thing. He just doesn’t know what else it could possibly be. He’s been running over the past few days in his head endlessly, but he can’t draw up a single other thing out of the ordinary- other than the little digression with Cub, all he’s been doing is building, and it’s not like terraforming has ever given him blinding toothaches before.
No, the only thing that makes sense is the masks. Which, okay, maybe they should’ve been more careful with magical artifacts, or whatever, but really, as curses go, this feels downright unnecessary.
He bites down too hard on the inside of his cheek and tastes blood. Copper floods the inside of his mouth. He screws his face up out of habit alone before his mind catches up and he realizes-
It doesn’t taste… bad?
He pauses, momentarily distracted from the ache by the sheer novelty of it, and pokes at the injury with his tongue. It tastes nearly sweet, and he realizes abruptly that he’s hungry. That’s weird, isn’t it? He just had a baked potato before lying down, figuring something soft would be best for his hurting teeth. He shouldn’t be hungry already, but he feels like he hasn’t eaten all day.
It’s so nagging he tries automatically to push himself out of bed to go find something else to eat, but the way his head spins when he reaches a sitting position puts an immediate end to that notion.
Huh. Maybe he should call somebody. Maybe there’s something really wrong.
His teeth hurt, and he goes to resume chewing on his torn cheek again but flinches at the pain. For lack of anything else, he bites down on the corner of his pillow instead, and it helps, a little, alleviating some of the pressure that seems to be building inside his skull.
What he needs, it almost feels like, is one of those rubber teething toys for babies- and as soon as the thought crosses his mind it gives him pause. He’s not- teething. He got all his grown-up teeth years and years ago! Whatever this is, it’s not that. He’s just sick. Or cursed. Cursed is more likely.
But then again, you never know what you’ll get, with curses-
Almost against his will, Scar reaches up to poke at one of his incisors.
It wiggles.
“Ohhhh no,” he says aloud, slightly muffled by the fingers in his mouth as he prods the tooth back and forth. It’s definitely loose. It’s definitely, obviously loose, not quite ready to fall out on its own but clearly getting there.
Curse that makes your teeth fall out is… nasty, definitely. Maybe something he can counter? Hopefully. He does like having teeth.
And the pressure in his jaw isn’t going away. Which then, of course, raises the next question- are his teeth falling out because there’s something growing in behind them?
Well. Only one way to find out. And Scar has never been accused of being a cautious man. Either this will be something he can fix, or it won’t. Either way, he’ll deal with it. (Right?)
He pinches his sheet between his fingers to get some grip, grabs the loose incisor, and pulls.
It comes free immediately, barely any force needed at all, and the pressure inside his head lessens- just a smidge, but enough to be noticeable. He stares at the tooth in his hand for a moment in the dull light of the room, rolling it in his palm. Something about it transfixes him. Perfectly good human tooth! Served him well for years and years. And now it’s just in his hand, useless.
And then he sets the tooth down, and reaches up to feel for the opening where it once was.
The gap didn’t stay empty long, it seems. The tooth that’s there now is long and deadly sharp, slightly serrated on the edges. When he presses a finger against its point, the bead of blood that wells up makes his mouth flood with saliva.
Hm. Okay. Okay okay okay. There might be more dimension to this curse thing than he first thought. Who’s panicking? Not him. He has everything so under control. He closes his mouth hard, which is a mistake, because everything jostles harshly at the movement and he feels several teeth knock themselves out of alignment with little jolts of pain.
Okay.
There’s a choice to make here. He can, uh… pull out the rest of his teeth, let the horribly sharp and dangerous-looking replacements that are wanting to grow in behind them take their places, and then figure things out from there. Or he can stop messing with things right now and see if he can mess together a potion or spell or something to solve for and counter ‘loss of humanity’ before things get any worse.
Maybe he’s being dramatic about that! Maybe. But the thing is, it’s not just the teeth. The teeth, he can tell now, are just a symptom of something that might be a lot more consequential, and lot more fundamental.
But the other thing is… he’s hungry. He can still taste his own blood in his mouth, and he has to swipe at his lips with a sleeve and swallow hard to keep from drooling.
And he’s not going to be able to eat until he gets this whole teeth thing sorted.
He thinks about it. But not for very long.
The thing about the path of least resistance is that sometimes resistance is just hard.
There’s a wooden bowl on his nightstand, and he drops the teeth into it one by one as he pulls them free. Each one comes away easily, like it was already hanging by threads. In a way, it makes him feel better, evidence that any attempts at trying to roll back the clock on whatever was happening inside his body would have been doomed from the start.
By the time he’s done, his mouth tastes like blood and is full of knives, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. He closes his mouth carefully, feeling the way the teeth slot together strangely, jaggedly.
It occurs to him that this might, potentially, do a number on his ability to sell people things. He’s always relied somewhat on the strength of his salesman’s grin.
He runs his tongue along the inside of his new teeth and is reminded, again, about the blood. Almost absentmindedly, he pokes his index finger between his teeth, lets them rest lightly over the first knuckle.
Unlimited-respawn server, and all. What if he just…?
The bone crunches between his teeth like balsam wood, splinters that are inconvenient but not nearly enough to distract from the rush of blood and meat that floods his mouth. His hand hurts, obviously, also, but that’s a secondary concern. He swallows, and the gnawing hunger abates, a little.
Hmm! Today sure is a day for discoveries, it seems. Or- tonight? He’s not really sure how long it’s been, now, since he went to bed early with a toothache. He doesn’t feel tired anymore, though, even though he has the sense it’s still somewhere in the middle of the night. He feels downright invigorated.
He should go find somebody. Surely there’s gotta be some hermit awake at this time of night, caught up in working on the season’s project. Maybe they’ll be willing to do him a favor, even.
He’s still very hungry.