[Mithra is in his usual attire on a couch somewhere in the castle. The furniture is still, forgiving and cooperative in the absence of his attempt at sleeping, as he sits with a deep scowl and angry streaks of red all over his body.
He touches his cheek where an especially ugly burn snakes down the curve of his jaw and the length of his neck. It fades with the press of his palm and a pulse of magic, raising healthy skin back into place in a matter of seconds, and it's as if nothing ever happened. Even so, Mithra brings his hand up, baring a forearm burned raw, and cards his fingers through his hair with his eyes narrowed in displeasure.]
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He touches his cheek where an especially ugly burn snakes down the curve of his jaw and the length of his neck. It fades with the press of his palm and a pulse of magic, raising healthy skin back into place in a matter of seconds, and it's as if nothing ever happened. Even so, Mithra brings his hand up, baring a forearm burned raw, and cards his fingers through his hair with his eyes narrowed in displeasure.]