For any goal you might have, there are a dozen different ways to achieve it with different schools of magic. If you have a badly cut up hand, you’d be stupid to do anything but take it to a qualified healer who can patch you up quickly and without any fuss. But when you're reluctant to provide the identification required for such services, you're forced to explore alternative options.

The simplest do-it-yourself method, for those who aren't natural healers, involves a complete lack of morals and a small animal you're willing to sacrifice, but Aster isn’t about to mess with any of that shit. 

The second easiest way—and Aster's chosen method—involves pestering Sable for a couple of eggs, meticulously drawing runes over every uninjured inch of your hand, followed by several hours of excruciating pain. So it's almost as good.

The eggs are easy enough. Aster is convinced that Sable is a little scared of him, which makes sense, but it still always surprises him. Aster has been here longer than anyone, and Sable is the closest thing he has to a friend. Sure, they only ever interact when Aster’s mad about something or Sable has work for him, but… no, actually, Aster is just not a very good person, and everything makes perfect sense. Unfortunate.

Aster tries to at least be civil as he requests the eggs, and Sable hands them over without question. There's a moment where it looks like Sable wants to say something, but he gives Aster the eggs before he spits it out, so Aster doesn’t stick around to find out what. Probably nothing he wants to hear. Sometimes Sable tries to lecture him and other times he tries to apologise for whatever the bullshit of the day is. Neither serves any purpose.

Eggs, on the other hand, serve many purposes. An egg contains everything needed to create new life—well, except for rooster sperm in this case, since they're store-bought eggs intended for Sable's breakfast. This makes them a unique tool for all sorts of magic. In some cases, a tomato full of seeds, with all its potential for growth and life, is just as effective. But for regrowing flesh, plant-based alternatives simply won't do the job.

First, Aster etches every non-fucked surface of his hand with the runic equivalent of 'more of this'. A healer would simply lay hands on him, close their eyes, and be done with it, but Aster's magic is an aggressive beast. The inner calm required to be a proper healer remained out of reach even when he was sedated out of his mind on Quell.

So he meticulously doodles on his hand, then cracks the eggs open and smears yolk over all the cuts. He uses toilet paper to stop it from immediately slopping away, then wraps the whole mess in bandages.

As his hand begins to itch, Aster boots up Mythic Frontiers and starts levelling up his armour crafting skill, the only thing he can manage one-handed in the game. The itching quickly evolves into a stinging, burning pain, but Aster hasn't made it this far in life without developing some ability to dissociate.

Nausea roils through him, and he spends as much time in his bathroom retching as he does crafting armour. Despite this, he still amasses an inventory full of leather armour by the time the game notifies him that Moonlight_Stardash has just signed on. Even through his suffering, the name makes him chuckle. Aster visits the in-game mailbox and sends Stardash the best of his crafted armour. This low-level crap won't sell for much anyway.

A little while later, Stardash finds him in town, jumping around him in a way that is mostly annoying but maybe almost just a tiny bit comforting as well. It’s a strange kind of company, but it’s more than Aster’s had in years.

Aster wipes sweat from his forehead with his bandaged hand. He's half-convinced he'll unwrap it in the morning to find it dissolved to the bone, or perhaps transformed into chicken flesh or covered in feathers. He’s never actually done this before. He’s usually decent at avoiding getting maimed.

Sugar daddy, Stardash sends in a private whisper, and Aster huffs out a laugh. They're wearing the armour he sent.

How old are you? he sends back, painstakingly picking out each letter one-handed. He hadn't planned on asking personal questions, but if Stardash is going to talk like that, he needs to make sure his friend isn't a child.

21. U? Stardash responds.

19, Aster types back.

Stardash continues to bounce around Aster's character, seemingly full of endless energy. If they're hoping Aster will join them for more exciting adventures, they're out of luck. In fact, it’s time to go dry heave into the toilet for a while.

When he returns to his bed, he's surprised to find Stardash's character still faithfully waiting beside his, though they've stopped their hyperactive jumping.

Is it late where u r? waits for him in their whispers.

Aster glances at the time. Just after midnight.

Same! Where r u from?

‘Fuck off’ is the first response that comes to mind, but as he’s finding an odd kind of comfort in being a little bit not himself, he refrains. Instead, he opts for the vaguest answer possible, given that they both know they're in the same country based on their server choice. East coast.

Me too! Claysey.

Aster grimaces. He doesn’t want to live in the same city as his internet friend. What’s the point of internet friends if they’re all up in your business in real life?

Cool, Aster sends back, hoping that’ll make it clear that he isn’t looking to dox himself without coming off too rude. Why he even cares, he doesn’t know. The only time in his life he’s been any good at having friends was when he wasn’t really himself at all. 

Hell, he'd even had a boyfriend then. Thoma. Such a fucking golden boy. But then again, Aster had been one too. Top of all his classes, generally well-liked and affable. Such a nice, unflappable guy. It had been so easy to be that version of himself, but it felt like his soul had been hollowed out. Or maybe just locked away deep inside, hushed down to barely a whisper in the back of his mind.

Stardash's character starts bouncing around him again, and despite himself, Aster finds a smile tugging at his lips. What an annoying little dickhead.