A flash of pointy teeth illuminated Micor's vision, and the deed was done as quickly as it started. The lizard looked down his chest cursing silently to himself. This filthy dryad tricked him not once but twice!

 Not only did she manage to somehow temporarily disable the mental connection between him and his artificial legs causing him to trip into the wet dirt, unable to stand up again. No, not only that. But she also set a darn speasel on him, promising with her lying wooden mouth, that it wouldn't hurt and it would be the only right way. 

Sure, the right way is to let it dig its fangs into my lungs. Perfect!

Micor looked down at the speasel, an absurdly long rodent with razor-sharp teeth and claws. 

That beast was now cowering on his chest, covered in the blood gushing out of his lung. He coughed and his vision became blurry.

Yep...that's a mortal wound...perfect. Is that your big plan you heretic guardian of the green? Killing an unimportant scout of peace? Bravo...bravo.

Then something else started advancing. Curious about what exactly illuminated now his vision, Micor ignored the numbing pain and looked down his chest once more. The speasel was now glowing red, nearly spectral in appearance. Suddenly its spirit burst out of the animal's mortal coil and rushed in circles through the sky. Micor saw his blood following the rogue spirit eventually catching up and tainting the spectral being cardiac. Micor knew what was happening and he groaned in a mixture of pain and anger.

Exactly how Vulpes described it. This is the beginning of a misfortunate rite of getting taken by the malicious spirit of the Veil. Heh...eighter I bleed out first or I survive and have to continue living as one of them...a taken...Love it! There are options in my way to early demise. Great!

As his vision grew darker and darker his very soul suddenly screamed up in pain. Micor's very essence burned up and a taunting voice dug itself into his mind.

<Mine! Mine! Mine! Finally sweet completion! Finally a true body!> The voice echoed in his soul and stuck at everything it came in contact with.

Micor completely forgot that he was still bleeding out overwhelmed by the pain induced by the hostile takeover of this spirit seeking a symbiotic partnership...seeking to snuff out his very self. A torrent of artificially created guilt was trying to subdue Micor and it would have succeeded for sure if not for a sudden intervention of the dryad, who was still kneeling in disbelief at his feet. Micor witnessed the flickering of yellow glowing spectral clocks dancing around the intruding spirit holding it in place. Time froze for the evil symbiote and Micor used the opening to push back the guilt freeing his soul from the shackles of imprisonment. In a wave of pure anger resonating from deep within his body, he channelled all his happy memories to empower his presence. People worth fighting for!

Pencari! Bors! Vulpes! My dear family! I will not leave any of you tonight in this nightly downpour. I will vanquish the intruder and return to Scamall! For I am Micor Havenborn! Vigor! Give me the strength and fiery determination to not end up as a husk of myself; a conduit of my intruder's hatred! 

And it worked miraculously. When the clocks vanished setting the spirit free once more, Micor squashed the intruder like the filthy fly it was. Traces of the vanquished soul of the speasel splattered in all directions; minuscule traces set themselves deep into his soul, and Micor felt every impact like a needle awakening something within the design of his.

I did it...I guess. Nothing feels right, but at least I am still me. But that pain? Micor opened his bloodshot eyes; his formerly lime-green eyes sparked faintly through the darkness. Right...still bleeding out...

He was about to give in to the pain and the lack of air clouding his mind as the worried face of the dryad appeared directly over him, green threads of calm arcane energy flowing drowsily through the air. Each eye of the forest guardian burned like a storm fire; out of the pitch-black eyeholes glowed the soul of the Arcadian.

Wait...one green eye and one yellow eye? But the eyes of a dryad are the gateway to their soul...souls? And why is she angrily talking to herself? That looks like...yes...like a dispute. 

Focussing his fleeting prowess, Micor concentrated his everything trying to hear the dryad's muttering. If he would die here, then at least only after getting to know the why:

"(...) for serious, Aetas? You did know about Sparky's intervention? Why the hell have you not told me that? Why have I trained a speasel to prevent exactly that? Tell me that you god of dorks! Why have you lied to us?"

The yellow eye burned up in a flash flickering hastily:

"I assure you, Videns...everything is working as intended. With my intervention, our key managed to silence 'Sparky'...temporarily. His suddenly burning bright soul splattered traces all over the place...not a clean conclusion I am afraid. But that is needed. He needs -"

"Needs to suffer!? What are you playing here? I would have never agreed with your plan if the lizard's mental health would be at stake! Why even him of all? Neither Furor nor I know what your game is? You and Speclux are plotting within our bodies but without our inclusion. If you don't give answers soon, we will quit being your acolytes! I never signed up in the game of ruining lives with the snap of a finger. (...)"

The entire conversation Micor witnessed through a green mist that grew thicker with every second passed. He was only able to comprehend single words but knew that there were indeed more than one being in her. That thought of his needed minutes to process and never got finished thinking before his mind stood still; Frozen...

Dry hay...a woolly warmness...finally peace. Then the spirits of life returned back into Micor and he panicky opened his eyes, looking around searching for the dryad. I have questions, woman! But nobody was there.

The scout was laying on a makeshift bed made out of dry moss inside a shallow cave near the road. He looked down at the place, where the speasel penetrated his lung. Why can I respire freely? I should struggle to even catch a bit of air. and laid eyes on a thick bandage covering his azure scales. He immediately knew that the bandage served no purpose...there was no wound. Micor put up the loosely bound bandage expecting the nasty wound a Speasel would cause, but there was...nothing as expected. Not even a trace of blood nor a scar; not even a discolouring of his chest scale. He stood up, confused My legs are working as well? No delay or anything indicating an earlier shutdown. Have I dreamt that all?

"No, that can't be true! It all felt so real.. . Was the dryad a construction of my mind as well? But why the bandage then? I haven't drunk anything in the past few days? It cant be the result of a party gone haywire...wait, I know!"

It was a Speasel in his dreams, that's for sure. This would mean that . . . Sparkmage! How do they cast stuff again?

"Snipping! Right. I knew reading that book would come in handy eventually. Alright, Micor. Try to snip and if nothing happens it was all a dream. Ready old pal? It all was a bad dream."

Snip

A small spark briefly appeared on the leaf he was looking at, a tiny flame started dancing around the green and illuminated the dark leaf in a minuscule burning tempest. 

Oh no! Nonono! Not a dream! I am tainted! Taken!