"Infected?" John mutters it as though suspicious of the very concept. But he obediently draws back his sleeve to bare the damage: it's shallow but extensive, two dozen little gouges and bleeding pinpricks. His curved talons made it difficult.

"Very well. I just..." He grumbles a low, aimless complaint. "Last time, during the moon... Those changes went away. Uh, for the most part." Jack's tails have become mundane to him now, like Serph's wings. And the gold in his eyes feels inevitable. "But this... I don't know how to banish it."