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Fantasy Dracula (CLOSED)

Ioan looked at her. "I know that. - I'm not getting cramps because I'm dehydrated, I'm getting cramps because of the bullet stuck in my brain that doctors couldn't remove. It's called being a spastic." He was fully aware that 'spastic' was a slur - he wanted to reclaim the word.
 
"Because it's too dangerous to remove it in any way," Ioan replied. "Also, magic can't cure everything. If the injury or illness is too severe, it can't do much."
 
"But with the right combination of spells, you might be able to prevent anything bad from happening while the bullet is pulled out."
 
Ioan shook his head. "No, not really... it's one of those injuries where pulling it out might to more harm than good. Also, it's not a tragedy to be disabled..."
 
"That... depends on the disability...", Wyn said, slowly going quiet as she spoke. She seemed to fade a bit, turning more translucent. A ghost knew as well as anyone what it was like to be disabled. She couldn't feel anything, couldn't touch anyone who didn't want to be harmed, she could only experience anything indirectly through magic.
 
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Ioan sighed. He didn't want to say anything wrong, but he hated the stereotype of the suffering disabled person. It was dangerous and wrong and had led to horrendous crimes in history.
 
Sandro had been sitting on top of a scratching post in the library. "If you're so unhappy about it, why don't you ask someone to teach you how to be more corporeal?" He meant no harm with his question - he was not very good at social stuff.
 
Wyn looked at the scratching post and shook it to dislodge the cat. "You think I haven't tried?", she hissed, "In two centuries you think I haven't wanted to actually hold a book?"
 
"And I don't, now that I've adapted. Do you need thumbs now that you've adapted?", Wyn snapped, "I tried, for years! I lost my body when I lost my life, and I've given up on trying to replace it."
 
Sandro climbed back onto the post. He laid down at the middle layer, dangled his front paws over the edge and moved them as if he was flapping hands, as much as that was possible, anyway.
 
At the airport near Edirne, Turkey
Hyde made his way through the airport, making note of his surroundings as he went. Filching parts of a disguise as he went. As much as he enjoyed the looks of fear as he passed, his goal was stealth, and he needed to conceal his non-existent deformity. Calling a taxi to the outskirts of Edirne, Hyde prepared his hobo disguise on the trip there.
 
Hyde opened the rear passenger door and stepped into the taxi. "Edirne," he said to the driver in a voice that sounded like two packs of cigarettes a day for sixty years. Passing a bill to the driver to pay for the trip, Hyde sat down.
 
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