[ Creeping Dust and his omen stand before a thatch of squalling plants. The plants snap and cry at him, but they cannot quite reach. He stands with his arms crossed, watching them without emotion.

He draws a small sigil in the air, a necromantic symbol that resonates with source energy. Sometimes this is useful in finding the central cause of a possession. However, here it simply disappears under the earth with the root system, which he certainly predicted.

He does not have the supplies currently for an excursion into the depths below the city. So he will have to compromise. He draws a large curved blade from where it is crossed with its twin on his back. ]

Now, who would like to be first?

[ The next plant to snap at him is deftly grabbed and cut in a smooth motion. ]

[ He hears of the affliction through eavesdropping, which is his habit just about everywhere he goes. He has really no respect for the privacy of anyone else's conversations. Upon establishing it has struck a few, he goes to the Blood Ministers for a little conversation. They tell him their theories, and he goes out into the town to see if he can find any research on the subject. Luckily, someone mentioned the location of the archives to him.

He makes his way there, and looks around with pleasure. Ah, yes. This is his kind of place. He feels the intriguing connection with his Patron Pthumerian here. A creature with interesting parallels to the Ghost Dog.

As they take in the library and are informed of its "organization" system, his omen steps out into the world; a dog of smoke with a glowing heat in its center, like burning coals. It will take the lead as their intuition.

Creeping Dust puts his hands into his pockets and follows along lazily, admiring even the most gruesome of artifacts as they go. ]

[ He loathes crowded places; a solitary creature. However, such gatherings are always full of opportunities. People are primarily useful to him, convenient in their moment, and here are fish in a barrel.

He tidies up a bit: no longer in light leather armor, and now dressed in a professorial looking garb, complete with a pair of glasses. His dark hair is still an unruly mess of curls.

In the evening, he can be found in the gambling hall playing with quiet certainty. He has a cagey mixture of bluffing and conservative play, and a mean smile when he wins. He does not put the token with his face on the table at any point, it remains in his jacket pocket.

He drinks with restraint, his glass still mostly full when he smiles in a way that doesn't reach his eyes and inquires, ]

What brings you here?

[ After hours, he follows a poor debtor as they are shown the way downstairs. He keeps to the shadows until the raucousness of the underground fighting ring is revealed. Ah. Yes, that doesn't surprise him. More importantly, he wants in on the action.

So he finds his way onto the roster and carefully folds up his shirts, his little pair of glasses. He looks much less professorial in this state. He is covered in scars, the pattern so immaculately consistent that it must have been done with great intent. Some occult ritual?

He is as cagey of a fighter as he was a gambler, full of tricks and sharp, sudden violence. His relationship with the Coldblood remains new, some of his spells don't work quite as he expected. But at least one pops with a dangerous blast of fire or electricity, and his Decrepify spell burns with an icy cold.

In the early morning, he takes his leave on his own. A little battered and bloody around the face, but immensely satisfied. He blinks at the rising sun and goes to find a cup of coffee, which he has determined is excellent in comparison to the alternative he remembers from home.

The battered 'professor' and his omen sit together, people watching absently. ]

If you want me to write a prompt customized to your character, I'm happy to! Just ping me.