Evening, Foyer of the Metishot.

Dietrich Eisenberg stood in the warm, relaxed glow of  an unusually... comfortable looking room- he looked, for the most part, out place. He held a black trenchcoat in one hand, a folded up address card in the other as blue eyes worriedly examined the walls for some personality indication of the witch he'd come to see.

She was neat, for one. Most Healers were. But it wasn't all that clinical here; kinda cozy, really, with the mild lighting and all. In his head, Delilah Foley was a balanced woman. Wasn't much else 'bout her in his circles 'cept that she was competent and discreet. Two qualities any Knockturnite in a tricky situation could value.

The screwed up tattoo[1] that curved and flickered around his torso didn't hurt but Gods, sometimes he swore he could feel the fucking thing move against him. Like a damned itch he couldn't reach.

Inking was his specialty, his niche- having a mark he didn't know how t'get rid of was high on Dietrich's list of things that ticked him off. He breathed out heatedly at the thought- and then there came a click from behind. The wizard turned to glance at one of the doors, frown melting away into mild curiousity.

"Healer Foley, I'm guessing?" he greeted the elegant figure who emerged into the foyer, usin' a li'l more civility than his typical work manner.

1.	Correspondence Thread here.

With her tight dreadlocks trailing down her back, Delilah strolled into the room, her hand still on Dwet, the door handle of the moment, as she gave Dietrich a soft smile, "Of course," her accent swung from her throat as she let go of the door. The silver door handle suddenly twitched and came alive as it crawled up Delilah's arm and onto her shoulder as she wove her arms together and regarded Dietrich, with her black straw bag hanging from one hand

"I'm glad your still are in good health," Dwet lifted its forefinger to wave at the man as the tall witch lowered herself down in a seat next to the blonde, "Besides your persistent companion, of course."

She crossed her legs and turned a slim hand out towards Dietrich, with an inquiring twitch of her eyebrows, "Has any other symptoms cropped up?"

A dark brow rose into a high arch as a smile pinched to corner of her lips,"Other than irritability?"

Well as far as Healers went, Delilah Foley was a hella lot creepier than the one's he usually saw- discounting Knockturn's shoddy attempts at mending. Dietrich's curious gaze followed the silver hand that had skittered, with almost arachnide grace, to the woman's boney shoulder. He could kinda feel it watching him.

"Yea, fit as a fiddle..." the wizard muttered, scratching his beard ruefully. "Have t'admit that I ain't one for visiting healers. Never got into a fix so bad I couldn't clean it up m'self but this 'un is a real damned nuisance."

Much like Foley had implied, the messed up ink was really startin' to feel like an unwanted companion.

"No other symptoms," Dietrich frowned as he tried to think of anythin' that might've popped up since they'd exchanged letters. "Nope. Can't think of nothing. Dark magic don't get t'me the way it used to, my body's kinda acclimatized now."

Although, the Gods knew they'd be no fooling 'round with the dark arts. Didn't matter how long ya played around with that shit, it had a way of fucking you up in the end. Dietrich tried not t'think about this so he pushed on with the appointment.

"Do ya have any experience with stuff like this? Not exactly a common accident at St.Mungo's, I bet...."

"Dark Arts tattoos? Not at Mungo's no," she answered Dietrich with a small smile, as she opened her wicker black purse for Dwet to crawl into. Her arm then hugged against her chest with its hand turned out so that she could rest her elbow in it. She turned her dark stare towards Dietrich as she let her hand limply curl next to her cheek as the muffled rummaging noises in her bag continued,"Tribal or ritualistic tattoos I'm more for familiar wit', but 'dey usually aren't anyt'ing permanent," the witch seemed completely unperturbed by her inexperience in the matter of Dietrich's work, then the hand climbed out of the bag and placed a small bottle of a jellyfish in her curled palm.

The healer glanced at it, raised an eyebrow, and then lowered her chin towards the silver hand, "No," she firmly said before handing the bottle back to the hand, who took it and then retreated back into the recesses of her wicker purse.

She turned her gaze toward Dietrich again as she unfolded her arm from her chest and and pointed at the man's torso, "But let's take a look at it," Dwet then crawled out of her purse and put a few icy toothpicks in her hands. She pinched them between her finger and then nodded towards Dietrich with an indifferent shrug, "Pull your shirt off."

"Pull your shirt off."

And t'think she'd hadn't even bought him a fuckin' drink yet.

Dietrich would've had his doubts if it were a less self-assured lady taking a gander at his marks but Foley seemed like she knew a thing or two 'bout the dark arts. Not his line've inking, 'course but more than most f'sure. He eyed the toothpicks in her elegant hands s'though they were weapons... trust. The whole damned thing about seeing a Healer was trust.

Not that he had much've a choice.

The artist shrugged and stood straight, pulling his shirt over his head as he did so. Grey cotton shifted to reveal hardy, pale skin that had seen its share of scars and hurts. His build, though powerful, was blunted by an unusually careful posture. There was nothing brutal in it.

"As you can see," Dietrich indicated the blighted space 'round his ribcage. "It ain't exactly the prettiest thing t'look at."

Ancient nordic script, inked in the darkest of blacks, blinked in'n'out of existence against his skin. The letters were warped and they travelled along the circumference of his abdomen in jerky movements. Not shoddy workmanship but it grated his nerves to see the fuckin' thing.
 

Delilah watched the man pull of his shirt, noting the movement of his body and the scratches of discoloration that plagued his skin. He had excellent muscle tonality, and it meshed well over his broad frame,  but his body had obviously gone through the wear and tear of time, though he was still an excellent specimen.

"Pretty, I'm not in a rut about," she uncurled her fingers as she waved her hand as she stood up from her seat with her glassy picks poised between her fingers. A dark and ritical half-lidded stare fell over his chest as she moved the toothpicks over the design, ready to move at her whim.

Then a "Tch" escaped her lips as part of the tattoo appeared and she lightly pressed the toothpick against it--at its touch, a chilly frost breathed over the tattoo and it stopped moving. She then continued that with the rest of the design before she stood back to inspect the thing. She leaned in again and, this time, hooked the toothpick under the topmost layer of the man's skin--but what happened next would feel like she was pulling a ghostly string from him; part of the tattoo had come off the man's chest, as if it were taffy, with the toothpick hooked in it like it were a knitting needle.

Delilah hummed a few tunes from one of her children's various wrock band records as she began to move, pull, and connect the tattoo together, to what seemed right. It didn't need to be perfect, it just needed to be in some semblance of what it once was. As she began to work the last bits together she leaned back and squinted at the frost that was now draping across the man's torso, "Am I piecing 'di right parts together? Need a mirror?" she finished the piece of tattoo she was working on before she let her tone float like a carefree breeze, "It's pretty harmless in 'dis state if you're worried 'bout anyt'ing."