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Even before he fully awakens, Wilde can tell that something has changed. Half of him is screaming something is wrong, something is wrong, while the other half sings that something is finally, absolutely right. It only takes a few moments for him to realize what is going on before his eyes snap open as he lunges for his ankles. His fingers only manage to find cloth and skin, not metal and cold, and Wilde’s mind starts to race.
What happened, where are they, the enemy will know we’re here, did Zolf absolutely need the cuffs, is he okay —
It’s only when he feels a sharp pressure that he stops and takes a moment to take a further grasp of his situation. Those... are not his hands. Those are most certainly not his hands, these claws that make him think distinctly of his time working directly with Apophis. Before his eyes he can see the fingers start to lengthen, the color deepening to that brassy shade. Remembering a conversation with Hamid he takes a moment, breathes deep, and the claws start to recede into (too-small) hands.
Azu (or should he say Hamid, in Azu’s soft, low tones) begins to explain the situation. Zolf is fine, still steering the ship. Cel managed to stay awake through the Borealis and is unaffected. As for the rest of them, only Hamid, Azu (stomping her now-clawed feet against the floorboards), and himself are awake so far, but clearly they have been swapped into one another’s bodies. It’s probably a fair assumption that when the rest of the crew wakes, they’ll find themselves in similar circumstances.
Wilde turns to stare hard at his body a few feet away. It (He?) is still asleep, chest rising and falling softly. He can see the anti-magic cuffs still securely locked around the man’s ankles, and Wilde lets out a small sigh of relief. Hopefully the enemy still doesn’t know their position, but perhaps he should be working under the assumption that they actually can.
Speaking of, Wilde feels... normal. Whatever the spell or affliction he suffers from it seems to be tied to his body, not his mind. He’s not sure how exactly he managed to leave his body without the shackles getting in the way, but when dealing with this much ambient wild magic it’s hard to say what’s possible. Whatever the circumstances, he is free from them, at least for now.
He turns back to Hamid and Azu and takes further stock of their situation. Azu, clutching a necklace that is now almost as big as her chest, says that she can still feel her god, though Aphrodite seems further away. With Wilde’s prompting, Hamid tests his magic: first Detect Magic, which other than stunning him for a moment (which isn’t surprising, given where they are) seems to work without a problem. He then casts Comprehend Languages so effortlessly that it makes something in Wilde’s chest ache.
As Cel prattles on to Hamid in Japanese about about floating rags and tankards that wish to be drunk, Wilde starts to rub soft circles on his unshackled ankles. He wears the anti-magic cuffs everywhere now: in the bath, in bed, at all hours of the day. The lack of weight at his feet is almost more bizarre than the smallness of his (Hamid’s) hands and how the ship has seemed to have dramatically grown.
Though perhaps even more bizarre is the small hum of magic he can feel (hear?) just out of his reach. Wilde can’t recall if he could sense his magic like this before the cuffs, but perhaps blocking out all magic for such a long time (Gods had it only been 18 months since he started to wear them?) made him a little more sensitive. If he closes his eyes, he swears he can hear the faintest hint of a far-off melody echoing around in his skull, practically begging to be manipulated and brought into the world.
It is tactically suboptimal for him to try casting magic right now. Even with his... lack of practice over the past 18 months, if anything should harm the group then he is one of their few lines of defense. None of their physical fighters will be used to the body they now possess and Zolf is still steering the ship, which only leaves Cel, Hamid, and himself as those who might be able to attack anything that comes at them. He should be saving his spells and focusing on trying to fix this situation.
But this may be one of the last chances (the last chance) Wilde has to access his magic. So before he even realizes what he is doing, a simple melody begins to escape from his lips. He stumbles on the first few notes, but quickly picks up the rhythm (because despite everything he’s been through, despite how long it’s been, his heart still remembers the Song). At his feet a small version of himself (in his real body, not Hamid’s) begins to form, staring back up at him. Nothing large, nothing fancy, but it’s an illusion, it’s magic, and it’s his.
For a moment, Wilde just stares at his creation. He feels his shoulders slump with relief, the smallest smile forming on his lips. Even in the middle of the Northern Wastes, even in a body that is not his own, feeling the magic thrum through his entire being makes him feel more at peace than he has in years.
(He wasn’t lying, exactly, during that conversation about his lack of magic with Hamid. But he had resigned himself to the fact that he would most likely never use his magic again, so why worry himself about something that he couldn’t have? He had lost enough already; his magic was simply another log on the fire. But having the Song once again at his beck and call starts to give him the tiniest sliver of hope.)
However, as he takes a closer look at the illusion before him the smile starts to drop. Present on the illusion’s cheek is that awful scar, and he can see those bloody cuffs only partially hidden under his pants legs. Have they become such a part of him that, even in his illusions, even without thinking about them, they appear?
Wilde dismisses the illusion with a wave of his hand. (It’s fine. He’s fine.) He needs to focus on the mission. The group needs to reverse this... whatever it is as quickly as possible. They need to be in peak condition for whatever they manage to find in Svalbard, not the sorry state they are in now. Wilde shouldn’t focus on his magic that soon he won’t even have anymore.
(From across the room Hamid notices the crack in his facade, but Wilde refuses to even look in the sorcerer’s direction.)