Exhaling sharply, Prospero commanded the couple to bring him things, to help him get the details accurate, as he began writing out what Paul swore would be his last.
In his usual fashion, Prospero worked to write everything out in great gothic detail, while giving the illusion that he was just a talented writer having found an idea while pursuing his own interests.
Working as his editor, Paul helped Prospero proofread everything, ensuring that the context wasn't lost in Prospero's writing.
Though he hoped for better, Paul knew that this wouldn't suddenly make the world aware of the Drekker's existence.
However, he knew that Prospero had plausible deniability with his book that his publisher won't try and censor it.
Though Paul wished Prospero could get into the grit of it all, the man could only work in the limitations given to him by his publisher and his audience, but with any luck, someone would connect the dots, go from there, and even if people who wanted to keep the Drekker going tried, they couldn't slander the work if they tried.
Prospero wrote more than he anticipated, nervous about the whole thing, really, that writing was his comfort, and if what Paul told him was true, this would be the last time he had.
Guess what they say was true, that tragedy makes for the best material when writing.
So, they say, anyway.
Only when his typewriter's ink ribbon ran dry was Prospero forced to stop, looking at his stack of pages on his writing desk.
He would've written more, but Paul convinced him that he wrote enough, that he ought to spend his remaining time elsewhere, though Prospero voiced concerns that he didn't have any but his writing.
"No one thought I'd make it far as I did," Prospero explained to Paul as he nestled the stack of pages under his arm, prepared to take them downstairs where they'll be put up for safekeeping.
Living an interesting life, Prospero only found comfort with writing, no real zeal for life, his logical mind made it difficult to date, he turned to the only thing that remained constant in his life that he used to support himself once he went out into the world.
People laughed, gawked, swore he'd become another author with shelf warmers for months on end, but here he was, and now, his career will be at its end.
Perhaps that's the reason he put more effort into his final book.
"Is it painful?" Prospero broached as he stashed his last book where it won't get damaged, with instructions that once he felled to his new life, they'd take it to his publisher, have them put it to print, don't know how they'll explain his absence, but that's Paul and Taylor's decisions to make.
Pondering Prospero's question, Paul lightly shrugs, as he tells the writer that he didn't know, nobody was really sure how the process works, if people feel the changes, at all.
One would hope that they have the process down to science, else there wouldn't be as many.
"But is it true they somewhat remember their old lives?" Prospero inquired what Paul learnt held any water.
Slowly nodding, his chestnut hair stiffly moving, Paul affirmed that the larger ones did.
Lord knows how acutely aware they were about their fates, Paul shudders to know for certain.
His father had the experience reading one's mind, but once was enough to swear off the idea.
His mother warning him not to do it himself, unless he had no other choice.
Curious, Prospero then inquired about the female variants, Paul didn't specify anything about them, talked about them in an underhandedly way, he wanted to know about them.
Sharply exhaling, Paul explains that they're a blind spot for him, because of how rare they are compared to their male counterparts.
They don't hunt sickly individuals, that much he knows, rather, they consume copious amounts of nightshade.
Like their male counterparts, they become affected by what they eat, and nightshade resulted in a more dangerous variant.
Afflicted by the madness caused by eating the copious amounts of nightshade, these variants aren't dissuaded by the same things as their counterparts.
It's trickier with them, they're much faster, and have no qualms attacking in the day during thick fogs.
"Whitest days" meaning fog, as he and Taylor found out during an adventure, the thick fog would serve as a cover as the night served the Drekker.
Like their counterpart, they're gone the moment the fog dissipates.
"They sound charming," Prospero sarcastically muses.
Nodding, Paul didn't mince words as he warns that these female counterparts would give him a run for his money, though with his fate looming, he shouldn't worry much.
"Suppose I keep my mind?" Prospero roused an idea, asking if it was possible for him to covertly learn the intricate knowledge of these fiends that Paul and others couldn't discover due to their elusive knowledge.
And the fact they'd be mauled to a mealy red paste in mere seconds.
Pondering this, Paul expresses that he's sure that once it happens to Prospero, he won't remember much, if he did, his animalistic nature will always win out.
"Tea's ready," Taylor calls out to them as brought the tray with a bubbling tea kettle and cups to the dining room table.
Joining her at the dining room table, Prospero and Paul sat around with their tea, the looming dread washed over their faces.
"I can't imagine myself hurting people, Doctor," Prospero expressed worry about having to watch himself become a monster, murdering innocent people, all because they were sick.
Clasping his hands around the teacup, Paul goes, "If there's any luck, you won't remember much about your old life that it'll matter."
Cruel, but it's better than being acutely aware of what he's doing to people and animals.
Even if Prospero wanted to stop this, well, as Paul said, he couldn't.
An animal he'll become.
This also means, should they cross paths, Prospero will attack them if provoked.
"Is there anyone you want us to speak with, Prospero?" Taylor inquired if Prospero wanted her and Paul to visit people on his behalf, tell them an elaborate story to explain his disappearance, and going from there.
Thinking it over, Prospero admits that he hadn't spoken much to his family in years, partly because of his interest finding out about his father's family.
Suppose that's on him.
As he told them before, he wasn't very social unless it's for his books, otherwise he led a lonely life.
Though when this happens, he'll have his brothers, or sons depending, to keep him company.
"You're taking it well, Prospero," Taylor brings up that for someone who was handed a life sentence that no one would want, Prospero handled it better than most.
Exhaling sharply, Prospero admits that he couldn't waste energy fussing about it, like Paul said, either he becomes one or someone else in the family tree gets picked.
Hopefully, he stresses, that his bloodline thins out enough that the curse breaks, and no one will become another terrifying creature.
Prospero's aware that this wouldn't stop with his family, there had to been other families afflicted by this ancient cursed, handling it differently, he's sure, but he's not alone in this, which Paul responds that it's possible.
"Well, make sure that man doesn't add his takes to it, will you?" Prospero sighs as he requests that his manuscript doesn't have additions by the insistence of his publisher, which the couple agreed to prevent should it come up, and will since Prospero knew his publisher long enough.
