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The Mimic lets Grizel touch its shoulder—even through flimsy nightgown fabric, there are the telltale remnants of old horn growths, cut through at the base. Omenmarkers; cursebringers. Grizel grimaces as their fingers brush over the Mimic's horns—it's so cold. But the criss-crossed scars are the same, and the more Grizel touches it, the more the Mimic warms up.
"I don't understand it," Grizel says. And it's silly—the Mimic is no more intelligent than a mere animal, meant to follow its summoner, serve as an extension of their will. There's no use talking to it. But who else can they talk to?
"I don't understand it," Grizel says quietly. "Why he wants me, of all things."
Grizel grew up abused and living in the sewers like any other wretched Omen child. Vialla is a Tarnished seeking to construct a new world for Those Who Live In Death. They're an odd couple.
Also, they fuck the Mimic Tear Ashes.