Desperate Measures

Pain was nothing, distant, dull. Only darkness and a few mild twinges penetrated the Master Tactician's subconscious as muscles and bones reordered themselves. In the span of a few hours, his once feeble form lay, though still pale, nearly doubled in mass as his musculature bulked and self-fortified. The bandages around his middle grew taut and burst open--and beneath them the jagged rune-wrought wound that would not seal knitted together. The scars upon his body seemed to fade into his new-formed flesh--except the rune itself, which remained as a dark mark upon his chest.

Presently, a gasp shook the form of a much younger man. His eyes sprung open, emerald and blazing. Though still not fully conscious, he clawed at the oxygen mask, under which the creeping spiderwebs of rot that marred his once-weathered face had begun to recede...

The machines started to react as Swains sudden recovery mirroring the miraculous reactions that were taking place inside him.
Flesh was being reconstructed…improved evolved! It was just question of time before a full recovery would take place “Observe June this is the true power of a chemist the true knowledge a scientist of Zaun should possess just knowing how to make potions won’t take you this far.”
He started to say as his triumphal discourse as his latest master piece started to complete “Chemistry, Alchemy, Physics, Biology and Engineering even knowledge of the arcane you need to know all of it and learn how to combine them to create new wonder to awe the world.”

The Grand General's newly sculpted chest expanded with the first deep breath he'd taken in over a year. His hand, no longer withered, shot up to meet LeBlanc's beside his face. Where once a trembling skeletal claw had been, now muscular talon-like fingers enclosed around hers. His eyes (two eyes! for his left had repaired itself and now shone emerald from its socket) darted shrewdly around the room, searching each of its inhabitants and the whirring machinery once over. Everything was new, acute, detected and processed instantaneously. The rush of sound and oxygen and light was almost overwhelming, like emerging from a pool of water into brightest day, almost like being born. "I can hear you," came his awed reply.

And hear he could--and see her too, though his sight was somehow different, sharper. The vibrant contrast of indigo hair upon alabaster skin was incredible. Slowly, the Master Tactician sat up in his bed. His heart-rate quickened, as indicated by the pace of beeping monitors by his bedside. His shoulders, broad and straight, moved up and down with each adrenaline-fueled breath. He released LeBlanc and looked down at his hands. His hands. He turned them over and back, inspecting them, flexing his fingers. Each one, perfectly formed, ended in a hard, half-sharpened nail. They moved precisely as he willed them to and did not tremble--and they were strong. "Singed, you brilliant man," Swain half-whispered, overwhelmed.

Graceful fingers traveled up to his face, which had healed entirely... Where once black spiderwebs of decay spread out over his jaw and neck, where once flesh rotted away, flawless skin had grown over an angled jaw. His features--though now wrinkleless--were still his own, yet possessed of an otherworldly sharpness, a barely detectable severity indicative of the power now coursing through him. This rose like a fog about him, a static field of force potent enough to make the hairs of those nearby him stand on end.

A half-chuckle of disbelief--barely more than an exhalation of breath--escaped him. His brows knit, moved as he was by such long-awaited success. Having completed his self-inspection, the Master Tactician turned his newly emerald gaze upon his eternal partner. One corner of his mouth quirked up in satisfied relief and solid, convicted arms pulled her into an embrace.

Singed just moved around the room turning off the apparatuses that had supported the once brittle life of the master tactician “Yes however I would like to reunite as soon as possible tomorrow, we need verify if there weren’t undesired side effect like last time”
Once that this one proven a success he quickly lost interest on t moving to the creation and betterment of Runefire once again taking his assistant and prentice with him

Swain lifted the mirror in his solid grip, his other hand stroking the new contours of his chin and his mistress' silken arms around his neck. The broadest grin he'd ever worn crossed his newly handsome face. Emerald eyes and restored snow-white teeth, strangely sharp, sparkled in his reflection as he surveyed the results of this venture. They were flawless. He was flawless (but for the single remaining runewrought scar upon his chest.) And so long he had waited...

When the Grand General grew satisfied with his reflection, he tossed the hand mirror onto the bed, turned and swept LeBlanc up into his arms. He lifted her bodily from the bed--not a hint of exertion or strain in his movements--and dipped her back in the dance of his elation. "Tomorrow, then," he addressed his lanky associate, molten eyes still fixated on she who shared his joy. "Breakfast at 700 hours. Whatever you fancy."