Looks down at his hands... yes, they've very wet, but that's alright. Callan, up close and without the veil of fog, is still shapeless and formless, black rot and vines clinging to his form despite the fact it shifts between man-siren-nokken-blob. Over and over, shifting, eight hands to two to infinite to five.

But he's not so far gone he can't think right. His entire form is wet, but he shakes his head no and casts a spell. It bubbles around the paper harmlessly, and that is what he brings over to read, holding onto the edges of it like it's a beach ball.

...

Mizuki might have to give him a second, he looks like he's weeping.