pafp black ichor | gift, question

[Plaguepaw]

I've been trying not to

Clamped within his jaws was the delicate spine of some rodent picked from the freshkill pile. Sun bleached and gleaming, it was one of his favorite things that he possessed. But today he sought to give it to someone, a certain dawn hued tom dipped in ivory. The bones clacked softly as he trotted along on thin gangly limbs, dichromatic eyes shifting about, seeking the healer. Eventually he spots him and Plaguekit's features visibly brighten as hr picks up the pace. "Dawnglare!" He calls out, tone muffled in the process. Opening his jaws he allows the spine to drop to the ground, using a dark paw to push it forward. "I brought you something! I saw you and Mallowlark playing with bones one time. This is the best one out of my collection. Do you like it?" He asks enthusiastically, head tipping to the side and forked tail curling in delight.

Whilst awaiting an answer he lifts a back leg and scratches at his neck, causing his collar and all its little tags to jingle back and forth. "Oh! I-I had," He starts, then stops, scratching a little harder until his itch disappears. Plaguekit sits up again, shaking his head as the leg thumps upon the ground. "I have a question. When will my fur come back and look like yours?" He asks, pawing at one of the small bald patches that littered his body in various places. Everyone here had thick plush coats, soft and full of color. He wanted that too. (@DAWNGLARE) ​

Go off the deep end​

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[DAWNGLARE]

There are few voices Dawnglare perks up to meet. On his toes, he could count them, and he would still require less than half. And oh, even less than, were voices he actively shied away from, nearly ridiculous in the way a large, willowy form curled inward in its attempt to secede. He is not quick enough– sluggish and impaired in his movement. Too late does he truly process the magnitude of what calls to him, and bile simultaneously floods his maw. Fear fills the empty pools of his eyes and he has but a second to even try and trip over his paws, but all too late, there are bones clattering across from them, and a monstrous face peering up and above.

Panic dissipates into stone - faced apathy (or perhaps– disbelief; strange default in between feeling one thing, and then another.) His face would then twist into frown, at the face that regards his. Unsightly, always. The thing never regards their disparity in size; the way Dawnglare could crush him like the leeching thing he was. (Could, aptly so, but he does not, keenly aware of the disease leaking from this thing.) I brought you something, no doubt, infected too, and Dawnglare would take a step back as the kit presses his bounty forward.

Observant little thing, and Dawnglare deeply wishes that he was not. Deeply wishes that he would be blind to holy things as he ought to be, so that Dawnglare might disappear before his sickly eyes. Do you like it? Visually, it is not dissimilar, but physically, it is almost certainly harmful to touch. Dawnglare answers honestly, ichor ruff curling at the spine. " I'm afraid that if I touch it, it will drain me of all I have. "

Dawnglare hopes the answer will satisfy enough for him to slip away untouched, but the thing keeps talking. His stomach lurches to imagine the impurity coming off like flakes, as the ugly thing scratches. I have a question. And then Dawnglare may escape, afterward. When will my fur come back and look like yours? " No. " The answer had been instinctual, and now, Dawnglare blinks on with wonder. " I mean... " There is no science behind what he believes, but he believes it so. And his voice is an airy thing as he answers; wonderous, as if he could not believe the child had considered such a thing at all, and that very fact was stunning. " ...never. "​