tip of the iceberg

Artisan was obsessed, plain and simple. Obsession wasn't exactly new to him to begin with (don't even get him started on that fucking raccoon) but Art had never felt anything like the desperate urge to run, to hide, to escape whatever was taking over his mind and body. Of course it was all Armando's fault - the stupid thief had angered the fireflies which in turn had infected him, turned him mad with fear and confusion and paranoia. Hell, he didn't even feel right anymore in the dark and that definitely wasn't normal, Artisan did his best work in the dark of night!

It was clear to him what the solution for this problem was - he had to escape the ooze. What better way in fact to avoid a potentially deadly and infectious illness then deep in the Earth's crust? For as far as his very flimsy knowledge of healing went, the colorful man knew the ground did... something to absorb toxins and poisons and similar very-bad-things, so thus it could be said that the ground might be able to cure him too, right? Well, it made sense to Artisan, and he swiftly got to work burying himself deep in the ground where he might be able to flee the current state of the world.

His paws were working overtime on the third hole of the season (one had been cruelly stolen from him, only further convincing the crazed wolf that he was on the right track) and damn, did it hurt. Fluid-filled blisters had begun to grow upon his pawpads and between his toes, soaking his paws in dirt, mud, sweat, and ooze. It poured from his nose, his ears, even his eyes and mouth and ran only thinner the more exertion his body suffered.

The dangling on his wrists kept him going, the reminder that at the very least when he'd lost his everloving mind, at least he had his bracelets. At least those hadn't been stolen from him, unlike his sanity. He dug and dug and dug, hearing them click against each other as his legs worked themselves to the bone and feeling a little happier each time their happy clink rang out.

Eventually Artisan knew he needed a break. Just a short one of course, and then he'd be back to it. He wiggled his rear end out from the hole and into the cold chill of wind. His hole was dug at the very tip of cathedral point, it seemed fitting to him to first run to the edge of the world before digging as he assumed it would put him as far from the infected wolves of Boreas as possible. He flopped onto his back into the snow with an exhausted sigh, the ooze from his eyes running down toward his ears and the neon saliva pooling in his mouth. Occasionally he had to spit out the gathered substance (and turn his head to not drown in the fluid in his nose) but otherwise Artisan rested, looking up into the sky.

The full moon was not something the man was ever likely to forget, and he assumed if the stars weren't so streaky and weird that by now he'd have memorized every one. Artisan deeply missed the sun, the warmth on his face and fur, the way his eyes didn't leak gross blue fluid. He even missed the normal stars, lighting up the world along with their pal the sun while he drank himself stupid each night. When was the last time Artisan had had a drink? Was it at the pirate's last meeting, the challenge that brought his pack together? Artisan couldn't remember, and that scared him as much as the thick ooze that seemed to be taking over his body. He scowled up at the moon and the stars, hating them and wishing them away so the world might turn back to normal one day soon.

With a final sigh the man stood, determined to finish his hole, and thus his escape from the ooze. His weary paws fell hesitantly back into the dirt, enveloping him almost up to his hips now. He'd need to dig much harder and much further to reach.. wherever the hole was taking him, but Artisan never shied away from hard work. Claws raked through soil, mud and snow as he continued his quest, dirt filling his broken blisters again and again as he clawed the packed dirt up and behind him. The cold was almost as painful as the infection, but Artisan took the agony to mean he was on the right track. Even the fireflies this far north seemed sluggish in the cold chill - here they wouldn't get him and couldn't get him, not when his hole was finished. With a crazed grin on his maw, Artisan dug until his exhausted body hit the ground.

Word count: 812

"Speech"