Stop Being Dramatic

The approach of another was lost on the sickly wolf. It was only when Octave blocked out the warming light that Kite stopped his sobbing and sniffled. Removing his head from his crossed forelegs, he looked up and his jaw dropped. The combination of the light being behind Octave and the blurriness of his vision made the man look like some sort of angelic being. Of course a being so noble and fine wouldn't have a voice that earthly wolves could hear. "Ohh..." Kite groaned. He was dying after all. This was it. This beautiful creature was going to take him to the afterlife. "At least I get to die looking at a creature so handsome."

Pain lanced through Kite's stomach again and he doubled up, turning away to heave once more, though only a bit of smelly, green and brown bile came up. There were a few chunks of the herbs sticking in the muck. "That's the last time... I try to make...flavored snow." He spoke between breaths. His eyes hurt. His stomach hurt. His muscles hurt. Couldn't the angel just take him away already. Fighting his way shakily to his little paws, Kite threw himself at the alabaster angel, wrapping his tiny legs around one large, fluffy foreleg. "I'm ready to go. Take me to the afterlife." He'd always had a flare for the dramatic. He meant it though. If dying would take this disgusting pain away, he wanted to go.

Words