u halloweenie

The weather was still dark and thoroughly spooky, which did not bode well for the small swamp dweller. Once nimble paws were now heavy with each step, thudding awkwardly against the ground as he lumbered away from the familiarity of the mangroves and into the unknown. Somewhere in his delirious mind, there had been some reason behind abandoning the safety of his den, but it was certain to impart some serious stress upon poor Hoarfrost. His condition had worsened significantly since that first morning, which would have initially seemed impossible. However, microscopic abrasions along his back from tossing and turning in bed, coupled with the occasional bump and scrape against the walls of the den while trying to navigate it while violently ill... had brought forth some unsettling new developments.

Along the middle of his spine, where the thinnest skin had been rubbed raw by insomniac tossing and turning, a series of tall, spindly mushrooms had sprouted from the broken skin. Pushing up through the ragged flesh and rending the tender skin asunder, they reached for the heavens with narrow caps, whose feathered edges seemed to dance in the breeze as he moved. Where he'd bumped those sturdy shoulders against roots and walls along the edges of his den, a similar occurrence. These fungi seemed to sprout in a shelf pattern, stacking one on top of the other along the meatiest portion of his upper forelimbs. Where one had initially erupted from the scraped skin, as its cap spread along the widest part of his tricep it tore further along his flesh and created ever more space for more to grow from the meat of his shoulder and spread oh so slowly down his forelimb. By now, an artfully grotesque ladder of mushrooms in assorted sizes worked their way down both shoulders- far worse on the right than the left. The lack of stem from which to sprout meant that their base was considerably larger, and rooted deeply into the muscle and bone of his limbs. These were much thicker, and each pull of his awkward strides was a sharp jolt of pain as they were jostled by the surrounding muscle and tissue. They forced him to sleep in a sphynx pose, unable to roll onto one flank and rest his head on his lower limb as a pillow without horrific pain lancing up his nerves and straight into his throbbing skull.

The delicate tendrils of lichen continued to grow from the corners of his eyes, though his left socket had quickly been overcome by the feathery fibres. There was no telling if there was even an eye left underneath the mess of fungus, it grew too thickly and was rooted too deep to try and move for a thorough inspection. The blinded eye constantly wept a trickling stream of viscous cerulean fluid, which stained and dried the lichen into crusty clumps against the verdant fur of his cheek. His right eye was still mostly clear, with only a few short clusters of fungus emerging from their corners- though the once emerald eye was glassy and foggy with feverish delirium. A near constant stream of thick drool pooled on his tongue and dripped down the sides of his maw, frequently spewed out as violent coughing fits wracked his body and left him dazed afterwards.

Worst off were his paws, where those tiny mushrooms had initially begun to poke up from the beds of his nails. In frequent fits of frustration and pain, he scraped the budding caps away on the ground. As a result, his paws were battered and ragged. Caked in bioluminescent ooze up to his wrists and ankles, one almost couldn't notice the crust of blood that seemed to cover the beds of his claws and the tender skin around his pads. Much of the fur had been torn away from his frantic chewing, desperate to pull the tiny fungi from his paws. However, with each scrape of his teeth against flesh, more of the tiny parasites seemed to spring up every morning. A vicious, agonizing cycle that left the poor little healer in tears each and every morning, tasting his own ichor on his tongue.

By the time the thick steam of the hot springs began to register in his addled mind, the yearling was up to his wrists in a scalding pool of water. With a soft grunt that stretched into a pained groan, he took a few staggering steps back and swung his suddenly heavy head to one side. Using his good eye, he tried to find a shallow spot to lay down. Maybe if he softened the skin around the mushrooms, as well as the glowing fungi themselves, he could pull them out. Or they would be soft enough that spending time in the hot springs would be enough to lift them away on its own. Either way, he needed to lay down, the walk had sapped any energy he had left.

***************

Swaying dangerously with each haggard step, the feverish wolf plodded slowly along the edges of the next pool of steaming water, and dunked a forepaw into the water. It didn't immediately feel as though he'd set his foot alight, so he dropped the other into the water. If he felt any pain, it wasn't enough to register over the constant throbbing of dull agony throughout his entire body. So he lumbered his way into the pool until he was up to his chin in hot water. As the water met the open wounds that were riddled with fungal growth, he let out a sharp hiss of pain. He would just need to acclimate. Right? Soon it would settle to a dull roar like the rest of the pain, and he could just float there and hope it worked out. Bog was exhausted. He wondered if it would really be so bad if he drowned here. A few feeble strokes of his stocky legs brought him across the small pool of water, and he rested his lower jaw on the opposite bank. Just the same as when he was cooling off in the mangroves, he tucked his legs loosely against his body and floated there silently. Tried to fight through the fugue of his mind and take stock of how he was feeling. Tired. So tired.

(FINAL WC: 1054)