Otter Creek cripples, bastards, and broken things

He had woken from his nightmare to find it had not ended. His skin burned, his face felt flush, his eyes were red-rimmed. It felt as if the hairs across his body were trembling and trying to crawl out of his very skin, but was likely a remnant of the sensation of the ants which had caked across his limbs in his slumber. Crescent was not alright. The piperidine within his system was at a ridiculous level and the boy, eager to find a remedy, had stumbled his way through the deep and dark forest until he could find something to ease his suffering. It was not an unbearable experience, just an unfortunate one — unexplainable, and terrifying.

His mind was spinning, and his body was feverish. All that Crescent could think as he paced between the trees was, water! I need water! So towards the scent of water he did go, but he did not make it very far. Just as the river was coming in to view beyond a stand of strangely curving trees, he thought he heard the crack of thunder. The boy lifted his head and looked skyward, stumbling and swaying as he tried to keep himself balanced and up on his feet, but there was nothing but the big open blueness of summer's ending. Then, as he resumed his awkward roaming towards the water, he thought he heard more and more booms, as if rain had begun to fall and each drop was a war drum; but it was only his heart, and an oncoming rush of deer.

Deer?

Crescent was standing on one side of the creek when the herd came ploughing through it. Their limbs drew up the water and their hooves clattered on the river stones, while their bleating and panicked cries drifted around him. They saw him easily, as he stuck out so plainly upon the bank with his platinum pelt, but seemed to eddie around him like a river around a rock.