Wapun Meadow dripping in rot

i am not— the words are too painful to get out. he cannot speak. each word brings another stab of agony to bleed him. he hears nothing.

he sees blurs.

he only knows what he knows. that is all. and he stumbles, but it is a sluggish movement, too slow to be considered any sort of threat; a raucous cough, again, blood splattering his chest. anything else and he will topple like a monument.

the man commands they leave and he does so. slowly, a loping limp that encompasses all which he is: soon to be dead. hopefully this woman carrying his spawn has even the faintest knowledge of medicine.

but it will be no use if the saatsine hunters remain persistent. he cannot go far.

it is only a blur now. the only thing to keep him up and moving is the knowledge that he must.