Larksong Grotto death blossom

“What are you doing?”

For a moment, the wolf was utterly terrified — though he’d just slaked his thirst, his throat was dry and his tongue was thick in his mouth. “I, uh,” he mumbled, still slurring a little. It was hard to string words together in a recognizable way, but he was just happy he could understand her. His eyes darted down to her paws, looking for the pinkish white spider-tendrils — but they, too, were normal. Relaxing marginally, “Just — gotta get it off,” he muttered, stepping away from the tree and turning his muzzle away from her so she could see the contraption that was probably slowly choking him minute by minute.

It was with some measure of dismay that he regarded her odd coloring, but at least she was wolf-shaped. Not like the collection of oddities and abominations he’d met quite recently. “Listen. Don’t let ‘em,” he told her, very seriously. “Long noses, flat noses — not natural. Don’t let ‘em.” His baleful brimstone eyes attempted to fix sternly upon her face, but they were diluted and glassy with ophthalmic lubricant. It was hard to focus on anything. “You,” he said, beginning to scratch again with a hind leg, automatically.

“I don’t want it. Itches,” he said, quite petulantly.