A sticky film coated the mouth of the beast as it panted. Fever raged, a wildfire consuming the mind and the body of Wild Thing. Lyme Disease ate at his body, crushing his spirit and taking captive his mind. The dense thicket of grass was the only real thing, swaying blurrily above the stag's form.
His head throbbed in tune with his heartbeat, pain great enough to cause a loss of consciousness swept over his body like a tide. The blackness rolled, and once again his shivering form went limp. The deer seemed to have collapsed on death's doorstep, and his mind pleaded to be allowed through.
Coughing wracked the lungs and chest of the stricken animal, white bile and spittle spattering his lips and the earth before him. A groan, utterly human, came forth in the agony he suffered. How could it have spread so quickly? The sickness-induced illusion of the jars and bottles attached to his tines rattled like bones as the stag raised his head to peer around. He wanted to make sure no other beings were nearby, lest this disease prove to be contagious.
The Birch Forest was devoid of life in this part, a bad choice for a sick deer who truly wanted to live. A meager grunt was all he could rouse from his form, a call for help. He needed herbs, water, something to help heal him. His head leaning against a tree, the stag allowed himself to sag again in to a rest. His scent drifted on the air, announcing to all who came near that Wild Thing was ill.
