( Anyone who joins him for company is welcome to post something about your deer's reaction on here, whether to his sickness or the Jars.)

Stumbling, the stag made his way to The Ruins. His body seemed to quiver, almost shaky in his steps, but still managed to retain its balance. His mouth exhaled a mumbling sigh, ears lay floppily on their joints, each step heavy and calculated improperly. He sighed with a moan, eyes rolling in their sockets and flickering open blindly before closing again.

Wild Thing seemed to be asleep, yet awake. He would not remember any of his journey from the thicket in which he fell in to this unconscious wandering. That was all the product of a pesky tick too engorged with blood for a bird to remove from his skin. Lyme disease was a scary thing, and it left him as delusional as a rabid dog, though his conscious mind was no where near corrupted by his state.

A grunt, and the beast appeared to have skinned a knee in a collapse over an errant brick. He rose, and continued walking with those same heavy steps.

The stag began to grunt, rooting around by the walls, uncovering little things as he went. The glass jars he uncovered near and inside the cellar-pit made their way in to a pile in this place, followed by a spool of string and a set of candles once hidden by a sheet. The thick, fragrant candles were placed carefully in these jars by a pair of aching jaws.

The string was threaded, the jars prepared, and the beast shivering beside them. His head swooned, and he became conscious for the briefest of moments. "What doing, not home, cold stone, jars? Sick. The stag stood shakily, walking to the nearest thick of grass to retch, though nothing but acid came. He returned to the jars, staring at them for a moment before passing out in exhaustion. There he lay, near the pit, feverish and panting. Beneath the fur of his chest, right above his heart, a bulls-eye grew as if inviting death's arrow to hit its mark.

Lyme disease terrorized his body.