i don't know where else to turn

Isanti

A snowstorm blew inside a wolf's eyes
And the frozen tears covered all the mountainsides

There's nothing he can do for her.

Isanti himself is .. okay, he supposes: the red, scaly lesions and rashes have spread across most of his lower face, his hands raw and crusty, and he feels perpetually asphyxiated. Easily tired. His body is struggling with whatever's going on, but he's managing well enough.

Morrocaw, on the other hand, cannot be reasoned with. Her lower limbs are naked, the fur since long licked and worried off, her skin crusty and raw and red from whatever-the-fuck-it-is and her sandpaper tongue trying to soothe the itches. She doesn't understand she just makes it worse. There's bare patches on her tail and flanks and wherever she can reach too - she's a sorry sight, alright.

He can't afford the Plateside doctors or vets, and having spent so much time topside it's been beat into his head that Drench doctors are all hoaxes and witches and charlatans.

But at this point he doesn't know what the fuck else to do.

So a slight, white-haired man boy steps through the doors of Wren's Soft Fix. Swaddled in his arms is a bundle, cloaked and hooded, of a size that could perhaps be a ten year old carried by its older brother.

Her front legs are tucked under his poncho, hooded head perhaps giving the impression of a funny-shaped hat under there - her body is wrapped in the cloak, hind legs folded up and resting on one of his arms. The tip of her tail is in his hand to keep her from giving them away. The one blessing is that she, too, is tired. Blindfolded, to keep her from looking around too much, her ears plugged for the same reason. She's alright to just rest her head on his shoulder, along for the ride.

Isanti lets the door to the waiting room close behind him, and quickly puts his other arm back around Morrocaw. She's a lot heavier than a ten year old, and he really doesn't want to drop her.

His heart rabbits in his chest - too fast, he's warm, sweaty, nervous. Tentatively he approaches the reception area.

---

@Nate <33

But then the time got by and the wolf died
And someday that wolf would be I

NATE

it gives the weak flight, it gives the blind sight
until the cops come, or by the last light

Drenak has been cursed. Sickness usually runs rampant this season, but it's been so much worse than usual, sores infecting nearly every person who comes in, sores that respond to very little that he has. Stress has been piling up on his shoulders for days now, not at all helped by the weeping wounds on his own face and hands, vanity the only thing keeping him from scratching himself bloody.

It's early, but Nate is still sitting behind the reception desk, too wired to have slept most of the night before. It's not like he's gone home the last few nights anyway, too worried about missing someone in desperate need. Still, exhaustion does wear on him, making him slower than usual to look up when the door opens. Bleary eyes blink before he's on his feet, pulling a mask up over his face so he can step up and approach the newcomer.

"What can I do for you?" He asks, stopping a short distance from the other and looking him over. He looks as bad as the rest of his patients have, but the real concern is the still shape held in his arms. Nate can feel something settle in his guts, fear and worry. The bundle is about the size of a child.

Stepping back, Nate immediately gestures down the hall. "I have a room free down here, if you want to follow me?" Without waiting for a real answer, Nate takes a few short steps then looks back over his shoulder.

and for the last night i lie
could i lie next to you?