Who needs the Isle when you can make the world of dead and dying your home?
Oxytocin snorts as he kicks yet another body out of his way, not even reacting when the other whimpers in pain. Oops, it appears that one isn’t dead yet, he thinks to himself, privately wishing that he could use his blight on horses as well as plants. It’s so annoying, constantly tripping over emaciated or bloated bodies littering the ground wherever he walks. It's like he can’t escape the plague no matter where he goes, and it’s getting old quick. He's become immune and seeing reminders of the sickness that had briefly touched him just grinds his gears in a way that he can’t explain.
He's finally managed to find a more secluded part of the Meadow, where the sick have not yet discovered to die all over it. Thank the gods for that, at least. It is the middle of winter and the snow is piled heavily on the ground, much more heavily than the last time he was here, and he trudges through it towards an old friend of his: a tree, much older than most of the horses around these days and the perfect spot for a nap. There is no snow under the thick, heavy branches, and though the grass underneath is nearly dead and the dirt is cold, the tree has become his go-to spot whenever he is in the Meadow, even in the dead of winter.
He had braved Icicle Isle, after all; it doesn’t get much colder than that.
When he finally arrives at his resting spot, there is already another one there. It is not so surprising to him, as surely others are as sick of the more cramped areas as he is. He approaches the woman with his dark eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he can sense no sign of the plague on her, though perhaps she is still in the early stages of the sickness. “You know,” he says as he approaches, mischief gleaming in his eyes now. “I don’t normally share my napping places with others.”
OXYTOCIN
I don't have my head on straight
@Wishbone