I'm rotting inside
My flesh turns to dust
"A proud sentinel, you are," it growls repulsively while trying to drink back the drool that's pooling in its mouth. Anyone is a potential meal; anything with a pulse, a heartbeat, screams for it to maul and kill, but Infection holds back. A battle is raging in its empty core as it tries to sort through its thoughts, memories, and sensations. It's fighting instincts right now and although it's proving difficult, the deathcrawler is concealing it well behind a stoic expression. The creature - an abomination, it is - holds its ground, and its sickly stare, steadily. "That is a rare find here, a treasure to hold tightly to," it drawls to the stallion with a, now, thoughtful tilt of its head.
Perhaps a useful one.
Yes, those already stationed here can be useful.
"Infection," the offer hangs in the frigid air between them; an offer of placidity, an unspoken promise to not attack just yet. Their hot breath coils and mingles briefly before dissipating before their eyes.
The snowfall is heavy, a curtain of white that blankets across the two of them. The difference, a subtle thing, is how easily and quickly snow can melt from Hurricane's body heat. The melting along Infection's back is unmatched and sluggish. How can it melt snow when it barely has body heat? A jagged smile stretches across cracked lips. "How long have you lived in the Tundra?"
infection