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The beast had spent the better part of his day ridding his body of the larvae embedded into his skin. Exhaustion had begun to overtake him too easily, these days, being the host of tens,, nearly hundreds of the little creatures had filled his days with irritation and infection. Pus had begun to leak from some of the wounds, the larvae inside having died, rotting within his skin. He used his teeth to dig them out, lapping away at the blood, washing away the infection with clean water. It was a ritual he undertook every few months, a cleanse for his body, ensuring that he did not die in the process of hosting these carnivorous little things.

He had taken the liberty to bathe and soak himself in water, drowning them all first, cleaning himself of the rot he was often coated in. It was time for a blank slate, to let himself heal, before allowing them to return. Some had released themselves from him at that point, in a desperate bid for air. At first, there was pain, the ache of a thousand tiny teeth scraping against each open wound they crawled out of, itching. And then, relief, as he felt them release and float away, watched the flowing water turn reddish with blood. He'd set on the task not long after, carefully digging his incisors into each hole and hooking them into the pests, ripping the lifeless bodies out.

It was tedious. Meticulous. It took far, far too long. And yet, he continued to let his body fester the way it did, let parasites grow and thrive within, he would let himself become a vessel once more. He gained nothing from this beyond other's revulsion, the fear in their eyes when they saw exactly how infested he was, the whispers and stares and the avoidance. It filled him with an odd sort of thrill, to be the creature that mothers would tell stories about to their children, the great walking corpse in the woods, open jaws and a crooked, yellow smile. Insects feasting on red, raw flesh. Skin marred from infestation, patches of fur missing from the worst of it.

The day was hot. Blistering. Dirt rested beneath a tree, his maw and paws stained with his own blood, the wounds red and raw and aching. He'd washed away most of the infection at this point, and thankfully, the larvae had eaten the dead flesh around them. He laid his chin upon the dirt, growling softly as he could feel larvae moving in his face. Those were next, but for now, he would rest. The wolf closed his eyes, having every intention of falling asleep then and there, but upon hearing soft pawsteps nearby, he slowly, lazily opened his eyes. A small grin tugged at the corners of his lips, as he registered who it was.

Atticus.

Crawling right into the wolf's mouth, was he? Perhaps Dirt's teeth could cradle his heart, just for now. Dirt wags his tail in greeting, lifting his head upon the young one's approach.

"Atticus. How are you?"

His voice was silk, weaving carefully around the kitten. So mature, yet so young. Having lost so much at a young age... He could have been pitiful. And yet... he had found his way to The Pitt. He remained here, wearing that cord proudly. Dirt's own cord was long, draped around his neck. Long enough for the coyote skull attached to rest upon his head like a crown. He had snapped the lower jaws, attaching them to the sides, so that they would cup his ears and keep it where it rested.

Dirt felt his own pride in knowing this, remembering when he had tried to step in to save Atticus from his brother's claws. How he had failed, how the kitten had learned exactly what hate felt like, slicing into his face. How he wished to weave himself into that boy's grief, to manipulate and prod as he pleased, to seize that little heart between his teeth.