THE PROPHECY ☆ pulled a thread

[roan ;]

SOOTHSAYER ❝ ROAN ❞ THE TYPHOON

For the most part, Roan liked to think that he had adapted to his current form fairly well. It was definitely a little unnerving, being in the form of a zombified feline, but it wasn't as if he could just stop living. He had continued his duties on as usual, albeit with a few minor changes. Such as making the choice to weave various different flowers and herbs into his pelt. The stitching actually made this much easier, since it allowed him to twist the stems into his own pelt – something that was incredibly weird not to feel. This had practically become absolutely necessary, since the soothsayer refused to go around smelling of death for the rest of his days. Not only was it unpleasant, but it also didn't exactly mesh well with his job as a medic. If he constantly smelled of death all the time, then everyone would assume that he was horrid at his job, and patients were constantly dying on his watch. He knew there were many within the group who knew him well enough to know that wasn't the case, but there were also plenty who didn't.

Nevertheless, the soothsayer thought that he was doing pretty well. Unfortunately, the world had a way of coming and messing things up when he thought they were going alright – albeit, this time, in a fairly small way. He had been on his way back from a usual jungle stroll for herbs to bring back to the temple, and he had just begun to cross over the threshold from the jungle to the beach. It was usually a bit of a tight squeeze through the brush, but he didn't often have any problems, coming out the other side without issue. This time, however, one of the branches caught on his pelt, the splintered stick of wood managing to perfectly worm its way beneath one of his stitches. Not immediately noticing this, he continued his way forward, only to hear – and feel – a horrible rip form up his side. Cursing up a storm, Roan hastily stumbled forth from the jungle, falling into a seated position against the sand as he turned to inspect the damage that had been done. It wasn't pretty, with a large gash beginning to seep blood out onto his light blue fur. With a huff, he reached down into his satchel, beginning to grope around for bandages. As he did so, he found himself muttering, "Stupid gods-damned zombie body... these stitches are so sensitive... one of these days my head is just going to fall off..." He was exaggerating, of course, but his frustration made him feel like he was at wit's end.

DON'T ASK FOR HELP, YOU'RE ALL ALONE
YOU'LL HAVE TO ANSWER TO YOUR OWN PRESSURE!

— Reggan