Vadar
Seven characteristics are in an uncultivated person, and seven in a learned one
Waking painfully to the sensation of his face being set on fire, Vadar cracked open his mouth, slid a raspy, dry tongue over crusty teeth and took a deep breath. The heat which had brought him out of a delirious slumber came from directly overhead, beating down onto his oil-slick coat and baking the sand underneath him. He had no idea how he’d ended up flat in the dirt or even where he was; for days now the plague seemed to be progressing and taking his memories with it.
Starsin. He remembers the star-mare, at least. Remembers coughing up blood and being confused, and then alarmed when dry patches of his skin began to bald before peeling off in tough, leathery strips.
Swallowing grit, Vadar shifts a very heavy head. Where was he last? Shivering and aching in the woods, he thinks. It was dark often. Unbearably cold. After that? Sweating in the foothills of … the Mountain? Maybe. Things go dark there. Spotty.
Anyways, as soon as he tries to lift his neck the vagabond can physically feel the way his remaining fur is clumped from dried salt. At some point there must’ve been a fever, his brain must’ve cooked for a little while. “Guuuhhh…” Vadar moans, the blood rush prickling his numb muscles.
Yep, fried.