[Miasma]

  Finally, something goes right. Through trial and error, and so many hides dropped to rot, her tanning is finally coming together. Sure, they're still slipping, and not so malleable as leather ought, but it's working. Not so far, in some hole in the rock, she has a ribcage mostly articulately, almost exactly Crow's size, and soon she can start sewing from it. A series of sinews threaded in sun-bleached bones hang from phalanges gouged in the wall long before her, some found, mostly made on her own in the style of artful predecessors. Miasma still thinks them pretty, but she doesn't want to seem too gaudy, if she's the only one.

  Her claws scrape over the fleshy side of a pelt, blunt enough they don't damage it, but remove any meat she missed. Smiling privately, she goes about her work, and thinks of nothing but blood.

[Isaiah]

The smell of rot and bones drew the gangly little wolf's attention. He tensed, first instincts telling him to slink into the foliage and head the opposite direction until he was certain he was far from the source. You never could be too safe in Alteron after all, and Isaiah did not want to engage with strangers even under the best of conditions. He made it three steps into the brush before he paused and reconsidered.

The alchemist was in the business of death, being what was now known as The Star. And while the boy possessed little else, Alteron had failed to snuff out the dark flame of curiosity from his mind. And so he pinned back his too-large ears and followed his snotty and and chapped nose to the source. Isaiah looked very much like he was dead himself - an eye missing from it's socket, fur greasy, bones showing at every joint and rib. His posture reeked of something bent and creeping, he understood he was repulsive, every step an apology for being born. But his expression burned, singular amber eye very much alive.

He peered from the cover of plant life to see the scene before him. A girl, younger than him but far healthier and probably stronger. The pelts of animals stretched tight and scraped of flesh. A macabre mannequin of bone. Isaiah's muzzle lifted slightly into an expression of distaste that somehow wasn't surprised. It was time to leave, there was nothing for him here, even following his curiosity was stupid. What had he expected?

But before he could turn to leave, a series of ragged coughs welled up in his throat. Shit. He could not control it, his sides heaving and his throat cracking as he tried to catch his breath and stumble away.

[Miasma]

  Her head snaps instantly to the older man, startled from her art, but far from angry about it. She seems nothing but curious, and maybe a touch hopeful, as his coughing continues and she shifts instead to concern. "Are you alright?" Miasma asks, taking just a few tentative steps nearer. "Do you need water?" There's a creek not far-- she often has to wash up after work, such as this.

  Speaking of, eyebrows furrow even further, and she surveys her handiwork with more than a touch of embarrassment. "You're not allergic, are you? Or scared? There's nothing to be afraid of-- there's bones inside you, too!" The explanation is juvenile, like she's speaking to a child. Almost as if she still is one, wide eyes and wagging tail. "I can make you something?" It's the best she has to offer, avoiding abuse.