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Description
He let his shoulders roll forward.  The motion stretched the skin of his back tightly across his spine, and a few flecks of black came loose.  He reached back one of his long, lanky arms, and scritch-scratched at the tiny, scale-like growths that plagued his body.  Some of them came free as he scratched, and he sighed with catharsis.  His arm fell back down to his side, and he mournfully noted the sensation of new black scales growing back to cover the exposed patches on his back.

He would never leave this place, this hospital for lost causes.  The walls were black with soot and ash from the fireplace that was never cleaned, the floor stained with the filth and blood of a hundred previous tenants.  The feeble cot sagged in the middle where he sat - where he'd sat for the past four months languishing in misery.  He'd spent the last two hours working up the will to cross the room and drink from the pitcher of gritty brown water that was provided by the nurse.  As of yet, his thirst hadn't become enough of a motivator to exert the energy of standing, even for a moment.  There was no plague in his bones, no atrophy in his limbs, but he was loath to act upon urges that would prolong the miserable life he felt resigned to.  So, until thirst drove him to it, he would sit and desiccate like the husk of a man he felt like.

At last, he forced his lanky limbs to function, creakily standing on his feet and rising to his full height.  He stood taller than the door's frame, and it was not his ailment that made his bones jut and his proportions awkwardly off-kilter.  The only outward sign of his disease manifested in the tiny sharp shards of black that littered his body and scratched against each other with every move.

He had not taken two steps across the room before a rattling, scraping commotion startled him.  His ears had hardly registered that the noise was coming from the fireplace before a sweeping gust of wind, carrying with it the accumulated soot and ash from the chimney, poured from the hearth and extinguished the fire.  Another scraping noise emanated from the same spot, and he stepped away from the hearth, confused and curious.  A tumbling mass of feathers and soot fell out of the chimney and rolled out of the hearth, shuddering and shaking as it tried to stop its own momentum.  A falcon, a pale, golden-flecked creature of unusual size, stood on its feet and took a couple of dizzy steps towards the sick man, before stumbling and falling again.

As it fell, however, feathers and soot were shed as the figure of a young man stretched and shuddered out of the bird's body.  The newcomer lay prostrate for a moment, eventually letting out a hoarse cough that sent a puff of muck and soot flying from his mouth.

"Erwin?"  The man with black scales asked wonderingly, crouching down to try and see the the young man's face.

The young man gave a groan and pushed himself up, bringing himself to sit on the floor with his legs straight out in front of him, slouching in exhaustion.  He lifted his head to look up at the tall man, but as soon as his face was seen, the sick man threw himself away, covering his eyes with his hands and keeping his back to the newcomer.

"Erwin, you fool!  You know I cannot look at you."  The sick man was agitated, and his voice was coarse from so much disuse.

"Never mind that."  The boy replied.  "I have good word that your ailment cannot inflict me at all."

"I will not risk such a thing."  Was the curt reply.  "Please take your leave."

"Come off it, Foy.  I've word from Sable herself that I cannot be harmed."

"Sable?"  There was hesitation in the voice that replied.

"Aye.  Now would you look to me?  I do not enjoy the company of the back of your head.  Let me see you."

After a moment's deliberation, Foy turned.  He so desired the sight of a familiar face, he did not need much further conviction.

With a rustle and a vigorous shake, the young man was on his feet, brushing away the soot and standing before Foy.  His clothes consisted of many layers of ratty sweaters and scarves, with thick boots on his feet that were stuffed with rags to account for the fact that they were obviously several sizes too large.  His color was very reminiscent of his falcon feathers, his skin a clammy cream and his hair a tarnished gold.  Colored so, and decked in almost entirely pale, brown-and-tan clothes, he shone like a bright candle in the grime-covered room.  Foy brushed away his own greasy black hair from his face, and for the first time in months he felt somewhat upset by his own dingy appearance.

It was a miracle to see and recognize another person, to Foy.  His ailment, unnatural as it was, could strike another being ill the very moment he laid eyes on them.  For all his months in the hospital, he'd worn blindfolds around the nurses and patients, or simply remained hidden in his room.  He hadn't realized how he missed the simple act of looking at a familiar face.

Erwin could not note these emotions on Foy's face.  He could only be relieved that he was, indeed, immune to the disease and feel somewhat shocked at Foy's appearance.  The tall, noble man he had known was absent.  Foy no longer stood straight, but hunched and let his gawkiness rule.  He wore a black smock and black pants, both of which were threadbare and much too small.  His hair had grown to hang in his face, greasy and unwashed from many months of apathy.  Any skin that was not covered in the sharp black flecks was pale and sallow, littered with sores and lesions.

But oh, his eyes.  Erwin distinctly remembered the cold, solid blue eyes that had once sat in that face.  But now there were only two black pits, bottomless and haunting.  Sores and black scales were growing in the corners of his eyes, corrupting a face that Erwin should have found so familiar.  The overall effect was monstrous, and Erwin struggled to hide his repulsion at such a distorted image of his friend.

Perhaps because of the long time he'd gone without seeing another's face, Foy was did not detect the repulsion on Erwin's features.

"You need a bath, my friend."  Erwin said plainly.

"I haven't had a need."  Was Foy's bitter reply.

"Well,"  Erwin pretended to brush the dust away from Foy's shoulder, an act which accomplished absolutely nothing, "now you do.  Come, we've very little time and a massive lot to do.  We'll need to leave right away if there's any hope of making you presentable again."

"I need not tidy myself up for an audience of rats and mice."  Foy said snidely.

"Bid your rats and mice good-bye, my dear man.  We've more detestable creatures to attend to."  Erwin threw out his arms in enthusiasm.  Foy's brows furrowed in confusion.

With a grin, Erwin clapped his hands on Foy's shoulders.  "We've a royal wedding to attend!"

Description
He let his shoulders roll forward.  The motion stretched the skin of his back tightly across his spine, and a few flecks of black came loose.  He reached back one of his long, lanky arms, and scritch-scratched at the tiny, scale-like growths that plagued his body.  Some of them came free as he scratched, and he sighed with catharsis.  His arm fell back down to his side, and he mournfully noted the sensation of new black scales growing back to cover the exposed patches on his back.

He would never leave this place, this hospital for lost causes.  The walls were black with soot and ash from the fireplace that was never cleaned, the floor stained with the filth and blood of a hundred previous tenants.  The feeble cot sagged in the middle where he sat - where he'd sat for the past four months languishing in misery.  He'd spent the last two hours working up the will to cross the room and drink from the pitcher of gritty brown water that was provided by the nurse.  As of yet, his thirst hadn't become enough of a motivator to exert the energy of standing, even for a moment.  There was no plague in his bones, no atrophy in his limbs, but he was loath to act upon urges that would prolong the miserable life he felt resigned to.  So, until thirst drove him to it, he would sit and desiccate like the husk of a man he felt like.

At last, he forced his lanky limbs to function, creakily standing on his feet and rising to his full height.  He stood taller than the door's frame, and it was not his ailment that made his bones jut and his proportions awkwardly off-kilter.  The only outward sign of his disease manifested in the tiny sharp shards of black that littered his body and scratched against each other with every move.

He had not taken two steps across the room before a rattling, scraping commotion startled him.  His ears had hardly registered that the noise was coming from the fireplace before a sweeping gust of wind, carrying with it the accumulated soot and ash from the chimney, poured from the hearth and extinguished the fire.  Another scraping noise emanated from the same spot, and he stepped away from the hearth, confused and curious.  A tumbling mass of feathers and soot fell out of the chimney and rolled out of the hearth, shuddering and shaking as it tried to stop its own momentum.  A falcon, a pale, golden-flecked creature of unusual size, stood on its feet and took a couple of dizzy steps towards the sick man, before stumbling and falling again.

As it fell, however, feathers and soot were shed as the figure of a young man stretched and shuddered out of the bird's body.  The newcomer lay prostrate for a moment, eventually letting out a hoarse cough that sent a puff of muck and soot flying from his mouth.

"Erwin?"  The man with black scales asked wonderingly, crouching down to try and see the the young man's face.

The young man gave a groan and pushed himself up, bringing himself to sit on the floor with his legs straight out in front of him, slouching in exhaustion.  He lifted his head to look up at the tall man, but as soon as his face was seen, the sick man threw himself away, covering his eyes with his hands and keeping his back to the newcomer.

"Erwin, you fool!  You know I cannot look at you."  The sick man was agitated, and his voice was coarse from so much disuse.

"Never mind that."  The boy replied.  "I have good word that your ailment cannot inflict me at all."

"I will not risk such a thing."  Was the curt reply.  "Please take your leave."

"Come off it, Foy.  I've word from Sable herself that I cannot be harmed."

"Sable?"  There was hesitation in the voice that replied.

"Aye.  Now would you look to me?  I do not enjoy the company of the back of your head.  Let me see you."

After a moment's deliberation, Foy turned.  He so desired the sight of a familiar face, he did not need much further conviction.

With a rustle and a vigorous shake, the young man was on his feet, brushing away the soot and standing before Foy.  His clothes consisted of many layers of ratty sweaters and scarves, with thick boots on his feet that were stuffed with rags to account for the fact that they were obviously several sizes too large.  His color was very reminiscent of his falcon feathers, his skin a clammy cream and his hair a tarnished gold.  Colored so, and decked in almost entirely pale, brown-and-tan clothes, he shone like a bright candle in the grime-covered room.  Foy brushed away his own greasy black hair from his face, and for the first time in months he felt somewhat upset by his own dingy appearance.

It was a miracle to see and recognize another person, to Foy.  His ailment, unnatural as it was, could strike another being ill the very moment he laid eyes on them.  For all his months in the hospital, he'd worn blindfolds around the nurses and patients, or simply remained hidden in his room.  He hadn't realized how he missed the simple act of looking at a familiar face.

Erwin could not note these emotions on Foy's face.  He could only be relieved that he was, indeed, immune to the disease and feel somewhat shocked at Foy's appearance.  The tall, noble man he had known was absent.  Foy no longer stood straight, but hunched and let his gawkiness rule.  He wore a black smock and black pants, both of which were threadbare and much too small.  His hair had grown to hang in his face, greasy and unwashed from many months of apathy.  Any skin that was not covered in the sharp black flecks was pale and sallow, littered with sores and lesions.

But oh, his eyes.  Erwin distinctly remembered the cold, solid blue eyes that had once sat in that face.  But now there were only two black pits, bottomless and haunting.  Sores and black scales were growing in the corners of his eyes, corrupting a face that Erwin should have found so familiar.  The overall effect was monstrous, and Erwin struggled to hide his repulsion at such a distorted image of his friend.

Perhaps because of the long time he'd gone without seeing another's face, Foy was did not detect the repulsion on Erwin's features.

"You need a bath, my friend."  Erwin said plainly.

"I haven't had a need."  Was Foy's bitter reply.

"Well,"  Erwin pretended to brush the dust away from Foy's shoulder, an act which accomplished absolutely nothing, "now you do.  Come, we've very little time and a massive lot to do.  We'll need to leave right away if there's any hope of making you presentable again."

"I need not tidy myself up for an audience of rats and mice."  Foy said snidely.

"Bid your rats and mice good-bye, my dear man.  We've more detestable creatures to attend to."  Erwin threw out his arms in enthusiasm.  Foy's brows furrowed in confusion.

With a grin, Erwin clapped his hands on Foy's shoulders.  "We've a royal wedding to attend!"