Khloros watched, oblivious to what was happening. When the bat went wide-eyed, he was uncertain as to whether it was with fear or awe, the awe she had prior shown, and so he tilted his head a little and extended out his senses.

"Do you now carry death?" he asked, as he did so--but the faint buzz of life churning within her told another story. "...You have done it wrong," the plague-horse added almost at once, his voice a detached rasp. "Carried in this way, you will become ill. It must be removed entirely. And then, perhaps, you can try again."

His offer was indifferent; he could certainly cleanse her--in fact he would likely try, should she offer permission--but to him it was not too big a deal. It could easily be reversed, after all.

Unless something else went horribly wrong.

________________

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD