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Malodore turned back to Riley, surprised and a little gratified by her concern. "I... yes. I'm perfectly well... now." Ugh, that had been unpleasant. It didn't want to think about the moment in which it had poofed into little tiny embers.... ugh... "I had a pumpkin pill left. But I'm not going out again. I'm going to stay right here and put my training to use," it said, grimly.

Undead things have an uncanny knack for being wary of fire, and generally for good reason. It burns. Especially when provoked by embalming chemicals or old trapped gasses in a zombie stomach. As for patchworks, there is a general instilled fear of the mobs-with-pitchforks that usually accompany fire as well, which usually spreads and consumes stitches and flesh alike. Such is the way of things.

And so it was no real surprise that when Christof arrived (In pieces) in a heap in a bed in the infirmary, he was screaming. Or at least screaming as much as a young boil with his mouth stitched shut could scream. It was a muffled sort of horrific flailing that would have been a lot more of a scene had his crispy detached limbs been responsive in the least. Unfortunately, a lack of Fear to properly keep things tingling and cooperative made it rather difficult.

Finally, he resolved to sit back with a half horrified, half relieved groan, happy at least to be alive.

That'll teach him to keep his shoes tied in times of crisis.

Malodore gave Riley a startled look - she had a pill and hadn't used it herself? That was... unexpected. "Understood," it said, quietly, carefully palming the orange pill and carrying it over to the lightning dragon's cot, stopping on the way over to obligingly flick a blanket over a strange ghoul's shivering form.

"Here - take this," it said, once it reached Aksaja, holding the pill to the dragon's lips. "Riley says it's yours."

Back on Riley's cot, Luce curled more tightly into Riley's side, warming her.

Jamais felt the blanket being flicked over and cuddled into it giving off a slight purr as it was already warming her up a bit. "Thanks." She directed towards Malodore, who she'd seen pass by and could only assume the kindness was from... him?

Her tail occasionally flickered as she sighed softly. This might just be enough to make her swear off train rides. She couldn't help but wonder where Basil had gotten too and how she was fairing in all this.

Shifting in his cot, Christof overheard dimly some talk of pumpkin pills. Pills... damn, he had swallowed both of his. Ooooh how he would have liked one just about then. The last times had invigorated him... up until the robots and explosions. No matter. As far as he could tell his mind was sound at least. The pain was.... a strange sensation, really, once you got used to it's jaw-clenching awfulness. Burns, now, those were familiar, those always hurt, and he could smell burning hair. It might have been one of the hairier students nearby, though, it was unclear, the whole infirmary stank of... whatever it was their party had inadvertently awakened.

He shifted his head. He'd need some skin grafts when he was home, just when he had gotten used to this array of patchwork. Great. First thing was first, though, he had to pull himself together. Again. He really hated Christmas Town.

If he had had a mouth, it might have made things a hair easier, but with only one accounted for arm that stubbornly remained joyfully dead and unresponsive, he tried to scoot himself towards it, leaning his head against his unhunched shoulder to try to nab the arm laying across his chest with his chin and at least push it into place. Delirious with injury, it was quite a trying task. Limbs were supposed to MOVE when you removed them! How else could you repair yourself?? This place was ridiculous.

Barth's claw dropped off the cot.

His effects, apparently riddled with as much fear as he was, had ended up disintegrated and reaparated beside him. He used long fingers to close around the handle of the bell, and move it once.

The bell, entirely used, cracked and fell to pieces. Barth left his arm where it was. He was content to lay there. Others, probably less so.

Riley HP: 14

Malodore quickly padded over to Christof, who had arrived... in bits. Quite small bits, in some cases. But the plague doctor hadn't taken sewing for nothing, and those who had attended Nurse Cricket's first class could attest to its abilities in that area. "I have materials," it informed the patchwork, "and with your consent..." It drew a needle and suture thread out of one sleeve, businesslike.

At the sound of the voice, Christof looked up, dimly trying to concentrate on the beaked face. Master? No- black like a crow's or a raven's, and red all around... that... that student from before! Boil? Ghoul? He couldn't remember, nor see straight enough to figure it out just yet, but his singed brows furrowed in sad desperation at his procured needle- oh thank FEAR there was an expert in the house! The limp wrist dropped from under his chin as he nodded in the enthusiastic way of someone on the verge of collapse.