"Like Nosferatu?" Pyotr mumbles, only half listening. He doesn't try to fight the removal of the blanket, but his eyes stay stubbornly closed. Hearing and tactility alone are enough to near-overwhelm, and he cringes, shivering hard as cold air sinks into the weave of his shirt. Blood has dried across his face in smeared trickles, matting his hair and soaking into the bedsheet.

"I don't need healing," he groans, contriving to curl his bony frame into an even smaller ball. "You should've let Burakh stab me, lord vampire. It would have been a treasured gift, but now all my hard work's been wasted."