TAGS. she is a weakly little thing. sickness pours from her, not in the form of rasping breath or glossy eyes, for it is something not visible to the naked eye. her sickness does not spread, does not infect any but herself. the infection comes into the form of frail muscle and stuttering legs, deteriorating motor skills and choking lungs. it's been with her for so long, so, so, long that the child can hardly gather memories where it never came into fruition. where walking came easy. where leaps and skips were feasible without struggle, where a run didn't spiral into a wobbly tumble, or gravity caught her in it's claws and squeezed.
no, she cannot recall times of that nature.
in the curls of feathery pink dawn, little lambpaw's scent will be caught in the curves near the marshy river all by its lonesome. no trace of conflict stands, save for perhaps the way claws had caught and tore across the water's bank. that alone indicates that the doll may have had slipped and fell into its depths, ultimately lacking the proper strength to yank herself back onto solid ground.
ooc: to clarify, i'm not dropping lambpaw! i'm currently hatching up a scheme with a friend, so she'll be making a return later on (^: