I can feel it inside of me.
It's like some kind of slime, slithering through my veins. I feel a need, no, an obsession, with, of all things, counting the hairs on my arms. I keep losing count and having to start over.
This is the favor, isn't it? The debt I owe to the Ichor. It's coming to collect. It's infested me, and now it's replacing my bodily fluids with its own ink.
Soon, I'll lose myself. I'll become a Camper, just another limb of the Ichor.
Maybe it's what I deserve.