The voice at first strikes him as yet another of the many strange beings that came to haunt him, but after a moment (and some contemplation of his most recent round of awful wretching), he lifts his head, staring about in a state of dazed confusion.

His senses, obfuscated by pain and exhaustion, take some time to finally track down and react to the presence, recognizing it as...something else.

"...y-yea," he manages to blurt out, focusing on the presence as his senses swim, finishing his thought before returning his attention to the expulsions of his flesh and blood, "any advice you care to give, stranger?"

The ghoul just shakes his head, resting his body as best he can back against the kitchen cabinets as he sits, slumped onto the floor.

He couldn't tell you: a curse? Some godawful new form trying to emerge from him? Perhaps his Wrath throwing a tantrum now that he's told it "no" a few times now? Him finally fading away?

He doesn't know, and, frankly, he's in a bit too much pain to worry about reasons why, for now.

Chalk it up to being a ghost and not being emotionally stable, he guesses: not like there's much of a reason to be worried, really.

Other people did things with their lives andafterlife, after all: he just holed himself up, took care of his cats, and brooded. No great loss if he gets stuck like this, he supposes.

The pats are willingly accepted, with Mallew allowing the touches with little resistance...although with each pat, a small smudge of black ectoplasm comes off on her hand. While for lesser beings this substance would be boiling hot, corrosive, and corruptive, it was no danger to the mun, being as she was both a celestial entity of near god-like status, as well as someone Mallew knew well, and, whether he admitted it or not, felt comfort around.

Not even in the greatest throes of his Wrath would he dare raise a hand against her, and, following suit, it seemed, his ectoplasm wasn't intent on doing so either.

"ACK!"

That being said, the feathers that came out him were not so pleasant: as he coughed up a few more and they drifted in the air past the mun, it was clear that these were different.

A frightening, piercing heat radiated from them, akin to the sensation of a burn with none of the numbing that came with cauterization. The feathers were hot, weightless, and seemed to blow away just as quickly as they came, quickly replaced by another batch as Mallew clearly struggled with the pain.

If Wrath was a slow, creeping burn, stewing like lightless magma deep within some dark, deep, bottomless cave, then these feathers were piercing, like bright light without a hint of illumination, glittering slightly as they floated away, without a hint of worry towards such things as gravity or life.

Pleading eyes looked up at Micool, gently asking her, plaintive and defeated:

"...help?"

Although there was no answer as to who (or what) Mallew's assailant was, the hug was indeed certain, as was his response.

"HRK-!" Mallew gasped at the sudden contact, the sudden pressure, a glob of gold-streaked ectoplasm dribbling down his face as the hug pushed against him, the ghoul instinctively pushing the one embracing him weakly away, fearful both of this sudden embrace, and for their own safety in response to him dribbling ectoplasm, a substance he knew was both boiling hot and not pleasant to be in contact with.

Upon feeling himself be held, however, and the feeling of familiarity that came with it, he recognized the person that was giving it...

He gave in, immediately slumping into the celestial entity's embrace, groaning, low, montone, and matter-of-factly:

"Micool...madre..."

It was all the comfort he needed to finally slump forward against the mun, accept the embrace and let himself be supported for a time: he was in good hands, after all.

The question doesn't seem to register at first, the ghoul lifting his head only for it to again slump down, a low groan escaping him, followed by a quiet, near inaudible noise...

It was a sob, barely strong enough to be made with what energy he had left, with what scorched vocal chords his mishmashed form could muster, followed immediately by a small series of quickly-evaporating, ectoplasmic tears.

It seemed the question (and its lack of answer) was causing him a deep, emotional fear:

"...no...no sé"

There's a loud, deep wretch from the ghoul in response, him slumping against the sink even more, practically slumped on top of it, when the audible plop and wet slap of another upchucked wad of ectoplasm hits the sink's bottom.

Mallew slumped this time all the way to the floor, shaking and weak as the ectoplasm again quickly evaporated, a few small, down-like feathers poofing up into the air, one of which landed near the anon's form.

Just being within inches of it, the air feels dizzyingly warm, and if they were to bring their appendages towards it, well...

To call it absolutely, flesh-meltingly hot would be an understatement.

Mallew can only muster a weak nod as he sits, slumped in a chair in the kitchen, not even realizing he's speaking to a stranger and not one of his underlings.

His back pressed against the wall, claws gripping the sides of the chair to prevent himself from collapsing/falling from his seat, head dangling down, his body wavering from side-to-side...both physically as if he were dizzy, and in a strange, overlaying effect, similar to the effect one might use to make a 2d image appear 3d.

His voice is low, gasping, and monotone, as if he lacks the energy to put any intonation into it, eeking out a question between deep, clearly pained breaths:

"...por...por qué...pl-plumas?"

Cue Mallew, who is currently slumped against the kitchen sink wretching loudly, waving his hand shakily towards the trail of goop behind him and dribbling down the cabinets from where he's touched them.

He doesn't want it and isn't using it, as one might guess.

It is, however, clearly reactive with oxygen (or, alternately, has a low boiling point), based on the fact that's it's quickly evaporating as it sits there. Might want to use an air-sealed container.

He's not going to resist that offer: he can tell he's not well, and, perhaps for the first time in his afterlife, he's scared enough by recent events, by all these unexplained changes to accept without much fuss.

He shakes his head, muttering a jumble of words between small gulps and looks of pain and discomfort:

"...n-not...alright...help?"

He's not going to fight it anymore: he needs someone's help...and, if he was being honest with himself, there weren't more capable hands than Micool's to trust in.

It takes a while for him to register, and then work towards an answer.

Slow to push and prop himself up onto his elbows, his cats shifting aside as he moves, he looks the anon in the eyes. His irises are burning low, black ectoplasm still dripping from the corners of his mouth, his entire body, even whilst being wrapped up in a bulky blanket, appearing oddly frail for a man his size, a shudder shaking him as he intones, a weak grin on his face:

"No."

Another round of coughing (though thankfully not as harsh this time) shakes through him, dislodging a smaller but still substantial amount of ectoplasm as he continues, meekly:

"I'm not sure what's wrong, really..."

His head sways slightly before, in one last heave, a final globule of ectoplasm emerges from his mouth, although, this time...

It's a dull, dark bronze color, complete with an almost metallic, iridescent glint.

"...that can't be good."