Scithe

Trek down the path of snow, following the fallen strands of fur trailing you somewhere. It's cold, burdening on your shoulders and tips as you continue in the thick, fallen clouds on the ground. Your mind feels tense as you progress; do you really think it was a good idea to look for one? They only desire the crimson that flows in yourself, to splatter the cave walls and grounds with the same color. They're mindless, driven by the hollow space that filled what created them in the first place. Besides, who could possibly find one in the Plague region anyway?

Keep going, you tell yourself; you have the correct objects with you; you know there's one nearby. If it attacks, you can fight back.
The snow thickens as you come up to a clan nestled near some mountains, strafing a bit close to a specific cave opening. All of them look like they're minding their own business, tending to their own desires and necessities. You went to ask one of a nearby wendigo, and they informed you that a clan member of theirs resided in the cave they chose to home nearby. However, they leave you with a message just beforehand you walk off:


Watch the collar.


The winds quiet down as you enter the empty hovel, all noise merely muffled or the clack of your sharp talons touching the cold stone under your claws. Your luminescent eyes scan the insides, looking for a gargantuan beast eager to devour a drake like you. You further inside the cave. . .and find just a Wildclaw.

He was bandaged with bloodied wraps all around him, large tufts of fur spitting out the open slits; His apparel he wore seemed unnecessary due to how much warmth you presumed he already had. Petals, fallen fur, and something mangled were scattered around the silent dragon, smoke gently billowing curls from his joints. He had slightly moved as you inspected him, and a quiet clinking noise sounded at the same time. Must've been the collar his companions spoke of.

If this was a wendigo. . .it sure didn't look like it, nor did it act like it. He seemed far too calm to be considered such a creature, yet his size and characteristics couldn't be more closer to one, for a Wildclaw anyway. You inch nearer, just to get a better look-

"Who are you. . .?"

You pause. He could hear you behind his back. "You are a wendigo, yes?"
You only see him nod. No sound.
"Are you sure? You don't seem-"

"My collar."
Clinging sounded as his head turned; his neck obviously bore a thick, sturdy, metal necklace of sorts, pristine oddly enough and decorated with only a keyhole and a broken chain hanging off to the side. His expression looked sorrowful, yet numb of emotion.
"If this is all you came here to do, you may leave."
He turned his head back, another shackling noise being heard again.


It seems that his color restricts him of his true form. He's painlessly restrained this way, and probably given this neck contraption by his fellows. Was it his choice? Was he forced? It's not easily clear whether his weary face was out of betrayal or guilt. Hard to read in the dark anyway.
The collar doesn't constrict everything of him, however; his fur, bloody eyes, and other certain parts are still visible. It mostly covers and suppresses his urges, to an assumption; probably focusing more on what could make him dangerous than everything else.

How. . .degrading. . . .