Rot shouldn't set in so quickly. May I request a pair of work gloves, ones you wouldn't mind destroying when finished?

[Alucard knows the request is forward, but knows that there is a need to get closer. The smell of the rot is stronger than it should be as well, the undertone of it a sickly sweet sort of thing that feels deeply wrong.

The gloves are produced, and Alucard pauses just long enough to shrug off his coat and throw it to one side. Certain that the gloves are on and his immediate skin won't risk exposure, he crouches down, getting eye level with the pile.]

There's larvae here.

[A gloved hand points to a small cluster.]