A coincidence...

A coincidence...

Postby Jirai » Tue Apr 26, 2005 2:08 pm

Ariane had been coughing, this evening. Ordinarily, the cloaked woman would not have paid this much heed, save that she owed the Lady a favor, in her mind. So she had noticed, and more, had seen the blood stain the swordswoman's hand. She had recommended the woman to the Remedium Edificium, but had left shortly after that, and pushed the occurance from her mind.

And when Jirai started coughing later that night, well, it was only coincidence, right? She hadn't spared a second thought to the sting of an odd bug - inconsequential when compared to the injuries she already had.
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Postby channe » Wed Apr 27, 2005 1:20 am

She'd finally extricated herself from the claws of the foreman -- no mean feat for one whose family is still under a kind of indenture -- so Agnieszka has of late been absent from the Dagger and its society, her attentions forced towards the Baker stables.

Tonight was different.

When Agnieszka arrived at the Remedium, she was thinking fever or dysentery; after all, Sawyer'd said absolutely nothing to connect the blood on the floor of the Dagger, where she'd just been, to the personage of her teacher. There would be no lesson that evening, but the hospital was close -- and something about the way Sawyer talked nagged at Agnieszka, making her think that it would be good to stop by and see if her teacher needed anything done.

So, she'd hang around the lobby of the place until someone noticed her, and she'd ask after Ariane.
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Postby Altias_Bromn » Wed Apr 27, 2005 1:34 am

She'd be angry. When she woke she would be more angry than he had probably ever seen, to find him sitting there, keeping vigil over her. What more could he do?

It had been a horrible evening, watching blood gush forth from her. Falling to the floor, both of them covered in blood. The wild look in her eyes, the confusion. Sawyer, poor Sawyer, so shaken by it all. Certainly Ariane had not expected a simple cough to turn into...whatever this was.

They had cleaned her up nicely, but Altias still sat beside the bed, bowl in hand. Every now and then she would stir, the cough coming again, blood would be spat into the bowl. His kerchief was kept near, dabbing at her lips. Every now and then it would rise to his own, as a smaller, gentler, cough would errupt from his own lips.

The was a horrbile itching near the base of his neck. It came and went, and he considered letting the doctor have a look and give him someing to lessen the itching, since all his herbs were back at the inn. But Ari came first, and all the others of course. There was a goodly sized bump from where the bug had gotten him two evenings past, certainly Dr. D'Rael would have something for it.

Again a small cough, the kerchief brought to his lips. Fortunately the kercheif was a russet color, the dried blood barely showed. Neither Ari's, or his own.

Wrong, in all the right ways
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed Apr 27, 2005 2:04 am

Fever. Dysentry. An excess of well-spiced tea: she's no physician, and so had found any number of explanations for that lingering cough, the day before. Why, ironically enough it had been the itch which had troubled her more. Intially.

Before, say, she'd coughed what felt like a lungful of blood over her own boots.

What followed had been a quiet sort of delirium, panic tempered by weakness -- which is not to say that it wasn't there, but that her body was simply incapable of giving it full expression. Was it embraces that he'd wanted, a week before? For she'd clung this time, flagging strength concentrated into the fingers which gripped his shoulder like claws, as they staggered their way to the Rememdum.

Don't go, she might have whispered, after they had her cleaned and into a bed, but she hadn't the breath to spare for it then, and any attempts to speak left her coughing more blood in any case. Might have explained that she wasn't afraid to die, but not like this, not like this, choking out her life in a stranger's bed --

But that would have been nonsense. Of course she was afraid. They all had been: Sawyer, when she'd first started spewing great gouts of blood, Darrin, so frantic to save that woman; even the Rememdum's caretakers, as more were brought to their doors.

There has been but one significant development in all of this. Two days ago, there'd been no term for such an illness, a thing that is neither plague nor fever, but some strange blend of the two. But by dawn the next morning, mopping spills and washing linens, they've begun referring to it amongst themselves as the Bloody Flux.

Given the crimson stains on their floors, it seems appropriate.
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Postby channe » Wed Apr 27, 2005 3:00 am

The attendants were too busy to help someone who was perfectly healthy; one of them pointed a bloodied rag in the direction she needed to go, and admonished the girl not to get in the way. There's ample time for her to see, and to hear, and to wonder.

Once inside the ward, she'd flatten herself against the wall for a moment, before approaching: whatever she's about to say, staunched by the fact that, yes, there was the governor, cleaning blood from the mouth of her teacher, and Ariane -- is she even conscious? Sawyer had given her the impression it had been less than a day!

"What *is* this?" she'll say, softly, from her place at the wall. Mind reeling with the words "plague," and "blood," and "plague" again; words that will shortly, no doubt, enter the well-oiled Myrkentown rumor mill whether she mentions them to her friend the greengrocer's girl or not; and she'll want to leave, to duck out, but the words are out, and Agnie is always comforted by the fact that curiosity has yet never killed a Kaczmarek...
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Postby Jirai » Thu Apr 28, 2005 12:30 am

The Remedium Edificium was crowded and beyond crowded, patients overflowing, placed wherever room could be found. All together, it was a scene that had disgusted the dark elf beyond her normal distaste for the building.

At least there would be one less patient to crowd the halls - when Jirai finally collapsed, she made sure to do it far away from the Remedium Edificium.
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.. cleanse them ..

Postby Quincy » Thu Apr 28, 2005 8:39 pm

Patience, intelligence, serenity, humility: none of these are her virtues. Quincy's incontinent anger was the familiar company that kept her through the night in the sick room of her sister and Altias Bromn. Through no prickings of conscience did she turn off the lamp, as it disrespectfully threw its dim light through the long hours.

She journeyed for clean water every hour, staying mostly with the Councilor, as Ariane had already endured the worst of it; their sheets were changed twice, and waking lips were rarely left parched for long.

Her disdain for the hospital remained as steadfast as her janitor-like vigil between the two cots in the small room. The nature of her mission was as simple as the function of the establishment: life. All thoughts were immediately translated into action.

Her shinbone was thrashed with blood. Her shirt was wet from all the washing. The scantly-clad girl worked off the chill, moving through the night like a bright fire had filled her breast.

There was a bucket for transporting vomit. The stench never touched her; she had been insensate of smell long before the coma. Her wounds felt superficial beside it all. The hounding words of Pharris revisited her mind no matter where she went, no matter how quickly she hobbled on her naked feet...

There was a sleepless rim around her heavy eye come morning.
I believe it was Tacitus who said there is a principle of human nature requiring us to hate those we have wronged. -- William Beckett, M.D.
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Postby Altias_Bromn » Fri Apr 29, 2005 4:07 am

For the first few hours his thoughts were...meaningless. The blood kept coming, and soon, like Ari and many other before him, his sweat and his tears also became rivers of sanguine gore.

Blackness came, perhaps 5 hours after his collapse. To those watching him it would seem that he was almost at peace, entering the coma-like state. Deep within his mind still worked, finding hidden passageways, the doors to which he had tried to lock long ago.

Memories came unbidden, unwelcome, flooding him with a pain which may even have surpassed the pain of the bloody flux. His Mother, Nathan, Vyzorn, Alexander, Lamai, even Ari. The wars, the plagues, the Baie. Every pinprick his fragile heart had experienced was a gaping wound gushing forth more than blood.

Toward the early morning hours he had vague memories of Quincy. A rag to wipe his face, another to wet his lips. Each time his eyes fluttered open she sat beside them, vigilant.

He heard Sawyer as well, now and again, no doubt worried sick, gentle creature that she was. It had been a nightmare for her to even come to this place. Made worse by Heldenbrand's harsh words and his own eventual collapse.

Beside him, through it all, was Ariane. Her warmth, her constant presence was a comfort, for each time he woke, he could feel her getting stronger. Heard her murmuring words to Quincy. Words, something he had not yet regained the strength to muster. She was going to live, and that made all the difference.

Wrong, in all the right ways
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Crisis resolved.

Postby Carnath-Emory » Fri Apr 29, 2005 4:23 am

A long night, like the one before it: one during which the flow of time had become inconstant, in which the world loomed huge and near and impossibly distant. She'd rejected it at first, had succumbed willingly to the rest that her body demanded, to a fitful sleep that was mercifully empty of dreams. They'd plagued her, the night before.

But the worst of it had passed, and when she awoke it was with a stomach growling for food, and lips parched for want of water. She drank of what Quincy offered, tentatively at first, knowing well what too much will do to an empty stomach -- and, much later, in great gulps, her body a single thirst from head to bare toes.

In time, it had grown possible for her to sit upright once more, and strength continued to return in tune with the passing of countless hours; time was a tricky concept, for a woman uncertain of whether she'd first slept for days or weeks. But eventually she was able to climb from that narrow cot, as gingerly as she'd first sipped at the water, and morning saw her hobbling cautiously across the room to rinse rags and moisten fresh cloths.

Later in the morning, unable to stand the filth any longer, she'd taken a knife to her hair.
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