A Sweltering Silence.

A Sweltering Silence.

Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 11, 2005 3:13 am

Another long night, in a succession of the same.

All things considered, they'd taken the Governor's collapse rather well. It's possible that a month of Flux and beatings have left she and Sawyer with a certain immunity, a natural reluctance to startle on witnessing yet another round of physical ailments. She'd experienced that before, long ago; there'd been no other way to exist, when wars dragged on for year after murderous year.

Down Bromn had toppled, as if the man had taken a second -- less visible -- club to the head. And up they'd scooped him, she and Sawyer both, struggling a little with the lanky length of him; there'd been a brief crisis by the door, in which he was damned near dropped. But they'd managed, and with Eagle's aid, had carted him to the Rememdium, where a doctor had pronounced "Relapse".

And paled, after a closer look at the wound upon the Governor's brow.

"Infection" is a word which means little to the Ariane Emory's of the world. But explanations had followed, when there'd been time for them, and the source of the trouble had been pointed out. The wound to the brow, carefully stitched some days ago, had been inflamed, yes: even her amateur eye had seen that much. What she hadn't noticed was the greying around the edges of the torn skin; what alarmed was the darkly thin tendrils radiating from that wound.

She'd never noticed them. If there exist gods, they will surely heed her thoughts through that long night, and rain blessings down upon the good Doctor.

This was how dawn found her, then: slumped in a seat by Bromn's sickbed, the Rememdium having room for such things with the Flux's passing. Word has surely spread, by now, a Governor's illness not ordinarily going unnoticed: her student will know where to find her, if there's need and, fate willing, Quincy as well. At the edge of her thoughts drifted an awareness of the morning's unusual warmth...
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Postby Thadius Dhrin » Wed May 11, 2005 4:43 am

Word had passed, certainly, for Thadius Dhrin entered the Rememdium just after sunrise. A pale silver skirt, nearly matching his waist length hair, swept softly over the floorboards, a gentle whisper of motion. Hands would make nervous work of straightening the simple white tunic he wore atop the skirt, as eyes of a green so pale as to almost appear a milky white moved over the room, finding an attendant swiftly. Words were exchanged, before he made his way directly to the room housing the young governor.

A moment was taken to survey the woman slumped next to his bed. This was unexpected. Thadius had not anticipated a visitor so early, though it seemed she had been here since the governor had fallen ill the night before. Terribly sweet of her to have stayed with him, a soft smile crossed his features at the thought.

Near silent steps would carry him to the governor's bed side, a slender pale hand reaching out toward the angry wound at his temple. A pattern of dark tendrils had begun to radiate from the wound, accompanying the greying flesh, the dying flesh, at the edge of the wound.

"Poison."

A voice so soft as to make the governor's own dulcet tones seem bawdy, slipped from between pale lips. Apparently this was something the teacher had seen before. Further the hand would reach, to touch the wound. not a thought of who, or what, his watcher might actually be.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 11, 2005 5:23 am

Had he thought that she slept? Well, and she had, now and then during the night: had slipped in an our of a fevered doze, as the darkness grew warmer. The dawn's golden light had stirred her, and it had taken only that single word to rouse her to true alertness.

Poison.

So speaks the unfamiliar voice, and in those first moments, this is all that she knows of him -- soft-spoken tones, rustling silk, a hand which reaches for the Governor's brow. Does he expect to find satisfaction so easily? For here comes his first taste of disappointment: a hand cutting out to wrap firm fingers about his slender wrist, a warning in the strength of their grasp. His touch hovers scant inches from Bromn's tormented flesh.

It's only then that she has the leisure to lift her head, to know the man as more than dulcet tones and presumption. Oh, and he's a pretty one, this Thadius, pallid and elegant -- and met by a darkened eye, a tousle of butchered hair, a gaunt and silk-clad creature with a challenge in her features and a rasp for a voice.

"Explain."
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Postby Thadius Dhrin » Wed May 11, 2005 1:41 pm

A gentle smile, no attempt to remove his captured wrist. Gaze of frosted malachite settled on Ariane, appraising.

"Well good morning to you, Nightingale. I shall explain, since you have asked that I do so. Your governor is suffering from a poison. It is my guess that he was attacked recently, yes? His attacker caught him with blade....here."

The hand still free would gesture toward the wound, still swollen, though much less red now, the greys and blacks beginning to show much more readily.

"The black trails that you are beginning to see are the poison working its way through his system. They will continue to grow, more rapidly as they reach larger blooways, until they reach his heart. And then, my Dove, he will die."

Even as he spoke such horrible words of prophecy, his tone remained quiet, serene. Observing both as he spoke, first governor, then friend, perhaps even protector.

"When Shayla returned two months ago to our camp, she too had been cut. Two days passed, and the wound became infected. The fever fell upon her, she went to sleep. Shayla never woke up again. The Black took over her body in days. By the time we realized what was happening, she was dead."

"Not three weeks ago, Kennan was likewise assualted while hunting. We thought first they meant to rob him, but he lost an eye to his attacker, before Renina came to his aid. Though the attacker escaped, we were simply happy to have Kennan come home to us. "

"Sadly, he too fell ill some days later. The Black seemed to move more swiftly
in him than it had with Shayla, we were sure he would die as well. Our medicine man worked over him day and night testing different herbs. Three days after the incident, Kennan woke."

A soft smile came over his features once more as he looked at the woman who held him from the governor.

"Kennan is my brother. I am pleased to say that he is alive and well, the Black has gone from him. What I am trying to tell you, little wren, is that I can save him."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 11, 2005 2:26 pm

Like a knife to the heart...

It's a discourtesy, surely, to grip the man's wrist like this. Delicate bird-bones threaten to grind beneath her grasp, fragile skin is wont to bruise easily; no, he's released with a flex of her fingers, hand folding back with the other upon her knees. Up she draws in the small chair, spine straightening as she flicks the dark hair back from her face, and at last his cool gaze is met evenly with her own.

At first. For what he describes is an unlikely blend of irrelevencies and horrors, all of which center around the wound which festers upon the Governor's head -- and it's in that direction that her gaze must gradually drift. It's an ugly sight, blackened already, and darkening by the minute. Some control is required to still her lips before they can call for the Doctor.

Such a tale he tells. Her mind works it over, as he speaks; oh, gentle, dulcet tones that, under other -- kinder -- circumstances would surely be lulling. But not now, for he speaks of poison and puzzles, and she must dissect the words as he murmurs them, must turn them over on their ends, and round about, as if there were clues to be found in there. As if there were an answer.

But as it happens, there's no need for such work, for he concludes with the solution she'd wished -- and of a sort which threatens to steal breath, to still the heart in her chest. She should call for the Guard, should call for the Doctor, whose skill is beyond question; for a heartbeat's instant, she longs after D'zir. But there is no help to be had, none that she can dare draw on while this Stranger stands before her, and with Bromn's life held quite firmly in his grasp. Unless he lies, and he might.

Nightingale. Little Wren. I can save him.

"Tell me how. Tell me why."

She's standing before she fully realises it, his frosty gaze fixed with her own. This is a conversation she's had before, and it always ends the same way. Oh, tell me these things, stranger, tell me all about them. And then tell me the price.
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Postby Thadius Dhrin » Wed May 11, 2005 5:41 pm

A slow movement of his head, one cheek moving toward the shoulder closest. A subtle cant of his head, allowing the shimmering fall of silver to curtain his features. A gentle shrug of his shoulders, as finally his gaze drops away from her own, to study the governor laying as still as death in his bed.

"The how is easy, Nightingale. Our wise man has prepared a salve which will counteract the poison when coupled with an herbal mixture consumned in a hot tea. One works on the outside of the body, while the other works within."

Drawing his eyes away from the prone form of the governor, those eyes, the color of jade deep within ice, return to Ariane. Another slow shrug, almost an elegant gesture from this one.

"The why, I thought should be self evident. He is your governor, yes? Your council? Your friend? Is not his life worth saving? "

This strangely elegant man, caught somewhere between scholar and parlor toff, studied the woman for a long, silent moment. Finally he inclined his head toward her, again removing the heavy gaze from her features.

"Can a man not do what he believes is right without thought of reward? Has this world tumbled so far that even the most pure gesture is suspect?"

When his eyes would return to seek her own, there was a true sadness in them. A shake of his head, sending glistening strands of platinum floating around his features like some surreal halo.

"I understand your mistrust, wise little wren, your friend has been violated. You are fearful someone will do something to finally take him from you. I promise you, I am not that person."
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Wed May 11, 2005 6:06 pm

Your governor.
Your friend.
Yours --

Each word stiffens her a little further; each word sets her features the more firmly into their impassive mask. This is not a time for the flesh to be treacherous, not when chill eyes or reluctant lips could cost her everything. As reluctant as she is to accept a stranger's aid, she cannot dare turn him away -- even unintentionally. So the mask it is, cool and calm, as she shakes her head.

"My governor, yes. Ours. So you must understand my surprise. You owe him nothing, and yet offer him his life. You see?"

She could thrust him from this room. The schiavona rests light and ready at her hip, the silver tide burns eager in her veins: she could carve him from the space he occupies, and his cries would summon the Doctor whose aid she should surely seek --

But does not dare to. Oh, for want of a sister to advise her on this! Quincy's absence is a gaping hole in her mind, her heart, at a time in which her wisdom would be invaluable. Oh, for a scribe as skilled in cynicism as kindness, who'd somehow divine this stranger's intents from the set of his shoulders, the twist of his words -- but these are memories she doesn't dare explore, not when such calm is required of her. Not when her only asset is a clear and able mind.

The heart races heavy behind her ribs. She cannot make this decision.

"So you must tell me all of this. The nature of these things: this salve, this tea. There must be made more of them than he requires, in case that new illness should befall him. Can all of this be done now?"

Days from now, the recollection of this moment will chill her: that she, so accustomed to a life of solitude, had been so unwilling to act alone.
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Postby Quincy » Wed May 11, 2005 9:27 pm

Young Quincy is glad to leave behind the eiderdown coverlets and attic boxes and sloth on the fifth day of the patterning. There is a tree she's never liked along the way; its thorny canopy is not so baleful now. The winding facade of blackness in its topmost branches is an instant of passing shade. Distance has meaning under a sun that is a fever.

All is stark and sick, and had she no precise agenda, her location would merit great surprise: the hospital and its shroud of melancholia. The morning light is strong on its east wall, baking the creepers to a dusky white. The arid fighter, who is as light as a feather, starts into the air an inch or two at the sight of far off, rising smoke.

Kylerryth. His name has been incubated, an egg of the brain for days.

The muscles of her face must be crying out to relax by now. In the shadow of a smart hat, the colour of her burnt cheeks are mercifully modified. The wind breathes a damaged phrase of dust. She deeply considers her tall companion's apparently bottomless waterskin as an alternative to deeply considering Kylerryth.

The dead grass is crisp with her nimble stride.

'Are y'sure that y'don't believe in Hell, Darrin?'
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 Thadius Dhrin » Thu May 12, 2005 1:40 am

"It can be done now, however I would ask that you sit back down. Your cheeks are flushed, your brow is damp, you look a bit ruffled."

A flowing gesture, those slender hands moving toward her, one motioning toward the chair she had so recently occupied, the other moving to gently grasp her elbow. He would assist her in sitting, should she allow him to.

"I am not sure how many of your questions I can answer, in regard to the salve and the tea. I am not as wise as our medicine man, not skilled in the nature of herbal healing. I am the one who teaches, writing, reading...not medicine. I know that most of the ingredients are very basic. Herbs to soothe swelling, to break fever. The most important ingredient is something from a root. Girashan says it is where the poison comes from. That the plant has two souls, light and darkness."

Gently, slowly, he eases away from her to the long bag he carries across his back. Sewn of a fabric similar to his skirt, so light, carrying only essential things, it would almost go unnoticed, flowing with the rest of his garments. From within the soft silk folds was withdrawn a long tube, each end capped with something that looks a bit like wax.

"Thristy?"

A simple inquiry, as one cap is removed. Each end is in fact a bit of cloth soaked in wax, a good tight seal without drawing up the water within. The tube is extended toward her, the wood is smooth and still cool, despite the rapidly rising temperature.

"The governor will need but one treatment, so no more need be made, unless you think there will be others attacked as he was. The medicine will either work..."

A pause then as he drew a long slow breath, centering himself before continuing.

"...or it will not. I can not promise that it will, Nightingale. Please know that in my heart I truly hope that it does. For no other reason than to lift the burder of your heavy heart."

Perhaps a step across the line, perhaps too familiar with one he knows nothing about. Thadius was a man who spoke what he thought, and so it had always been, there was little hope it would change for the comfort of relative strangers.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu May 12, 2005 2:34 am

She is not incapable of subtlety, not entirely without grace. A body long-educated in the nature of balance, of posture, a fluid economy of motion. There is a gentle sway to her waist, moving an inch ahead of his reaching fingers; a casual drift of the arm, so that she is seated before he can rightly grasp it.

Subtlety of the physical sort, the only type at which she excels. She cannot afford to give complete control of the moment over to him, but nor does she care to let him know this.

"This root, this plant: have you samples of it? Our doctor would be glad of them, for study." There is no real threat in the quiet rasp of her voice, and no real kindness, either; he'd never believe that of her, and Ariane is not much practised at guile in any case. Here is a woman keenly aware of her own limitations. With a shake of the head to demure from the offered water, she folds slim, clammy hands upon her knees.

The sword at her hip is a comforting weight. The silver tide within her veins screams silently for egress.

"More must be made. His assailant may still linger to set upon others; I would not see another suffer what has befallen the Governor." These lies fall from her lips with all of a sellsword's ease. But she cannot quite keep from bristling, when he speaks that last, cannot quite keep the stiffness from her shoulders, the light flush from her cheeks. Oh, his heavy-hearted Nightingale; no, let him believe that, this lovely creature with the silken voice, who whispers like long-ago Chernevog...

The moon shines,
The wind howls...
My girl, my girl, are you afraid of me?
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Postby NightSteel » Thu May 12, 2005 4:16 am

The bard, dressed in shirt with rolled up sleeves, pants, and boots, strode along beside Quincy. His gold-tinted glasses had darkened noticeably, becoming closer to an amber color against the hot, bright sun. He wore his waterskin upon his belt, but naught else--mantle, vest, weapons, pouches, everything else had been foregone. He seemed to deal with the heat rather well, thanks to all that, not even having time to sweat by the time they reached the Rememdium's door.

Lion, meanwhile, had secreted himself away somewhere in the attic--the elf could hardly blame the little mouse for not wanting to go out into the sun.

"Difficult times challenge faithful and faithless alike," he quoted in response to her question. Which was to say, yes, he was quite sure.
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Postby Thadius Dhrin » Thu May 12, 2005 4:53 am

"I have no samples to offer, my dove. Should such become needed I could return home and ask them of our wise man."

A soft frown, as she refused his offer for water. The heat was oppressive, causing fabric to cling to flesh, hair to lay more limply against the scalp. Thadius knew if the heat was troublesome to him, it must be effecting her as well.

"I must insist that you drink something, please, if it is a matter of trust, I am sure the doctor here can find you something. This weather is most unusual for this time of year, do you not think so?"

Truly he hoped to try and put her at ease, but it seemed every attempt to do so found this woman more and more stoic. A long drink of the water, perhaps to convince her that there wwas no poison, no drug, no spirits. It was safe.

The water was soothing, pale eyes would drift closed a moment, savoring the life giving moisture, long fingers of his free hand drawing through his silken locks. Again the water would be offered toward her, if Ari did not take it, it would be capped and placed on the floor next to her chair.

"I must ask you now, precious Nightingale, will you allow me to try and help your governor? I ask because I have precious little doubt that should I try to do so without your leave you will run me through with your pretty little blade."

It was both an attempt at humor, and an honest observation. Thadius was many things, foolhardy could not be counted amoung those things.

"Allow me to treat him, or do not. Whichever you choose, I will leave you in peace, if only you ask me to go."

Fingers would lace before him then, turning his face toward the floor. He waited simply for her dismissal, or acceptance. His role in this lay firmly in her hands.
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Postby Carnath-Emory » Thu May 12, 2005 5:22 am

Give her an enemy to fight, and watch him bleed. Point out an opponent, and see murder done. But who is she -- sellsword whore; insignificant -- to direct the Governor's fate? Poison is a foe she cannot butcher; Dhrin is an enigma she cannot dare trust --

I cannot make this choice.

He offers water, this lovely creature, and she must struggle to keep the astonishment from her face. That impassive mask is her saviour once again, for the offer seems so unlikely, so misplaced, given the circumstances, that she'd almost laughed. Almost. Limp, dark hair clings to the nape of her neck, yes; her brow glistens with a light sweat, molten iron lurking eagerly just beneath the surface of that clammy skin. Even the pretty silk of her garments clings to her sticky flesh. She hadn't noticed, until he mentioned it.

"They say the crops will fail," she answers Dhrin, just to have something to say, words to fill the silence as she thinks. Her throat aches, as parched as her dry lips -- and when she rises at last, it's to make for the room's door, and there speak her request to a passing girl. Water, to satisfy her lovely tormenter, and she lingers at that threshold a moment longer than is necessary, simply to luxuriate in the sight of the world beyond Bromn's room. Escape lies that way. Escape, and the Governor's certain death.

It requires every ounce of her self-control to close that door, and quietly return to her seat.

"I..."

They are a xenophobic lot, the people of Northern Dauntless: a newcomer is spotted within minutes of his approach, and few of them linger long. They find the stares uncomfortable; they read the unspoken threat in every eye.

"I..."

She is true to her heritage, if only this aspect of it. And in any case, there'd been ample opportunity over the years to learn the wisdom of suspicion, the folly of too much trust, given too soon. Fear the stranger. Shun the outlander. This choice is impossible.

"Where lies your home? How far from Myrken Wood? For we shall travel there once this is done. I will not have the Doctor go without the means to cure this, in future days. See to him," comes the sudden rush of hoarse words, with a flick of her hand towards the Governor's prone form, "and we will reckon the cost for it after. It will not be he who pays it."

Reckless offer. Reckless bargain, spoken by a woman who prefers anger over fear -- and cannot rightly afford to indulge in either. Not that this matters. She has, by her reckoning, just signed her life over to the creature.
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Postby Quincy » Thu May 12, 2005 5:38 am

It is a season that needs a new name. Not a week is gone, and already she misses the polliniferous grey-blue body of the spring air. Now the air is inert and dry with mists of insect, this slow pulp of mad summer, this drag of heat and its incurious yellow eye, floating monotonously, day after day.

Kylerryth.

The chestnuts whiten with dust and hang their myriads of great hands with every wrist broken. What is left of the lake looks like soup, a green surface with thick, sepia patches of water.

With every step she becomes more conscious that she is narrowing the distance between herself and the hospital; she strides on at the elf's flank. Reason excommunicates movement in the open glare, and each footfall is a crime committed. A red-rimmed eye stares at the colony of lizards under the eaves and on the wall until she is through the door.

A hat is dragged from her head to her bosom. The new, dim light plucks notes of red from unsettled dark hair. The building is less like a shipwreck during war. Their journey down the hall is quick and intervened by one, informative doctor; she is quick and on the verge of leaping like one of those flames between the cracks of the earth.

Darrin and Quincy are soon in the doorway, in the orbit of the glow of a governor's sickroom. She is a stalk of girl in red clothes that are dainty for how little they conceal of supple limbs. The freckles on her ears stand out from visits with the sun.

"Ari!"

It is an easy cry and an easy entry. It is not that she does not care for the peace of the governor's rest, or the calmness of the stranger, or even the grimness of her bedside sister. It is not without reference to these things that she comes fantastically through the door with a star-pricked gaze underscored by shadow.
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Postby NightSteel » Thu May 12, 2005 6:23 am

The half-fae's hurry is not matched by the red-haired elf. As she skitters ahead, he merely walks calmly, glasses returning to normal as the doors are passed through. He steps into the room a moment after her exclamation, brushing his fine hair back behind his ears. A strip of leather is produced from his pocket, and he ties it back in a long ponytail with a gauzy, uneven end at the small of his back; the mark of natural hair growth with a long time since any sort of cutting or trimming.

He is, of course, familiar with the swordswoman and the governor by this point. Seeing the governor lying there, again, gives him a little bit of a start. There is no mistaking the crawl of blackness upon the man's head, radiating from his wound. If he had known the circumstances of the wound, and how Ariane had been struck as well, he would have asked after her injury. But, he had been busy with Quincy the last few days.

This time, there was nothing he could do for the governor. His Moon Drops were not an antidote, they were but healing magic. It had been a long, long time since he had used the last of his Kelia's Antidote, as well, and he had found no replacement for it.

So, as he stepped inside, he merely stood quietly. He didn't imagine that he could be too reassuring with only a waterskin upon his belt and a bluish ring upon his finger, but he stayed nonetheless.
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