Another day another...

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias awoke to the throbbing music of his headache hours before he would normally have woken. The blow to the back of his head had been especially damaging due to the fact that he was still recovering from the Flux. His normal morning routine of bathing, brushing his hair, finding just the right clothing, took far longer than average, and found him in his room far closer to dinner time than he would have liked.

Dusk found him sitting on his bed, rifling through the pack he had brought, sorting through his collection of herbs. He would need more feverfew, more lavender, more willow bark. A trip out into the woods would be in his future soon. Of course the lavender would not be in bloom for some months yet, he would have to find a merchant that would not charge him a fortune.

Packets, bottles, jars and bundles of herbs were scattered across the bed, in some sort of order, at least to him. The last portions of his willow bark portioned out into small piles on a larger sheet of prachment. Apparently a recipe in the making.

He would create another poltice for Ari, for the ragged wound the club had created, something she could put on it while she slept. For himself, willowbark and slippery elm tea would do the trick.

Candles burned on the dressing table, dripping puddles of lavender wax that would require a good cleaning when he was finished. The censor has been left behind, he would have to see if the new cook might sell him a small iron skillet for that purpose, he missed the scent of his incense.

Perhaps in a little while he would make his way down to the common room for supper.

[Carnath-Emory]

She'd never woken quite like this before. An active creature by her very nature, her way was to wake as if the dreaming world were one to be escaped, one to flee: with wide eyes, with a gasp for breath, with hands clutching at covers as reassurance that the time for sleep is finally done with. Not so this morning. The blow to the back of her head had been a solid one, well-aimed and executed with vigor. Concussion had been the inevitable result -- she wouldn't have recognised this term if it were spoken to her, but understood the symptoms well enough. The aching skull was to be expected, and the unsteady vision as well; the dizziness would pass in time. But on a body already weakened by the venemous Flux...

The world shuddered and groaned around her; cobblestones shattered as the first great cracks tore through the earth, and masonry tumbled down towards her as she gasped that first, waking breath. She did not so much rise from the bed as leap, hands pressed flat to the comfortingly solid floorboards of her room.

'Delirium' is another word which she does not know, but right now, she could describe the state flawlessly.

Dressing is a challenge, as it has been for this last week: there's relish in the feel of clean silk -- silk! -- on her skin, slippery and smooth, but her fingers tremble on the fastenings. The bandages are discarded entirely. Crossing the room is a journey in itself, and with each step blood splatters against her bare ankles; by the time they've reached the door, she's crimson to the knees, and staring in ghastly awe at the sight. He'd healed her body to perfect, flawless health, but there was no erasing the memory --

She'd leapt from that bed, and now she dashes from the room, to rebound against the corridor wall and squeeze her eyes closed. It's a child's trick. It doesn't work.

[Altias_Bromn]

The carefully measured spoon of cinnamon was suddenly so much dust on the breeze as he heard the solid sound of something hitting the corridor wall. A moment of hesitation, the heavy wooden club not so far removed from his memory, before he is moving from the bed as quickly as he is able. Even with careful movements there was still an element of something that felt like sea sickness as he walked across the room.

One eye closed so he could grab the door handle, one hand braced against the doorframe for support. Altias leaned through the doorway, toward the direction of the noise. Still with one eye squinted closed he was fairly sure the blur in the hallway was Ariane.

"Ari? Are you alright?"

As his vision began to clear a bit, he was rewarded with the sight of his friend, though she looked a sight, pale, shaking.

"Come in...sit down. I'll make us some tea."

His hand was extended then to try and help her into his room, the doorframe still his main source of support. They were...to anyone who may have seen them, a right mess.

[Carnath-Emory]

Some tea.

Ragged nails bite into the wall that supports her, the clench of her jaw prohibiting speech in these first moments. There is that wall at her back, there is solid floor beneath feet clad in boots that don't quite fit. The world assumes a semblance of normality, and she dares to open her eye a little, just a little.

Her vision swims, uncertain, unreliable in these first moments. A shape looms tall before her, resolves into something with the outline of Altias Bromn, an offering extended. Her fingers clamp upon it, discover that it's a hand which they're crushing so -- and the full force of Now crashes back down upon her.

A woman could wish for ale, at times like these; a woman could want very much for something stronger. But only a fool would dare such a thing, after three days' coughing blood and a good smack on the head to top it off.

"Some tea," she echoes dimly. It's really an excellent idea. And as Now returns, it brings self-awareness as well, the realisation that she's cowering here like a terrified idiot, like a madwoman. Her spine straightens, slim and long; her shoulders square, as she pulls herself upright. Bromn's hand is finally released, as she steps past him into that room, and nevermind that there was silver caught in the pores of her own.

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias returned from the kitchen, having snuck in while Proxenus was busy with a glass of grappa, with a steaming kettle of water. Two battered tin cups in the other hand. The trek had been long, with many moments of leaning against the wall or banister for the world to stop spinning. He'd done well, only burning himself twice.

He had set Ari on the edge of his bed before leaving, she was really in no shape to argue with him. The kettle was set on his dressing table, as he wrangled a packet of an herbal mixture from his pocket. The mixture was for Ari, after the bitter willow bark tea she had suffered through a few evenings before.

Certainly, there was willow bark in this as well, but also cinnamon, bergamot and slippery elm for her still rasping throat. A small jar of honey was removed from his dressing table drawer, a good dollop added to the cup. Steaming water was poured, but only to fill the cup about half way, he did not wish to burn her.

"Are you...okay?"

The words were soft, as he carefully handed her the tea. He would slip to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of her, much N'Ylim had on the road the other day. Despite his blurred vision, the silver on her skin had not escaped him, he just could not be sure if it was a sheen of sweat, or something that indicated more than night terrors.

"You've got me worried again, Ari. What's going on?"

[Carnath-Emory]

She had been sat there a little awkwardly: the chair would have been her preference, the bed having too many ramifications, few of them welcome. A month ago this wouldn't have been the case, but there'd been certain revelations made during these last weeks, and much had changed. 'Much'? Hah -- everything had. But he'd been right in that assessment: she'd been in no fit state to protest his positioning, and so perches on the edge of that bed now, booted toes prodding absently at the floorboards as a hand massages across her brow.

His absence gives her the time she'd needed to compose herself. When he returns, it's to a much-changed Ariane, one that sits straight-spined upon the bedding's edge, hands folded demurely upon her knees; one with some focus in her vision, where it fixes upon him, and a frown as he sets his kettle upon the table.

"You'll burn that," she begins -- but then it's he who speaks again, and there's a distracted wave to dismiss the question entirely. "I slept poorly," she replies, hands wrapping gratefully around the delicate cup, and this is how she raises it to her lips: cupped within both palms, peasant-style. The first sip is sharp, heavy with spice, and her nod is approving.

Or was, for now he drops to the ground before her as if he were the peasant here: oh, the Governor himself -- and more than that, for he would be a friend to her, and she's accepted that willingly, at last. So the frown must linger, as she sips again at the tea, and with a shake of the head to boot.

"Very little," comes the reply as he continues. "My head aches. I can barely lift my own sword, I do not care to be useless, and -- " No. This arrangement is unbearable. It's the work of a moment to slide herself down from the bed's edge, dropping down to the floor with some care not to spill her tea in the process. Down, to sit similarly some cautious inches from Bromn himself. Now she can turn a tight-lipped smile to the man in silent smugness.

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias sat there for a moment, surveying the woman who now sat very near to him. Moist tongue would wet dry lips. Corners of a full mouth twitch slightly, almost as if making a choice. Lips twist, eyes close, a deep breath drawn.

And suddenly there is laughter. A great gale of heartfelt, joyous laughter. Oh it hurt, it felt as if his head might split open right then and there, but he simply could not help it. The very idea of the two of them sitting there on the floor, tripping over themselves to be on an even playing field, it was simply hilarious.

When finally he has calmed down enough to speak, his eyes are sparkling with mirth, tears running down his cheek from the sheer abandon of his laughter.

"Oh, Ari. Look at us. How silly would we seem if someone were to walk through that door right now? Thank you, you've brought a moment of joy from an unexpected incident."

The smile was broad, genuine, as he chuckled still. A shake of his head.

"It's good to see you smile. It means you are getting better. Perhaps more importantly, at least to me, it means you are starting to understand me."

[Carnath-Emory]

For a strange, brief moment, they mirror each other: the twitch of his lips is echoed by her own, the maybe-mirth reflected in her own features; silence hangs heavy between them, as he draws in breath...

And laughs, which shatters the moment with its first instant of hilarity. The corners of her mouth downturn, her brow furrows with a frown; his amusement is met by the disapproval of a woman who suspects herself to be the butt-end of a bad joke. She shifts a little away, as he shudders with laughter, drinking stolidly from the tea until the tears begin to leak from his eyes, and then she must peer more closely at the man. Hysteria often surfaces beneath the guise of high mirth, after all.

When he speaks, however, it's to banish both fears with the simplest of words. There is that startling 'we' again, that syllable which sits so uncomfortably with her still, but which is, this once, a relief. A suspicious glance is shot towards the door.

"Very much so. You've a chair directly behind you." Sweet, paradoxical tea, that burns and soothes the throat. "But no, you must sit there like a child at its mother's knee, and I -- "

Confusion twists her features, dulls her eye; there's a hint of frustration there as well, a whisper of regret. "I do not understand. Not this, nor you, for I learn but slowly. But I am glad for your pleasure, and... and I do wish there'd been more cause for it, of late."

It's good to see you smile. The words are like a knife to the heart.

[channe]

Does the governor have some kind of strange sixth sense, or was it something in his dinner?

Agnieszka never comes upstairs -- well, hardly ever; there was just that one time, with Quincy, to fetch a cot and blankets during the Flux. She has little enough private space that she'll respect the space belonging to others. Besides, it's not her fault if she forgets where Ariane's room is. She was never shown; only told, and memory (especially when one sees what one has seen!) can be hazy.

But she hasn't see Ariane in three days, and there's hardly anyone she feels that she can trust with this. And this can no longer wait.

They'll have very little warning: perhaps a "Miz Emory," shouted with eager elephant-feet against creaking upstairs floorboards; and then, seconds later, a jiggling of Altias' doorknob, and the door *falling* open to reveal Ariane's student, dirty to her shoulders and absolutely frantic.

"MizEmorythere's somethingcrawlin'outtatheground around th' sword, an' it --" and then she sees her teacher and Altias sitting on the floor; God knows what she's thinking, but it's accompanied by a quick gasp and a hand brought to her mouth. "Oh --" she'll say, her eyes jumping from one to the other. "-- an' it knocked down all the ice an' had blood on it an' was made outta dead human arms an' screamed an' I'm goin' now," she says, her face growing more crimson by the second. She turns and grabs for the doorknob.

[Altias_Bromn]

Ari's words bring both a warming of his heart and a portion of regret. Someday he would begin to understand, he hoped, what it was about him that confounded her so. Still the smile remained on his lips, there had been plenty of things to smile about of late despite all the horror that had surrounded Myrken. Fortunately things seemed to be calming down finally.

The thought had not even formed completely in his head as Agnieszka came, nearly falling, into the room. The look on her face was nearly comical, until the words she was speaking began to make some sort of sense. The girl was dirty, in a near panic, and looking at the two of them as if they had suddenly sprouted an extra head on each shoulder.

"Ari? "

He looked to his friend for a moment, before returning his gaze to Agnieszka.

"Slow down now...what is this all about? Come in, close the door, and tell us what is happening, alright?"

Another glance to Ari, perhaps she was making sense of all this. Gods knew Altias was not the best at understanding women even when it wasn't an emergency.

[Carnath-Emory]

The solution to that puzzle, of course, is ludicrously simple -- so much so that she's yet to find a way to frame it with words, to approach the matter; why, until recent days she'd not even thought it necessary. Perhaps this is what occupies her mind in these early moments. Perhaps it's what parts her lips now, for she's on the verge of speech when there comes a cry from the hallway, a din of heavy feet, and the door flung open with such ferocity that there's a hand to her sword as she pushes to her knees. As if she truly believed herself able to defend them against...

Agnieszka Kazcmarek, as it happens. A very hasty Agnieszka, with a head full of news, and a mouth which can hardly speak it quickly enough. Out tumble the words, onto at least one set of ears which cannot make an ounce of sense from them: Agnie is greeted with a wide eye, a body caught in its awkward half-kneel, and a flush of colour to the cheeks which is quite, quite unwarranted.

"No." As simple as that, palm raised from the sword to hold flat towards the girl. "No. Come, sit. The floor is clean." With a twitch of the lips, a helpless little shudder of the shoulders; Dauntless humour is a very strange thing indeed. But yes, by all means let Agnieszka sit, and tell her news, and realise that this is not what she's surely thinking.

Else it'll be all over town come daybreak next.

[channe]

"I'm not, uh, interruptin' something, with you an'...?" she asks, her voice tinged with a little suspicion -- but -- spurred on by the memory of the monster, perhaps -- she comes into the room.

A moment passes as Agnieszka collects herself. One thin hand gathers a loose homespun shirt in a white-knuckled hand for a moment, and she takes a deep breath, enters the room, and plops down quite forwardly on the floor beside them; she'll draw her knees close, and look at Ariane, and Ariane only. She'll be a little calmer, of course.

"Well, I was up on th' roof next t' the big sword, I wanted t' see it high-up, you know, an' there was nobody else around. I was gawkin' at it when the ground started to shake and this monster-thing came outta the ground. It looked like someone killed a whole bunch o' people an' then sewed it t'gether like a rag doll, wi' dead an' blue an' purple arms, an' rottin' faces on its chest, an'" -- oh, dear, the poor girl looks like she's about to throw up. She swallows and continues. (One can't really blame her; this has been a month offirsts for Agnie, lately: her first plague, her first monster, etc...)

"An it came out an' knocked down the fence that was all around the sword into pieces, an' screeched like it was from hell, an' it had somethin' written in blood on its back that I knew was letters but I can't read," she'll finish, her voice reaching that breathless point it had recently abandoned.

She'll stop, looking from one to the other.

[Altias_Bromn]

The sparkle in his gaze, died. Another day, another disaster. As if the sword itself, and the massacre that followed, were not enough. Now there was some...dead thing, making sure more people could go nearer to the monolithic blade, creating who knows what kind of chaos.

"If I gave you parchment and charcoal, do you think you could recreate the letters? Like drawing a picture of something you've seen? I know you do not know what the letters are called, or what they say, but can you recall how they looked?"

Altias knew how difficult it could be to draw letters, but if Agnieszka knew they were letters, that was a step in the right direction. She at least had visual recognition of the common alphabet.

"Calm down, have some tea. There is a packet of my mixture of tea and a cup and kettle on the dressing table. Honey in the drawer. I'll gather the parchment."

Fortunately his pack was, well, unpacked, all over the bed. Charcoal and parchment readily available. A large sheet wqas spread on the floor between them all, a piece of charcoal, one end wrapped in cloth as a handle, was laid at the edge closest to Agnieszka.

Suddenly the whispers and rumors of the local gossip circle paled in comparison to this new threat. The more information they had the better. A kerchief was plucked from the pile of silks at the head of the bed, dabbing at his forehead. Gods but it was unseasonably warm these last few days.

[Carnath-Emory]

"No." As if she could put an end to all the girl's assumptions, all her imaginings, with that single word. And: "No," again the moment after, for emphasis. There is nothing to interrupt, she might have explained, except that Agnieszka's settled herself down before her, of a sudden, and the tale that she tells...

Well. One tries not to jump to conclusions.

Consider this creature, for instance, described in all its gruesome glory. 'Came out of the ground', Agnieszka said, but one oughtn't be too hasty about these things: why, even the meagre fairy tales that Dauntless children favour feature the Dark Below The Earth. 'Sewed together', her student explains, but surely that's a common fetish amongst more sadistic mages; in the mind of Ariane Emory, there are few depths of horror which magickers will not explore. 'Rotting faces on its chest', says the girl, and really, that could be anything, anything at all, and one shouldn't be too hasty in the face of such recitations. Even the Kazcmareks of the world are prone to exaggeration, after all.

And yet...

And yet, they had cowered in the Safe Place, with its steel doors and barricaded windows, as the teeming horrors capered and scurried outside.

They'd fled when the doors had become weak from the weight of too many mutilated bodies, too many nightmare creatures battering at the steel for want of what hid within.

And yet, they'd seen those creatures in more detail than any of them had rightly cared to. One had leapt upon Lazarus, its belly a nest of gnashing, shrieking teeth.

They'd come upon them with leathery wings and murderous claws; they'd come oozing across the ground, great mounds of wormflesh, and all the more horrifying for the echoes of humanity still left in them.

And yet, there'd been Hammon himself, Hammon who had become Something Else. He'd devoured those useless, coward twins, had taken them into the torment of flesh that he'd finally become, and Sera as well, who'd wailed from within his chest as the twins' arms held her back --

Sera. Torin and Tolin. Mason, the traitorous bastard for whom a hundred deaths could not suffice -- but oh, Sawyer had done fine work on him all the same. There'd been very little of his head left, when she'd finally fallen still, just a dark patch on the ground to mark that Mason had ever lived and breathed. And here she sits with a mind lost in memory and a silver sweat breaking out on her skin; she manages little but a mute nod, at Bromn's suggestion, and a single whispered warning:

"Agnieszka. Breathe not a word of this to Sawyer. Not a word."

[channe]

If this had been another place -- another time, perhaps, on the close of a pretty afternoon unspoiled by talk of flesh sewn to flesh and a future engraved in blood -- there would have been words spoken to the grocer's girl, words spoken in excitement and bemusement and disbelief.

The governor offered me tea. Altias Bromn offered me tea, Becky!

But the only words now are those spoken to her teacher: low, and half-whispered, lined with questions and a quiet assurance that she'd keep her word.

"I -- I won't tell," she says to Ariane.

The tenor of the room has changed. She sensed a taut edge to events when she first entered; now, something seems to have snapped; something seems to be known of this between the two of them, a quick-drawn suspicion confirmed by the emergence of silver onto her teacher's skin. She's seen that before and knows what it means.

It frightens -- and intrigues -- her.

Her eyes would wander to the tea, but she makes no move to obtain it. She's had tea, perhaps, three times in her life; this is a girl nursed on water and ale and cow's-milk. Instead, thoughts would roil as the parchment is placed before her; her hand would coil around the charcoal as if she were holding a shovel, and she would lean over to place it.

"Yeah, I think so," she'll say to Altias.

Perhaps Ariane would recognize the frustration on her face: the frustration of letters, of an alien form of expression. Agnie has seen them throughout the semi-literate town; recognizes them for what they are if not for what they say; but cannot repeat an alphabet to save her neck, nor associate one sound with another letter.

She'll seem to make a decision, and make a few marks on the page -- a bit large, and unsteady, like a child's.

TT.

She'll look back up, still clutching the charcoal.

"At th' top an' the bottom, like the crosses from the Christians but jus' lopped off at the top."

She'll stop, but she'll want to say more. She'll have to bite her bottom lip to keep the words from coming out.