Another one Down

Erendriel is in the dungeon that the arcanists run. Not on trial, incredibly enough, but lying out, completely miserable in every conceivable way, trying to sleep.

Mikilos grumbles quietly as he enters the dungeon. One of the places he most dislikes to visit, but one he's found himself in quite often of late, even staying himself for a nap. At least his lungs don't burn and ache with every breath down here... small respite. A simple wicker basket hangs from his arm, and the scent of fresh bread wafts from it as he nods respectfully to the guards.

Erendriel rolls onto her other side, and sees the person coming in. With a deep sigh, she looks up to the approaching Mikilos and softly says "Hello."

Mikilos chuckles quietly, and takes a seat next to the cot, setting his basket on the small table. "Hello." He ponders a moment. "look at it this way, you managed to stay clean longer than I did." He pulls some fresh rolls, a small jar of jam, and a flask of beer from his basket. "Hungry?"

Erendriel starts to lift her head, but sighs. "I can't live like this," she murmurs. "I don't feel hungry, but I should eat, thank you." Her movements are slow, as she sits up enough to take a roll, carefully.

Mikilos nods. "Actually I'm here to make it worse. At least for a little while." He takes a small vial out of the basket, and passes it over. "Best treatment we have, which still isn't very good. It's mostly salt, with a little vinegar and some rare herbs. I'm just glad we've been able to get a steady supply."

Erendriel tries to make use of everything she has been given. Putting something on the roll, slowly eating some of it, and sipping som of the beverage. "If it's a treatment, then why is that making it worse?" she asks, putting the roll in her lap and reaching for the vial.

"Because it tastes awful." Mikilos makes a face. "Not the worst thing I've ever drank, but it's pretty bad. Still, better than getting worse. And slightly better than coughing up yet another ooze that then can't decide if it wants to crawl down your neck, or slither up your face... I hope I never get used to that."

Erendriel squints, taking the vial, looking at it carefully. Then, without actually waiting for more instructions, she opens it up, tilts her head back, and drinks the whole thing in one go. Then wincing, she shoves the roll back into her mouth. Hopefully it wasn't a topical treatement.

Nothing so plesant. Mikilos winces in sympathy, and passes the beer. The hoppy flavor doesn't quite wash down the taste, but does help cover it. "Thankfully the treatments seems to last, so no need for another dose for quite a while. " He sighs. "But still not a proper cure. Only think we've been even sort of successful at is goading the ooze out with spells." He frowns. "Acedia took weeks. I've heard of tortures less painful."

Erendriel does eat and drink now just to get the taste out, though fortunately having been warned, she got it to miss her tongue as much as possible. The roll's gone, as is a bunch of the beer. "Goading it out sounds difficult. How?"

Mikilos shrugs. "An Inquisitor spell. Once I've been unable to learn. It casts out demons and other possessions, but also injures the one possessed." He frowns. "It's quite unpleasant, and potentially fatal if not careful. Hurt, then healed, then hurt, then healed again."

Erendriel is on a cot in this miserable place, being a magical being through and through, she's miserable in every possible way. Finishing off a rolle and some beer, she sighs and lays back down. On her side, looking up to Mikilos who brought a basket. "That sounds terrible. But if it's the only way..."

Mikilos is fairly magical himself, and also fairly miserable. "Only way so far." He considers a moment. "Well, that's not entrely true. Is one the ooze came out on it's own, painfully, but still. We were casting a powerful ritual to find out more about the source of the ooze when one of the Infected present doubled over and coughed up everything in his lungs. I had a ssumed he was still infected, but have been told he was clear afterwards. But reproducing the ritual would be difficult at best, and we've only speculation as to why it worked."

"This one has water, ssers." The sith-makar at the door bears a tray--bears a tray in the manner of a Charneth servant, but his demeanor is a little less that, these days. He stands straighter, with the cloth of Gilead about him. "...one apologizes again, for the pain this morning, mage. When you are rested..." Ah. When you are rested. When you are rested, the prayerful pain begins, again. Of course it does.

Erendriel looks up to Chay. Not sitting up, but yeah. "Hello," she says softly, If offered water, she will reach for a small amount of it. "We were talking about options."

The sith-makar looks away, as he sets down the tray. "Options, ssers, yes. ...at least there is time, ssers. This place will hold the plague at bay as long as it takess to find a cure, ssers. One apologizes you need to go through with ssuch things." Chay straightens, the tray left there now, with its pitcher--water. A large pitcher of water, and some pewter cups.

Mikilos looks up to Chay and smiles, but has a slightly haunted look to his eyes. "Thank you. I do understand the need." He frowns mildly. "Well, no, I don't -really- understand it at all. I just know it's what's worked so far." He sighs. "Anyway, you're welcome to join us. There's some rolls left, and jam, and I've another flask of beer."

Erendriel nods softly to everything Mikilos says, as she looks up to Chay. "What is the needed thing?"

"Finding a cure, sser. ...this one...this one hopes for a less deadly option than the idea one has found." Chay's tail flicks. Flicks. He looks to Mikilos. "One has compiled notes ssers, from our conversations, mage. One will bring a copy by this evening, before...before one attempts, again." Before they try. Again, Gilead-willing.

Flick.

"This one came by to deliver the water, ssers. The plague is not fond of it. I...this one sshould go to prepare those notes."

Erendriel talks with Mikilos a bit more before he is called to attend to business. So she resumes trying to sleep, laying on her side, as miserable as miserable can be being an ill magical being in an anti-magic place.

"...one has the notes, sser. Sser?" Chay asks. The sith-makar has come back, though the mage is gone. Off to the little mage's room, one might imagine. The sith-makar tucks the pages away, and back into his coat. "Esscuse this one," he says. "...does one need to ask the pitcherss to be refilled?

There is the soft sound of boots on the stone as a man with white hair rounds the corner carrying an armload of food in baskets. At least it smells like food. The pale-haired man looks uncomfortable to be in this place, but he puts on a smile as he notices Erendriel laying about in her bed. Chay stands at the doorway and the man politely gives the sith-makar space. "Looking for Mikilos, Chay? He just left; I passed him on the way down. He had that determined look on his face which I suspect means he intends to try another one of his spells out." He glances toward Erendriel. "I come bearing food for our newest inhabitant. I'm Menel Dinmorin, and I happen to call this place home most of the time myself." How he manages to say all that cheerfully is a mystery.

Erendriel can't sleep very well, so she slowly opens her eyes and looks up to the two much larger individuals who have come in. "Hello," she says very softly, not lifting up her head. "I should drink a little more water, thank you for a refill. I don't feel like doing anything but I should." She slowly lifts herself up to pour the last of the pitcher to allow a refill. "Hello Menel, I am Erendriel." Her voice is as completely devoid of fire as the rest of her is in this place.

Space. As much as the softskin gives him space, Chay takes a step to the side--as though subconsciously, he might feel or risk anyone else passing too closely by. "...peasse to you. ...one undersstands. One ssspent ssome time here, mysself." The words cut off there, closely guarded, perhaps. Chay takes the pitcher, and refills it. It's a while before he offers, "It iss difficult. This one is Chay, of the hunter-caste." Then, "Sservice to the Empress."

Chay's small step to the side makes Menel glance at him, concerned that he hadn't given the other /enough/ space. There's something to be done for that though, so he steps into the small cell to give Chay all the space he could want. It's good in any case, as it gives him a place to set all the food down. He comfortably takes the other bed in the place as a seat, and smiles a bit apologetically at the two with him. "It's not the most pleasant place for sure, but I've seen worse. It reminds me a bit too much of..." He trails off, glances aside and coughs. "But that's as it is."

Erendriel sips her water that she poured, then slowly lowers back onto her side, setting the half-full cup down. "I'm sick, but they tell me I'm not dying now," she says, each word soft and slow. "But this place is so... warded... it's horrible."

The sith-makar flicks his tail. "One undersstands, sser," Chay says. And... "Perhaps sser, if one may be sso bold--if the body iss ssuffering, the mind may become occupied? One meanss sser...at leasst here--the plague iss ssuspended. That tells us ssomething of itss nature, sser, if one may be bold to ssay so. At leasst, that iss what one has heard the mages ssay, and those of that nature?"

"I agree with Chay." Menel nods to the sith-makar and opens a basket. It fills the room with the scent of apple pie. "Here, I brought a pie or a few to cheer you up. I know that being trapped down here is... And having the plague is worse, but you aren't getting any worse. I've even heard rumors that there's a cure out there somewhere, so soon you might be back on your feet!"

Erendriel shifts a little, rolling onto her back, to more easily look up to the large men in the dungeon with her. "that..." she tries to sniff. "I think it smells nice, but I'm not sure. I was hoping to find someone with a cure."

"What have you uncovered sso far, sser?" Chay asks. The sith-makar asks, and looks over--cots. Cots. So many cots from those who had come through here. He moves to take one of them and sits down, awkwardly. There is no place for the tail. "Forgive thiss one, sser. I...one workss with the mage, sser. One is ever hopeful."

Menel smiles softly at Chay. There's something there, a worry perhaps, it's not that the expression is difficult to read on his expressive features, but rather that whatever it is, it's complicated. "Not very much. Just that there /is/ a cure. I mean, Aceida isn't down here anymore. I've heard from the merchants down in the trade district that she's doing very well. I was actually hoping that you might know more. I know you two are friends." He spends enough time down here himself that he'd noticed her absence, though he certainly doesn't seem to have the plague himself.

Erendriel looks to each of them. "So you two don't know who did it, or how?"

"It iss true that ssome have been cured, sser," the hunter says. Chay looks towards the door as he speaks, and then back to the two of you. His mouth is flat, the orange of the eyes a flat fire. "Each who has, has been sstrong. Very sstrong, to ssurvive it. Jusst as many would not, sser, which is why...which is why one may only hear whisspers, and rumors." The tail flicks, flicks.

"At this point, sser--one might ssuggest, ssomeone may ssay: 'What have I got to lose?' The cure iss dangerous, sser. Each attempt of itss use wrackss the body. One ssurvives through determination, and a ssponsor at the temples to heal you. Every day, sser."

"But here, in thesse walls--while they are unpleassant, sser. ...one iss alive, sser. And, one hass intelligence and creativity, sser, a knowledge of the arcane, and access to books. One hass here, a chansse to ressearch a better ansswer."

"If one triess the cure and fails it, sser, if one failss a divine ssponsor, ssers, there iss no chansse."

Menel listens to Chay very seriously. "I wish I knew how She did it." The swordsman's mouth twists, the slight emphasis on the word /she/ indicates that he talks about a very specific she and he is. "If only I knew a bit more about magic I might be able to help!"

Menel slowly pulls out the apple pie, but he's distraught with his lack of ability to assist. It's a little pie, small enough to eat by hand and he offers it to Erendriel as if it's an apology. "Perhaps... I should talk to Mikilos. Do you think that knowing how the spell /looks/ might help? Or is that individual to the caster?"

Erendriel listens to each. "This is unbearable for me, being in here. Magic is... what I am. Being locked in here, stuck, I can't do it. I have to try something. Knowing how a spell looks might help me though."

Chay says, "One undersstands, sser. And perhapss...those are good ideas, ssers," The tail flicks, flicks against the cot. "They are better than what we had ssome months ago, ssers. Some monthss ago, all we had were rumors of ssoap, ssers," Chay says, and the tail gives another flick.

"...there were runs on the markets, ssers. Perhaps ssers, one might ssuggest--for the first time in centuriess, there wass a lack of ssoap among the ssities." A joke. He made a joke. The gods help them.

He looks to Menel. "Perhaps, sser. One ...works with the mage, sser, to find a less deadly cure. He hass made ssome progress, ssers, but more minds...more ideas, perhaps, ssers. Perhaps that is what is needed.""

The pale-haired man seems to consider for a long moment before shrugging. "It would help if I knew what was necessary. What was part of what spell. If there was even more than one." Menel scrubs a hand through his white hair and finally nods.

"Yes, perhaps if I speak to some of these mages I might be able to determine what is what." Menel looks at Erendriel. "So you, you know something of magic then?"

Erendriel lifts her finger without thinking and tries to fire a ray of fire across the room, but of course nothing happens. Which just makes her sigh. "I can do more than I understand, but yes." Looking to Chay again. "So what is the... dangerous cure?"

"The prayer iss a means of casting out possession, sser. It iss of a kind that removess a ghosst's possession, ssers, and enchantments and compulssions. Each prayer harms the body greatly, ssers. It iss not done without partners, ssers." The temples, he'd mentioned.

"The plague itsself ssers, acts as a parassite. Water weakenss it, and bludgeoning weapons may sstrike it when it becomess manifesst. The creator of the plague ssers, or its controller, ssers, iss a masster of enchantment and possession--a creature who controls even vampires, ssers."

"Thosse who are drained completely, ssers, become undead," Chay says.

Menel grimances, shaking his head. "Don't call Her that. Master or Mistress. She likes it too much." He sounds vaguely disgusted and nervously pulls out another pie. This one he holds in his own hands briefly before offering it to Chay. He puts it on the table in the sith-makar's direction anyways bfore he pulls one out for himself. He doesn't eat it though, just holds it. "I can't say I knew even that much about the plague but I have to agree with the rest. She's powerful. And that vampire..."

The swordsman shudders and looks at Chay. "I think... that the undead themselves might be something purposeful. I don't think that anything She does She does without a good reason." Menel shifts uncomfortably, staring at his pie. "I hate to think though, what that means."

Erendriel squints. "When I attacked one of those... things. It liked ice. But it hates water?"

The mention of the vampire has Chay looking towards the door. One might miss it; but he looks that way, and looks down to the pie. "Then you have added more piesses to the puzzle, sser. I...one has not had occasion to try ise, sser. But if you attempt the cure, sser--there will be--there will be an opportunity, sser."

The sith-makar stands. He replaces the pie on the cot. "For what it iss worth, ssers--from what one has read of the undead, ssers, they are much like parassites. Goulss sseek to make more of their kind, ssers, for example. Zombies to sspread their dissease. ...but one musst find the mage, ssers, and ssee that he iss sstrong enough for this evening."

Menel thinks about this. "If they spread it... that might be itself the key. I believe She wants this plague to spread as far as it can." He rises to his feet, little pie in hand. "Actually, I know I should stick around here, but I should probably follow him. Maybe Mikilos can tell me what this spell is." He sounds hopeful and a little excited.

Erendriel tried to smell the pie and had little success in her condition. But now she does firmly take hold of the dish resting on her stomach. "If water hurts it, there are ways to deal with water. I can be made to resist water while having lots of it."

The swordsman hesitates by the door, looking at Erendriel. "That doesn't sound like a bad idea. It's too bad you can't send fire through your whole body without burning up. I think something like that would work best of all." Menel sounds considering.

Erendriel smiles weakly. "It grew when I shot it with fire. But it would be nice. Thank you."

Menel nods. "I've heard that they get bigger when /any/ spell has been cast on them, but I also heard that someone managed to flash-bake one of the smaller ones so, who knows?"

-End