In which there is progress

"...there is a shortage of soap, ser. One apologizes," Chay is saying. The rustscale holds a paper underneath one arm. Its headline reads: SOAP SHORTAGE! WHAT'S BENEATH THE SUDS?

"The paper suggests they have taken to eating it, sers, as a means of preventing the plague." It might be more easily noted at this point; Chay smells like lavender.

A whole LOT like lavender.

Zeke can only stare at Chay. At the headline. Chay. He blinks his green eyes and lifts a hand to rub one brow ridge in a motion that's clearly tired. It looks a little like the blue-scaled sith-makar didn't get much sleep last night. If he got any. "Eating... ssoap." Zeke notably, sounds as tired as he looks. "Why would anyone think that eating sssoap would prevent the plague?"

"This one does not know, sser. Only, only...ser, that they are terrified. ...one made the mistake of suggesting that soap was for bathing, this morning. ...I am sure you see the results, ser." Now that he's there, well. Chay's clothes have that hint of dampness that suggests they'd recently been soaking. His scales--inbetween the scales--have that touch of soap, lavender-scented crust.

"Ssome youths also, are organizing cleansing parties, sser. They toss ssoap and water at eachother. One has noticed, sser--it mostly sseems to involve participants in white clothing, ser. What follows this ritual is 'Oh no, I have gotten wet,' followed by what this scaled can only assume is ritualistic giggling, ser."

"...I do not think. I do not think this one will be going outside any time soon, ser," Chay says, lowering his voice. He tries not to swallow. Really, he's gotten better about that. He manages. Mostly.

There is a sigh let loose and Zeke shakes his head back and forth. "Thisss one can undersstand their fear. We have ssseen an uprissing of more with ssymptomss. Yesssterday we had a golem come in - one who isss naturally immune to ssickness... And they died in only twelve hourss." There is a woman behind him crying beside the bed of a young boy and he glances toward them with a slight flinching around his eyes. The sadness around him is palpable. "Ssstay here Chay. You can ssstay in the quarterss they have given thisss one."

Chay skits. He looks askance at the other sith-makar. Things seem to roll over in his mind, however--how one word might lead to the next. How the words might have been taken; as a request.

And yet... "One--one did not mean to impose, sser. One--but if the plague is here, ser, and the plague is worsening, ser--the People should stick together, ser." Hiccup. "At least, it is--that feels right, one thinks."

He looks over towards the cots and the sick. The air of the place... "Twelve hours?" he finds himself asking.

"It iss no imposssition. You are kin." He says this matter of factly; without hesitation. Zeke meets Chay's eyes for a moment. "Thiss one findss it very curiosss indeed, but the othersss here are not catching the plague. The ssshaman who work here, the other patients. They do not catch the plague. Or at leasst not ass many asss sshould. Thisss one thinksss you are ass ssafe here ass anywhere."

Zeke shudders gently. "And one will not be caught up in sstrange ritualss." This would seem then to be a benefit at least. Though perhaps not much of one to be living amid so much chaos and sadness. "Twelve hourss. Thisss one hass never sseen the sssickness sso bad in ssomeone."

The tail flicks. The shoulders ease, become less tight. "Thank you, kin," Chay says. He falls quiet for a moment, as he looks about the place. Anywhere but there in front of him. A flick! of the gaze towards the patients. Towards a haggard Hearthguard making his way past.

Quick-in-breath.

"Thank you--Iiiii--how do you hold up, kin? One has heard of strange creatures. One has heard laundry ssoap vanishes, as well. They have blamed this upon an arvek they call 'Boshter.' One...one can only guess at the forces such a creature aligns himself with, kin."

"...its very nature is unclean, s--kin."

The Hearthguard gets a long look from Zeke as well, a slight side-step to the side though there is plenty of room between them. They are mostly off to the side and out of the way, but Zeke is careful to remain so. Chay's words get a sidelong glance with a hint of curiosity. "Thisss one isss tired. But with ssuch thingss going on one mussst carry on." He makes a small hand motion to indicate everything including Chay's words about this 'Boshter' person. "If they think it will cure the plague they will take it."

There's a slight flick of Zeke's tail as the tall sith-makar slyly watches Chay from the corner of his eye. "But you were ssaying ssomething kin?"

A flick, a look. One might see walls there, were one so inclined. One would not, either, be entirely wrong about such an assumption. Chay looks quickly towards the passing Hearthguard again. The breath comes too quickly.

"One--was only surprised, ser. Kin. That is all. That...is all. This one has been busy on his hunt. The soap was an errand, from the Hearthguards. This one was sorry to return with empty claws."

He reaches for the Tribune, then, and holds it up, quick and awkward. "At least one returned with newss. ...the ssoap is...somewhat funny, kin. Ssomewhat. And, there is a sstory in the back you might like."

Out of a polite respect for those walls Zeke does not press the question any further. There's not any further to press it anyways. Zeke understands. "Thisss one iss glad to have ssuch competent huntersss sssuch ass yoursself working to find the sssource of this plague." Even if Chay had come back with empty claws.

Green eyes blink at the newspaper and then carefully, delicately, and slowly Zeke reaches out for the paper. He takes it by the very edge so that their claws never risk coming close to touching. Yet... Zeke holds his breath just a little as his claw takes hold of the paper, his heart rate climbs just a little. The news on the back...

The news on the back? A survey. Would you rather have the power of flight? the paper asks, or invisibility? Oh. Below that.

Below that, the series of horoscopes. The symbol for each is drawn in florid hand, with exaggerated lips and mouths in a way that makes the whole thing appear somewhat grotesque. Then there's the writing.

The WRITING! Oh, don't you even, one of them starts, in that flourid typeface. You may be feeling especially creative, today! The sun is shining, and you are, too. Maybe you aren't feeling creative, though. Be the best you can be! Expect to shine! Or, stay indoors! You might need to recharge! Opportunities will fall into place!

Chay looks towards Zeke with an unreadable expression. There might. Might. Be a smile, but let's not get too hasty, here. "There are predictions for each birthday, kin. It's said the Elunans put stock in them," he says, and lowers his muzzle. He...he /is/ smiling.

Zeke stares at the page with an unreadable expression. He hasn't seen the smile. Not yet. Then he glances up and sees it only to look at the page again. He looks at it as though it holds some sort of mystery that he might unlock. Then he mouths out a few soft words to himself. They're barely audible, but if one was inclined to listen carefully he's clearly reading out one of the horoscopes. "Need for persspective. Communication iss key. You are sssafe and where you need to be." He blinks at the newspaper again and tilts his head at Chay. "What isss your birthday kin?"

Chay glances that way quickly, towards the paper. Back. "It is the summer, kin. I---"

"It ssaid something about doing something different, kin. Then it ssaid ssomething about laughter, and fun," he says, and --"One would not mind such things, kin. But perhaps, they are for after the plague is ssolved. ...or perhaps they are telling me to enjoy ssomething, today. That--" he says, and stops.

Rapid breaths, as he stares off into nothing.

There's a thought brewing in Zeke's mind clearly written on his face but then it disappears like cold water has been thrown on him and he steps cautiously one tiny step closer to Chay. "Chay?" He says the other's name rather than 'kin' because sometimes... Sometimes there are memories to be triggered by such things. He is here though, a quiet presence.

...the other shakes his head, doglike. Throwing off water, that. "Just thinking, s--kin. Thinking one should go outside. Perhaps Madame Cleo from Veyshan iss right." The tail flicks, flicks, and Chay looks over. Smiles. An actual smile. "We sshould walk, kin. Perhaps visit the witch--one has heard no ssounds from there, of late. That is never good, kin."

Zeke's tail wags his tail back and forth softly, pleasure spreading across his features. "Yesss. Thisss one thinksss that iss a fine idea. Perhapsss sshe can be convinced to join uss for lamb-apple pies. They are deliciouss." Zeke motions for Chay to come with him. There's clearly a swing in his step, a bit of happiness where there was only sadness before. They head toward where Alba's room is. Once there Zeke knocks politely on the door.

"Lamb-apple pies?" the other asks. Perhaps the words echo through the door, past whatever madness lies within. Chay's tail flicks, and the sith-makar looks to the side as they approach. Looks down the hall, each way.

The door opens, seemingly of its own accord. The room itself is lit only by a single guttering lamp, and while well ventilated... There is the distinct acrid tang of Mad Alchemy hanging in the air. For awhile, the Witch herself can't be located in the small room, until one remembers that Alba is Alba, and looks to the upper corners.

Whereupon one will spot a fibrous spiderweb of rippling black hair cocooning a curled up Witch, with a red-banded viper hanging from a swollen cheek.

Worse, it appears to not be the only bite she has suffered.

It is safe to say that Zeke stares. He doesn't intend to as it's very rude, but the swollenness of Alba's face is worth a stare or two. Hesitantly Zeke shifts just slightly inside the room. "Alba?" It is uttered in exactly the same tone with which he had said Chay's name. Carefully in case he is waking the dead with his words.

Chay stares as he turns back to the door. The...bites on the cheek, the swollen snake-pimples that only a prom-going teenage debutante could dream of. "...Alba?" he asks, echoing the kin.

"...what did you do, Alba?" he asks of her, this lean sith-makar. He looks up towards the pile of hair, and perhaps, sleep-drool.

"We haff reachfed," Alba says, her attemped to reclaim her obviously scattered dignity marred by the fact that she's talking out a swollen face, "an accordf."

Slowly, somehow conveying the fact that it can and will happily bite again, the snake removes its fangs, and slithers up a lock of hair to disappear behind her neck. Once the reptile is settled, the cocoon begins to carefully unwrap, revealing a very very seething Alba.

"Pfrogreff haff been made. Bfut, ftalled I am. More I cfannot do untfil proper famplef, I gfet."

Zeke tilts his head, trying to understand Alba's distorted speech. He seems to get the gist of it however. "Proper sssampless? What iss wrong with the sssampless that you have?" Zeke moves slightly further into the room to make room for Chay. As he does he looks around the place, clearly curious about what the witch has been doing in here.

Chay glances at the reptile just as it vanishes. Then, looks back to Alba. Were he a debutante, he would offer makeup and cream. Perhaps commiserate over that boy they both liked. But, he's none of these things.

He's, you know, a lizard. So he stares at the slithering, escaping thing, and his eyes flick to the side. Perhaps wondering if he should say a thi--

Albaglaring.

--perhaps not. "Samples, Alba?" he asks, instead. Perhaps this is a safe topic.

"Famplef," Alba agrees with a slow nod. "Chfoice, haff I." She says, deteminedly floating a handful of inches off the ground, just because she *can* and if she can tell *one* thing to go take a walk, gravity is an easy target. "Fhfind the fourfe off thif fickness. Fhrom it I am fertain I may crafht a cure."

"Or... teft my progreff upon lifing sick. For what I exfpel if dead, and fpellf only ferve to refife them."

She tosses a hot glare over her shoulder, presumably at the tiny little snake. "Farathfraff belieff I fhould not chfoofe the latter."

"There may be ssome willing to take the rissk." Zeke says quietly, thoughtfully. If people were willing to eat soap there is no telling what they are willing to do for the hope of an actual cure. "It isss wisser though to find the sssource. Thisss one isss scertain that hunterss can find it."

For all his words Zeke hardly sounds hopeful, his eyes are downcast, his mien of one nearly defeated. He looks suddenly all the years old that he is, and that is quite old. He lets out a huff of breath. "Promissse thisss one that you will not offer thisss option to the motherss of the hatchlingsss." He looks up. So old.

The--Chay's blood runs cold, as the saying goes. It's a real feeling, though. A REAL one. The heart stopping, ice hitting the veins. "...one does not understand, sers." Oh, he does. He just doesn't want to.

"...I will get a pitcher of water, sers. For the bites," he says, and hits the door quickly.

Zeke's desire for a promise produces a curious reaction in Alba; not a laugh, or anger, but she nearly recoils, as though slapped across the cheek, and looses a low hiss. "*Nefer,*" she says without hesitation. "*Nefer* will I allow hfarm to come to a fingle chfiled, untfil thfere if no breaff in my lungf. Thif waf Fara--Sfarathffrff-- *MY FAMILIAR'F* argument thfat confinfed me. No. Not unleff folunteerff come femfelfff, and then only if thfey are adfentfurerf. Hardier, they, and wiff coin to buy better healing."

Zeke relaxes. His whole body shifts, his shoulders slump and he dips his head low to Alba. "Thisss one did not mean to inssinuate, only..." He grasps for words he can not find, still so saddened that his body is weighted by it. "Even if they hear word of it thiss one iss worried they will come knocking to your door begging for ssuch hope."

A small pile of clean laundry wanders into the room, and the clean sheets begin to add themselves to the empty area set aside for such things. After about half the pile has moved over, it becomes apparent that a wee Gobbo dressed in white is actually carrying around the linens and towels. She begins to collect the used ones once she is done with the clean.

A door stands open in the back of the Soldier's Defense, revealing a dimly-lit room and allowing the faint smells of Truly Mad Alchemy. Within the room, voices can be heard-- one distorted into a curious lisp. The linens are stained, some burned, and perhaps half of them are slavageable and fit to be reused.

"Nefer to wield hope af poifon, I. Too many fuch poifonf are thfere in thfe world, thif day. No. Fifit my ranchf one day, shfaman. Underftand, you will."

Zeke nods in agreement, slowly collecting himself. He recognizes Acedia who has never seen the sith-makar look so sad, so tired, so defeated as he does in this moment as he unfolds himself and tries to stand straight. A slow sigh is breathed out and he nods again. That unsith-like motion seeming so oddly natural on him. Though one begins to realize that it's not a nod so much as a bow. The motion of one used to trying to appease others. "Perhapsss. When thiss iss over. For now however... have you eaten?"

Acedia gives the Sith a wave, and the small white mask she wears over her lower face moves a bit, as if there were a grin under it. She remains silent for now, though her big, pointy ears are angled slightly. The Gobbo tsks as she pulls up one of the linens, the sheet being burnt, and blacked by more than just fire. The noise she makes when the smell hits her sounds uncomfortable to make.

"Shfaman," Alba says after a moment, the words slurred through a mass of snakebites on her face. "Thif plague if a terrible thfing. It iff a danger to all, and muft be fcoured from thif world. But it *can* be done. And no intentfion haff I, tfo let itf go undone."

"Head tfall, shfaman. Thfere if ftill a hunt tfo run."

The sounds of quiet retching draws her attention, and by the sound of the snort a bit of amusement. "Sfo often, I hear thif..."

Almost at command Zeke straightens further. He's very tall for a sith-makar, and standing makes him nearly dominate the room. Which is impressive given the floating witch and the alchemical devices around them. Almost, almost he looks like something Alba might have summoned to aid her in her search for a cure. Some dark-scaled dark-horned demon. If a sad one. Then he turns to look at Acedia and lets out a small amused noise. "Thisss iss Ascedia. Sshe iss volunteering here; like thiss one. Thisss one isss not sshaman-caste." He looks slightly to the side and flicks his tail nervously.

The Gobbo glances at Alba and holds up the ruined sheet. "Did you do this? It's ruined.", she says with a huff. "The gunk could be dealt with but why is it burnt?" She cants her head slightly and looks to Zeke a moment. "You would definitely fit into the warrior or shaman caste, Zeke.", she says softly, before looking back at Alba. "Yes, I'm Acedia, the little volunteer that Zeke keeps trying to shoo out of the hospital. Nice to meet you."

"A fample caughft fire," Alba says blandly. "Fand waf not enuff." The witch rises in the air until she hovers roughly at eye-level to the towering Sith, and nods once. "Well met."

Sullen eyes flick sideways to Zeke, and one eyebrow rises. "Healing andf wifdom you profide in thfe name of thfe godf. If thif not the workf of a fhaman?"

Zeke's eyes do not meet Alba's though they are now on equal footing in terms of height. "Thisss iss true, but thisss one hasss no casste." He looks at the alchemical ingredients as though they are the most interesting thing he has ever seen. It's not that difficult since they /are/ interesting, but not half so interesting as not meeting anyone's eyes. His tail flicks back and forth, showing his discomfort with the subject. After all, he might as well have just said that he came from another planet.

A busy day in the Soldier's Defense, the plague continues its deadly swath through the people of the City. In one of the morgue rooms, a small group of people talk in quiet tones. Acedia looks up as Alba now looms over her. "Well met, indeed, floating lady who's loincloth I can almost see up." The Gobbo giggles at that and sighs. "Those are the only samples we have. Please be careful. It required risking life and limb to get them. The creatures which they came from are dead. Not sure why they were inside a rock, but there you go." She glances at Zeke then and moves to his side, reaching up as if to pat his arm, but falls just short of doing so. "Talk to Svarshan.", she says quietly, before moving back to the soiled linens, which she starts stuffing into the basket she bore into the room.

Alba's eyebrow rises further, as she looks down at the giggling gobber. Her hair ripples, like a muscle briefly made to work. But her attention returns to Zeke as Acedia attempts to give him some comfort, and she gives the Sith a long, measuring look. "Sfo and sfo," she says quietly. "Fvar--Sfvfvr--Covfefe--*Thfe warrior* if wife. Andf when yfou haff dfone fo... Vifit my ranchf. Perhapf thfere if fome learning tfo be hfad, thfere."

Zeke's tail flicks some more and then Acedia steps close and the sith-makar instinctively steps back and away from her hand. Incidentally knocking his tail into Alba's alchemical station. The bottles rattle and one rolls over with a little hiss and some smoke. Zeke startles at the sound, his breathing unsteady as he looks around. "Yessss." He backs away slightly. "Thisss one isss ssorry. Thisss one will talk to the Ssvarshan."

The Gobbo waves a hand nonchalantly. "No need to apologize. I keep forgetting, it's my fault. And as whatsherface said, Svarshan is wise." The linens start getting stuffed more quickly. "Where is your ranch?", she wonders of Alba, glancing at her momentarily. "What do you raise there?"

The smoking bottle is quickly scooped up by an errant lock of hair, its contents dumped into a similar jar, which is then placed on the workbench. All without Alba so much as looking around. "It if no worry, friend Feke. Haff your food, it if like thfat we fall be along fortly."

Beetle-black eyes flick to Acedia, head tilting to one side. "By the Felwood," she answers. "Giant fpiderf, I raif."

"Ah yesss. Food." Zeke looks grateful suddenly. "Thisss one will bring sssome back. Or... or you can meet thiss one in the cafeteria. Thisss one will get a treat for usss." He glances around the room and then neatly steps out. As quickly as would be polite.

-End