In which they are a little less alone

Today the Soldier's Defense is bustling, just as it had been yesterday in fact. Of late the Soldier's Defense has seen an increase in the number of those in need of its aid and not only from the refugees. No there's more at foot here, as is clearly evidenced by the fact that there are just as many people hurrying their way out of the area as there are people in the rooms that they've been given. The effect of so much chaos has effectively for the moment at least, ruined the homey atmosphere that usually holds sway in the hospital.

Amid those going to and fro is an extremely tall sith-makar whos cloak has the hood thrown back today. This reveals his blue scales and the six horns which follow the curvature of his head in a gentle sway. He carries several scrolls with him in a neat little box which he holds in his right hand.

"One only wishes to settle the bill, ser." The lean sith-makar ducks his head at the attendant. A not-very sith-makar gesture, though the tail behind him is in contrast. It speaks volumes: tiredness, and perhaps, not-quite-truth.

The two stand near the back of the grand foyer, and near one of the frescos. Near some of the benches. They may be seen easily from either entrance--perhaps, this is intentional. Perhaps it's only placement, or a measure of the two of them standing aside, as more attendants bustle here and there.

The blue-scaled sith stops in his tracks as one such attendant comes and relieves him of his burden. He seems to relax slightly now that it is gone and with a blink at the retreating person with their package he heads toward where this other sith-makar stands. Politely he stands behind and slightly to the side. More than once he is required to step a little out of the way as someone comes rushing by with something important on their minds or in their hands. Even so he remains endlessly patient, moving back to his spot and waiting for... something.

“There is no charge at this time. You can speak with one of the Hearthguards, of course. But with the current plague--" the attendant waves, or gestures rather, towards the multitude of cots behind the foyer.

Chay looks that way, and his inner lids flicker. Focus. Scent. He stops listening to the poor attendant and walks into the room. His muzzle is working quickly--deep breaths. Quick breaths. And then, someone walks by, and snaps him out of his focus.

"Excuse me," he says, underneath his breath. And then, catches sight of the other sith-makar. The tail goes down. Caution?

Fear?

Zeke of course has already noticed the other sith-makar, a soft sway of his tail indicates a moment of pleasure and then... it seems as though Zeke is acutely aware of the other's sudden caution. He ducks his head slightly and lifts a hand to tug at the collar of his hood as if he would draw it up if it wasn't rude. A habitual motion. So too is the one that ensures that his cloak covers his left side more completely. "Peasse on your nesssst." His accent is thick enough to walk on, his inner lids flickering once.

"Pease on your nest," Chay replies. Caution. The sith-makar flicks his tail and lowers his muzzle, briefly. "And pease to you, shaman-caste. This one is Chay, of the hunters." As he straightens, he glances in a zig pattern from Zeke's hip, to elbow, to hand and then face. Flick. Flick-flick. The orange eyes settle there, but do not rest. Not exactly.

The blue-scaled sith-makar suddenly looks wholly embarrassed, claws tugging the cloak closer about his body and his eyes flickering toward the one and only other person nearby them who - seeing them communicating with one another is making an exit stage left. Zeke starts to say something but the words die in his mouth and then he is suddenly looking not-looking at Chay. "Thisss one isss not sshaman-casste. But it iss a pleassure to meet you. Can thiss one help?"

And justlikethat. Chay draws an easier breath. "Pease to you. No, ser. One was only--this one was attempting to donate, for one's care. An accident, ser, and one found the services kind." Pause. "They tell me the bills are covered, ser." His own accent has Am'sheri in origin but seems muffled, somehow. The 'ser,' definitely not. It has a hint of...a hint of...something uncomfortable. Then, "How should one address you?"

"Thiss one iss Zeke." He pronounces the z a little odd as if this is the closest aproximation to that sound as he can make. "It isss not sstrange that your bill hass been taken care of. Mossst do not pay for sservice." Though Chay seems more comfortable Zeke does not.

"Free, ser?" Doubt creeps into the other's voice. "Zeke, ser. One apologizes. I...thank you for your care, ser. One is...one is only recently returned to Alexandria." The tail lashes side to side. If there had ever been a picture painted of two more uncomfortable sith-makar, it may never had existed--outside a supporter of the Teacher, or the Empress. And this one wears Her symbol about his neck.

Zeke's tail has of its own accord twisted down to curl around his feet as best it can. In truth there's very little about Zeke to give much information about him. "You have come to thiss plasce at a bad time." The blue-scaled sith sounds regretful, his eyes shifting to look at the people around. Far more people than there usually are in this place, and far more moving about. "With the plague we are very bussy."

"...one understands, ser. One has heard. The Obsidian Masks," the hunter replies. The edge of the muzzle tightens, drawing back teeth. "One has heard they infiltrated local sspaces. But more than that, one does not know. One was injured on the mission, ser."

Then, he looks to the side and down. "One is one of the Lost, sser, recently returned." The--aah. Those who had been claimed by the Charneth. The 'ser,' the edge of servility to it. Those would trigger, perhaps. And Chay looks back, and raises his jaw.

Zeke's eyes tighten, but that is the only indication that he might be upset. Not with Chay, but with the obsidian masks. "They claim to do Vardama'ss work, but they do not." He sounds certain of this. Then he nods his head low, almost bowing toward Chay slowly. "Thisss one iss glad to ssee one returned."

"One is glad to have returned, ser," the hunter-caste replies. Secrets...settled? there's a strength in his tone that had not been there, earlier, and he looks across to meet Zeke's eyes. "So one has heard, ser. One gathers they have made few friends." Yet, the eyes flick away. Steady.

Their eyes meet only for a moment. Orange eyes meeting an odd shade of green that looks out of place amid all those blue scales. Then they are both looking away. Watching the other people pass by or... something else. Suddenly a woman trips, dropping her load of towels and Zeke politely steps in to help her. He flashes his prosthetic arm and leg as he does so. Beautiful crystal an odd counterpoint. He backs away as soon as her towels are picked up and now his tail is swaying back and forth in a pleased manner. His cloak falls back into place with a habitual motion that hides his arm and leg from view. "They have far too many friendsss asss it iss. And they are right about the plague which makess it worssse."

A hunter's eyes notice the false arm. Chay's do. He glances that way and then towards the basket. The towels, and back to Zeke's muzzle. "Ser," he says, more easily. The breath slows, though the heart still beats a trace quickly. Then, "How contagious is it, ser? One...one stayed here a while, is all. And perhaps...should one worry for it spreading towards the Portal?" Towards Am'shere, towards the scaled communities, he means.

"One sshould not be consscerned." Zeke looks helpfully at Chay, then down suddenly realizing the other's unease. "Asss far asss we can tell it iss not contagiouss at all. Ssome people catch it, but otherss around them do not. Alssso only thossse here in Alexandria are ssick."

The hunter looks down and to the side, thinking. "Thank you, ser," he says at length. "I...this one will think on it, perhaps." The tail flicks, flicks. Flicks. "...is there...may one help, ser? Perhaps carrying towels?" He lifts his muzzle then, head tilted to the side.

Zeke seems to seriously consider this for a moment. "Thiss one thinkss that if you can help to catch thesse Masskss, that would be help enough. There are already too man handss carrying towelss here." This admission seems to amuse Zeke slightly, if the tail swish is any indication.

A flick of the tail. An acknowledgment. "One understands, sser. If one may be so bold...one suspects the illness to be deliberately set, if there are no other patterns, ser. If one may gain permission to speak with ssome of the patients...it may be helpful, ser."

He inclines his muzzle slightly, then lifts it. "Is there someone this one may share words with?" he asks.

The blue-scaled sith is silent for a long moment then seems to make a desision. "If one will promissse to be gentle, the ssicknessss..." He coughs at the end, trying not to hiss. "It iss very harssh. Thisss way."

"Ser," Chay says then, and will fall behind. For a moment, the jitters go away. For a moment.

Zeke leads the way through the Soldier's defense to a small room where there is a lonely woman laying abed. She is goblin clearly, her small frame making the bed look much larger than it is. She coughs as they come in, her body shaking with the force of it and Zeke's eyes dim with concern as he hurries across the room to take the glass of water off of her stand and offer it to her. In this space it is clear how big Zeke is. Nearly seven feet tall and broad through the shoulders for all he tapers through the waist. Meanwhile she waves the cup away and picks up a handkerchief instead. The thing is stained black.

"...peasse to your nest," Chay says, his voice quiet. And then he's quiet. The hunter could reach Zeke at the shoulders--but instead of becoming a presence in the room, he stands in contrast. The ashscale lowers his shoulders and head, becoming a shadow of a person. A... "This one is here as assistance. Please do not mind myself."

As always before Zeke seems acutely aware of body language. The moment that Chay quiets Zeke shrinks down in on himself. It doesn't make him any less big than he is, but he can and does make himself less physically imposing. "You have quessstionss Chay." It is a gentle reminder and the woman finally stops coughing long enough to realize that Zeke isn't alone. She doesn't say anything just yet though, clearly confused.

A look over, and Chay takes in a deep breath. The olfactory senses take in the room, the scent of it. The sickly air of it. It is perhaps one of the braver things he does when he steps forward and, "May one see the handkerchief, ser?" he asks the goblin. "One is a Guide under the--the Temple of Gilead, ser. One is here to help. Your healer knows me, sser."

Uncertainty the woman hands her handkerchief over, and admittedly Zeke looks curious as to what Chay intends to do with it. Both of them watch the hunter-cast sith-makar, but Zeke is far more subtle about it than the woman is. "Sure," is all she says.

The handkerchief in question is not covered as one might have thought in blood, nor even the sort of mucus that most such things hold when one has a nasty cold. Instead it is truly black with - whatever it is. It is clear that this particular handkerchief has been extensively used, and as Chay examines it Zeke gives the woman a new one procured from the stand at her side. She takes it gratefully, using it almost instantly.

Pause. A slow inhale that makes it look like he isn't doing what he's doing--scenting it like a dog. Chay then turns the handkerchief this way and that, to look at the spot. The scent? The smell? The...texture as the cloth is rubbed against itself?

He places it on a nearby table. "Thank you," he says, and pauses. Then, "...it is unusual, ser. One has some knowledge of the arcane. One will take note on it, as soon as one leaves this room. Could you...what is it you do for a living, ser? If one might ask?"

Yelrona has been spending the last hour or so talking to the staff about the mysterious plague the cultists had talked about... to little result, admittedly. As she comes down the stairs she notices Chay, and uses her Hat to grow an unconvincing tail for a second, so she can give him a tail-flick of greeting with it as she approaches. "Peace on your nests," she says, nodding to both Sith, curiously looking at the handkerchief in Chay's hands.

It smells like water and lightning, and nothing at all like what sickness should smell like though there is the scent of the room to contend with. The smell of a body in a contained space; sick. The woman points to herself uncertainly at Chay's question as if not sure if she's the one he's talking to. Then she looks embarrassed slightly. "I'm a waitress at Ma'Rosie's."

Zeke watches the conversation with interest until Yelrona arrives. Her presence causes the sith-makar to freeze up even as he offers her a polite greeting. "Peasse on your nessst." His inner eyelids flicker. "May I asssk what you are doing here?"

The hunter freezes. He looks embarrassed, whirling around until he realizes what, or who, it is. Hunter-caste. Taunt strings. Thrumming spaces and twitching muscles.

"Kreeee... "Pease to your nest," he says, tone careful. So careful. To Zeke, "Of Alexandria's hunter-caste, sser." The shoulders will not stop twitching, not stop moving here or there. Tension. "Pease to all of us. Everything is alright. It is alright, s-ssers."

Yelrona looks Chay over carefully, seeming concerned, but says nothing. Instead she nods solemnly to Zeke. "You may," she replies, straight-faced.

The blue-scaled sith-makar becomes impossibly smaller, eyes flickering from Chay to Yelrona and back again. Then to her. "What issss... what are you doing here?" He asks this clearly of Yelrona. The woman coughs and he quickly motions for everyone to leave. "We ssshould leave her in peasse."

"Thank you, ser," Chay says to the woman in the bed. He then follows Zeke out of the small room, and ...into the larger one. It could be said he takes a deeper breath. One not tinted with sickness, and disease. One not tained with...

"She was sick with the plague," he says to Yelrona, and then steps back. Steps back to give room to both Zeke and Yelrona. "Pease to you both. Ser, one has worked with this hunter in the past, though sshe is not of the scaled, ser."

Yelrona smiles and nods to Zeke. "See? That was easy." She pauses and follows the group as it relocates, then continues "I've been hearing rumors of a mysterious plague associated with some black-masked Verdaman cultists who are accumulating quite a body count, of late, and -- right," she agrees, as Chay mentions the plague as well. She isn't quite sure what to say about her evident lack of scales, so says nothing.

A low note starts up nearby, and permeates the building. An old song of hope, of better times. The Gobbo with the violin slowly makes her way through the place, taking great care to avoid the path of folks who're having to hurry about.

Zeke stares at Yelrona, his clawed hand tugging his cloak closer about his body. He seems about to say something to her when the music starts and suddenly he lets out a little huff of annoyance. If it truly is that it certainly doesn't show on his face and he gratefully nods to Chay who absconds for a moment to do so. Then he holds out his claw for the handkerchief. "Thisss one mussst assk for that back. It belongsss to the hossspital."

Yelrona idly hums along to the violin and acknowledges the Gobber with a nod, then accepts the handkerchief curiously, looking at it for a second before handing it to Zeke. "What is it?"

Acedia offers the daintiest of curtseys to Yelrona and then Zeke. She gives Zeke a look, and then she winks at Yelrona. The music continues, slowly segueing into a faster, more boisterous tone, albeit slightly muted given the setting. "Peace on your nest.", the Gobbo intones.

The cloth in question is covered in a sticky black residue. Not blood or mucus such as one might usually find on a handkerchief. "It is a handkerchief." Zeke offers the words with a blink as he tucks the cloth into the folds of his robes. As he does so he flashes a glimpse of his prosthetic arm and leg. Beautiful crystal at sharp odds with dark blue scales and quickly hidden by a habitual motion of his cloak. "Peassse on your nesst again Asseida."

Yelrona smiles at the Sith's reply, acknowledging the justice of it. "Ah. Well, that explains it, then. What do you get when you cross a handkerchief with a bonfire?"

"How are things faring here, Shaman?", the Gobbo asks of Zeke. She looks to Yelrona. "He's worrier we will catch our deaths and thinks it be best that we weren't here. He tried to bully me out the other day." The music slows down again, becoming peaceful, almost sleep inducing.

Zeke blinks at Acedia. "Thisss one iss not Sshaman-caste." The rest of Acedia's statement he leaves unremarked upon though he does shake his head slightly from side to side as if mentally disagreeing with her. "Nor doess thiss one know why one would crossss a handkerchief with a bondfire esssept to burn it."

"It would be a strange thing to do, admittedly," Rona agrees. "And I thought this plague wasn't contagious, in the conventional sense?" she asks Acedia.

"Clerics don't count as Shamans? Warrior cast then?" Acedia blinks at Zeke then looks to Yelrona. "But what DO you get when you cross a handkerchief with a bonfire? And I don't know all that much about the affliction."

Zeke looks uncomfortable with Acedia's questions, choosing not to answer them and focusing on Yelrona's question about the plague. "The plague iss not contagiousss. But people think it isss." He motions to the commotion around them which has not ceased since they arrived. Mostly people seem to be going. Getting away from the hospital as quickly as they can walk. Others move more slowly into the hospital as if uncertain if they should be here at all.

"Zeke's correct," Rona admits in reply to Acedia's question. "Mostly, you get a bonfire and some ashes. And, yes, people are nervous about the illness... though they shouldn't be."

Acedia huffs, the music changing to something more peppy, and she splits off from the other two, playing for a group of children. A few balls of light and colourful images add a bit of oomph to the joyful tune.

Chay comes back with some cups--a tray of them that he holds balanced in his hands. "One found water, sers," he says. Then, instead of holding it for them, he sets the tray and its pitcher, cups, down on a table, nearby.

Progress, of a sort.

"The illness, sers? ...one has heard, hss. Whispers of fear. But perhaps, these things are expected." The tail moves side to side, flick, quiet-flick as he looks to the gobber, then. "This one is not familiar with the tune. What is it? Hss."

"Thiss one thankss you." Zeke offers this to Chay with clear gratitude, moving to the water gently and taking a cup off the tray to drink. Then he stands there thinking for a long moment. "Thiss one iss at a lossss when it comes to this ssicknesss. It sstrikes all kindss in all placess. One catchess it, and then a masssk iss there. We do not know how they are getting in to give thesse thingsss." Meaning the black masks.

Acedia eyes Chay a moment. "It is an ode to joy.", she says quietly, the music flowing in time to the Gobbo's movements, with the occasional flash of bright light. "Hmm. The Black Masks must be finding a way to mark people. To infect them.", she comments, eyeing Zeke briefly.

"One of the victims worked at the danse hall," Chay offers quietly. "One has yet to inquire where others worked, or made their pay, ssers. Such inquiries...must be done with disscretion, and care." The tail flicks, flicks.

Flicks.

Zeke considers this as well. "Thiss one can assk." He offers with his claw upraised slightly. "I ssspeak with the s-sick all day. Mossst will not mind me asssking." He swishes his tail back and forth. "Or I can take you to assk them. If you are gentle... and quiet."

The music comes to an end, for now, and the Gobbo approaches Chay. "Yes, you don't want to cause a panic. But uhm... these people who get the masks have been running out and hurting people. So something needs to be done before it becomes public knowledge." She glances at Zeke. "You should both ask around, carefully and quietly."

"One will do so, sser," Chay says. He smiles to the gobber--actually smiles, but it's one that never reaches his eyes. Scaled, perhaps. Or just...

...just him. "One wishes to find these creatures, ser. Do you know anything else that sshould be considered?" he asks the gobber.

The blue-scaled sith-makar looks out at the hubbub and seems to grow sad. His tail grows still, his body silent. "I fear that it isss already public knowledge. What iss happening here may sspread. This one hass heard that there have been murdersss?"

Acedia holds her bow and violin behind her and blinks at Chay. "Yes. You should look at the bodies of the infected for clues. Something on them must be causing the effect. You have a whole hospital here. Someone might be stalking those who are vulnerable." She falls silent, and looks to Zeke and nods, and then. Slowly. Begins sidling away.

The hunter flicks his tail, flicks. "...one...they are not bad ideas, sser. I...this one fears you are right," he says. He follows the bluescale's look towards the crowds, the sick.

"...why...may one venture, sser. What caste sshould one address you as?" the words sound strange even to his own nonears. Doesn't...every sith-makar have a caste? From early years?

Zeke nods to Acedia, thoughtful as he looks out at the crowd. Then…

The already still sith-makar ceases to breathe. Suddenly he is extremely reminiscent of the reptiles that he is descended from. Ones that could hold still for seemingly forever without moving at all. His inner eyelids flicker, the only sign that he is alive and then slowly he takes in a breath again, tail curling around his leg and his body hunching slightly. "Thisss one hass no caste." The words are so softly spoken that only the hiss in them makes them audible.

The wee Gobbo bolts from the Soldier's Defense.

Ah. ...the hunter goes still. A sith-makar gets accepted into their caste at their earliest years. In a culture where parenthood is fleeting--caste forms its permanent bonds.

Even cross-tribe. Chay looks slowly, over to perhaps the one person on Ea who is more alone than he is. The inner lids flicker.

Zeke had as well said he knew how to walk on the moon.

This particular sith-makar is staring at the floor some feet away from Chay where Chay is still visible to the corners of Zeke's vision. It is clear that Zeke is aware that what he has said is not usual. That it is in fact very unusual, however it is equally clear that he does not know how to move on from his statement. He is breathing again at least. Slowly. Expecting... something.

Quiet. A slow, clearing of throat. A slipping into the Old Tongue. "...one was one who Went Out. ...one...with my close-kin, formed a tribe. New kin, from every caste."

Chay opens his muzzle. Breath comes out, shaking and hot. No words.

"...Charn lay in wait. Two. Two of us ssurvived. One of us is afraid to. ...to ssee the sun. ..." Chay sucks in hotbreath. Holds it. And so, so carefully lets it go. So carefully one might not even notice the...

...disturbance. His tail flicks.

It seems that Chay's soft words in their Old Tounge are not expected. The language itself seems to soothe Zeke, and his eyes close at the sound of it. His head tilts toward Chay and by the time the other sith-makar utters the fell word 'Chay' Zeke's green eyes are open again. When he speaks it is in that lanuge that they both know, which comes to him so much more fluidly than did those others. "Daeus bless your kin that the sun no longer shines harshly in their eyes."

"This one is sorry for your pain, for the loss of your kin." His eyes are darker than they were, dark with sadness. Then slowly he unwinds his tail and unfolds himself. "If you will - This one will listen, and share as well."

“One has had one's caste," the same, quiet words. Chay stares straight ahead. Seeing, but not seeing. At length, the inner lids nictate. "When one..."

Breathe. "When one came back, ser, the hunters were waiting for me. One only had to--to--" the throat works, and he goes silent.

Gradually, it is all pushed under. "--one is sure things will find their way, sser." Aaaand he piles everything under a pile of awkward. He'd meant to offer something. He really had. Except. You know. Weel.

"You were brave then. And now." Zeke bobs his head certain and still quiet himself. He meets Chay's eyes briefly and heaves a soft sigh, keeping to the Old Tongue now that it has been spoken. "This one... this one was born wrong."

There is an flicker of discomfort there, a moment where he tries to hide his limbs and then slowly lifts his crystal arm so that Chay can see it clearly. It glimmers beautifully in the light. Even so he hides it again quickly. "This one's egg-mother saw this and kept all away. Kept this one from caste and kin. She..." Now it is Zeke's turn to stare off into the nothing, to see things that are not there. "This one spent years and years among the soft-skins and known no caste of my own, no kin. This one does not know how to. Be."

The inner lids flicker and then go still. The pupils, mere pinpricks. For once--

Chay lets go a soft, "Skree..."

What words can one use? Except the numbness of one's mind?

Zeke ducks, and it is clear now what that motion is; an attempt at hiding rather than a nod. "This one is sorry." The words are slightly hushed and he pulls his cloak closer about himself.

Something goes on behind those eyes. Chay leans back, and looks over at Zeke. "...one needs kin, sser," he finds himself saying. And slowly, closes his muzzle.

Dips it, against his chest. Raises his claws up to his face and his eyes.

This Zeke does not know how to respond to. He watches Chay instead carefully, feeling something that is not easily expressed in words or even in a physical way that could show on his face or in his hands. Not even with his tail. He does not know what to say, and so wisely he says nothing at all.

Breath. Quicker. Chay digs into his scales and slowly lowers his hands. He stares out at nothing, at the hall. At the victims around them.

"One...one needs kin, sser. One...the other sith-makar. Ssome of them undersstand, but ssome of the sshamans here tried to lay their hands on me."

A hard shudder runs up his back, shoulders. DOES NOT LIKE TOUCHED shouts to the world, as clear as day.

"...but one needs tribe, sser. Kin. Perhaps we who have been through...the darkness, may find sstrength. Together."

Oddly; interestingly, Zeke too shudders with Chay at his mention of the healers trying to lay hands on the sith-makar. They share much it seems. It's a realization which startles Zeke slightly, enough that his green eyes darken and widen with sadness and with something more than just that. Chay's words make his jaw open, then close. "You... you would call this one kin?" It is utterly disbelieving.

"Sith-makar need kin," Chay finds himself saying. His voice is numb. "We...we are...we are not meant to be alone." He looks down at his claws. "The People are...the People are...we do better, when we are not alone."

Zeke seems to take a moment and then finally, slowly unfolds. It is not however because he is more comfortable with the situation. Simply more resolved. "Brother." He offers the word huskily, as if and because he has never said it before. Because it has meaning to him. "You need not offer such things to this one. This one would be your kin, because we are kindred. But not if it hurts you."

"...kin does not hurt this one. Kin heals. ...when it is not kin trying to...clasp one's sshoulder," Chay adds, finishing with a 'joke.' His voice rasps, and cracks.

And, the hunter takes a deeper, steadying breath. He stoops, to gather the towels. "This one will carry the towels, kin. We will sshare words, and heal thiss...thiss place." Not looking at Zeke. NOT.

Zeke's eyes are soft and round, his tail swishing from side to side. "This one thanks you." It is clear that he means for more than Chay's offer to help carry towels. "Yesss." He slips back into tradespeak because soon they will be among others and it would be rude to speak a language they do not. "We will heal together."

-End