In which they plan a dungeon trip

Zeke has found a quiet corner. He's huffing and panting in the corner, eyes narrow on each passing body. Searching for anyone that might have come after him. There is no one of course, but one never knows and... His hunched shoulders and tense body show that he's ready to... do something. It's hard to say which action his body is poised for, but he's ready nonetheless. Slowly... very slowly he starts to relax. Starts to let his guard down. No one is paying him any mind here, but... He's still wary.

Chay has a bucket. His shoulders are straight; he carries the bucket underneath an arm. Occasionally raises it; spits. Spits. "Peasse to you," he says to Zeke. His mouth is gummy, his expression sad. "One begins to think, sser--sser. It is worthless to sstay in this place." The tail flicks, and comes to rest on the earth. He wears his adventuring gear--stubbornly perhaps, despite the occasional cough that wracks his frame.

"Peassss..." Zeke starts the greeting by rote, seeing Chay and feeling a moment of security. Chay understands after all. He stands up a little and then his eyes fall to the bucket. They flicker over the other sith-makar and his panic fades to an entirely different sort of the same emotion. He vibrates suddenly with worried energy. Subtly his body leans forward, and his right hand makes an appearance from the folds of his cloak and robes. "Chay... Not you too."

"The Charneth did worse, kin. This one has one's bucket, and one's bow. There is word come of the pale tower, sser. And, one had ssome success in the removal of magic." The hunter's muzzle rumples, and he says, "Hah." It's almost a smile. He then leans over, and spits goo into the bucket.

"Worse, thisss one hass found, does not make bad better." There is a solemn tone to Zeke's words, as if he has said them before. Then he just slides. Slides to the ground where he sits. It bunches up his cloak and flashes his limbs but for the first time... ever it seems as though he just doesn't care. He clutches his right arm around his body so hard that it makes impressions in the dark cloth of his robes. The words of hope seem to wash over him without hearing. A white tower. A partial cure. They seem small. "Do you have hope Chay?"

"One has hope, kin. Having the plague...one is almost at peasse." The hunter looks over, then takes one of the chairs. "Now that one has the plague, the worst has happened, sser. There is nowhere else to go."

Flick, flick goes the tail. The way he looks at Zeke is the calmness of waters, itself. He folds his hands together, the bucket with its brackish contents dangling from a forearm.

Zeke meets that gaze but can not hold it. "Tell me of your hope then kin. Tell me about this tower, and this lack-of-magic." The sith-makar's voice is gravely. "Thisss one isss... thiss one iss losst. Thiss one hass not been sso without hope ssince thisss one wass a... a hatchling." The admission makes Zeke's eyes slip away, his fingers loosen and he tugs gently then more firmly to try and hide the limbs he is so carelessly exposing but it is to little avail.

"The tower belonged to a man who also sstrugled with a disease, kin. Perhaps there are notes--perhapss, sser. Perhaps they were sstolen from him, and misused. But as this tower has not been sseen, one begins with what is visible, sser." The hunter leans forward, and looks to the bucket. Spits in it. "...one has requested notes from the temples, sser. On diseases and vampires, sser--it is, one supposes, one's area of sstudy."

He spits again, then leans back. "If they refuse to comply, sser--one will offer to visit the templess, sser. Viewed in a ssertain way, sser, the plague makes life very ssimple."

The blue-scaled sith ceases to stop his struggling with his cloak and shakes his head. "Ssso a man who ssstuddied thisss thing? Ssssomeone took hisss ressearch and /made/ it?" Zeke looks confused and then suddenly... his eyes narrow. "Ssssomeone made this thing?"

He had been hearing suspicions, but there were a lot of rumors. Some thought it the work of the gods (or one of them) after all. A notion he had not put stock in, so too had he put little stock in the idea tha someone would make such a thing. "Could sssuch be posssible kin? Becausse if sssomeone made it then sssurely they can cure it." A flash of light in his green eyes. "The vampire that captured Alba, he sssaid he had a misssstresss. Thisss person cured Alba, sso perhapsss they made thiss thing. Perhapss /they/ can cure it asss they cured Alba."

"One only guesses, sser. ...but one ssuspects it is made, sser, at ssome level." Chay smiles at him. SMILES.

It also means no one has tried to touch this one, sser--not ssince one firsst--" He leans over, lungs heaving--but a former Charneth servant? He forces some control. Forces the heave into one long, heady arc instead of several, less elegant ones.

HURRRRRRRRRRRRRK.

No less pleasant. Just a little more...a little more what a Charneth servant would have been forced into. Puke, but do so...less noisily. Chay straightens, and blinks moist eyes at Zeke, and his expression is bland. In the end, he finds a smile. "It would help alsso, if one might find Alba's notes, sser--but sshe is nowhere to be found. ...even then, sser. One has a partial cure. One has a sscent. One has a sspecialty in hunting the enemies of faith--and the Vardamen are invested, sser, against vampires. ...there is hope, sser. In Charn, there was sscant enough. One found hope, or died. Sser."

Zeke does not know how to find hope, which has been ever elusive to him. Some survived on hope others... Well Zeke had found other means of survival all those years ago, and it worked now too for all that it felt that the world was wearing him down. Stubbornness was his means of survival. It made him close his eyes on the small taste of victory; on Chay's smile. If Chay had hope, then /Chay/ was not lost. Not yet. Not yet. Green eyes open and the blue-scaled sith nods. "Thisss one hasss been ssearching for Alba. Ssshe... Sshould be around here." He heaves a sigh and shifts, covers his limbs; feels more at ease. "If sssomeone made thisss there will be sssome way to unmake it."

"One has faith sser, when she emerges, sshe will have more words, sser. And sser, there sshould be tomes arriving ssoon, sser. From the Temples." Chay leans over--long hurk into the bucket. Spit. Spit. Shudder.

Breathe.

It's not as bad as the lash, is it?

"...one hopes to find ssomething there, kin. If not...one may need to find thiss tower, sser. One cannot sstay here though, sser. One may even venture into the deeper woods," the sith-makar says, with a drunken sort of confidence. The two sit in a quiet corner. Chay has a bucket.

A wee Gobbo face peeks around the edge of a doorway, and takes in the scene, before slowly approaching. She wears rough, homespun clothing, a simple little nightgown, and over her shoulders is draped a blanket. It drags along the ground behind her. She snuffles and coughs wetly, and moves to sit cross-legged near the two in the corner. Acedia pulls in the blanket, soon becoming a ball of warmth, with just her head showing. She listens quietly to their conversation, her eyes on Chay, with concern etched in her facial expression.

"Chay. You are sssick. Can you not leave the finding of thesse thingsss to otherss?" Zeke's expression matches Acedia's as she arrives, and she is offered a gentle nod from the blue-scaled sith-makar. "Or magic. Can not magic be usssed to find sssomething asss ssimple asss a white tower?"

"One will leave a letter for sser Mikilos to that effect, sser. In the meantime--it occurs to this one, sser, that the plague acts very much like a living creature, sser. A parasite that lives on its host, sser. One ssupposes it survives on magic, sser. ...perhaps one might place oneself in the dungeons in the--"

"...the Arcanists have dungeons, sser, for a many days," the sith-makar says. He stands, and gathers his buckets. Looks to Zeke, "No more than a sslave might leave his master to uncover the concept of mercy, sser. But this one goes to place oneself where one would have never thought to be, sser, and to write a letter."

"One has nothing left to lose, sser. Not now." He turns to look to the gobber, then. "Peasse to you. One counts on you, sser--to know where this one has gone. I will ssend you letters. Sso that neither of us is lost. But one must go now, sser, before this one loses his nerve."

The Gobbo bursts into tears, rather unexpectedly. "Chay, you can't go. You're sick. And we need you here." She pauses. "I need you here.", she says, selfishly. "You, both of you, have kept me from losing hope." She blinks a few times. "Wait. Are you saying that where you are going, there is protection from magic? Magic is lessened or nullified?"

The thought... Zeke rises to his feet immediately. "Chay." It's not a yell, not even close, but it is his kin's name said very sharply. Said with longing and sadness. Zeke steps forward bravely, steps forward again. Extends a claw. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to /be/ touched. Neither of them... Yet he can offer this. The wanting. The wish that he were not afraid. He agrees with Acedia, but he can not break his kin's resolve. Not if this is what might; what if it might save his kin this bravery of Chay's? "Let me go with you to thisss dark plasce. One ssshould not be alone."

"...one suspects. One suspects the Arcanists have a means to contain wizards, sser. They must have means, sser. But--one must let one's People know where he is, sser--and for them to ssend representation, sser. One would not--place one in the hands of the Guild without the Treaty's protections, sser." Chay's tail flicks, lashes once before going still. He looks to Zeke, to the gobber. Deep breath. "One cannot ssay no, sser. There is not that sstrength in this one's heart--but others must know where we are going. /Assurances/, sser. Guards from Mictlan. Or we /sshall not go/."

Acedia throws down her blanket and stands up, stomping one of her feet. "I AM COMING TOO!", she says at a high volume. She lets out a huff of breath. "I am coming too.", she says again. "I'm tired of being sick, and I want to get away from this place, and the misery I hear every day. I can be helpful to you. I can bolster your spirits, and I have survival skills. I am good with blade and dragonspitter." The Gobbo approaches Chay, just shy of being able to touch him. "Please take me with you."

"We will go." Zeke bows to Chay. A familiar habitual motion that Chay will recognize. Servitile, something done a million times to appease someone else. "We will tell Sssvarsshan. He isss here, and he will ssspeak on our behalf. We will do this - together." He would not let Chay bear it alone, and so it seemed neither would Acedia.

The sith-makar swallows. "Then let us gather those assurance, sser. We have nothing to lose, sser. ...and if any legal official argues, ssers--"

He hacks, spits into the bucket. "We may persuade them to move more quickly, as it please them, ssers." He smiles, as he wipes the goo then, from his muzzle--though the arm shakes.

Aceida smiles brightly at the reactions of the Sith, and she manages to keep most of her teeth from spoiling said smile. The Gobbo speeds out of the corner then, the blanket in tow. She's gone only a short time, really, all things considered. She returns dragging all of her possessions behind her as she struggles to pull her leather jerkin over her torso. "I'm ready!", she says, muffledly. She coughs a few times and when she finally gets her head out the right hole in the jerkin, she spits into Chay's bucket.

Zeke has nothing but the belongings already on his back to take with him. Instead he leaves to talk to Svarshan, to find the other sith-makar and let him know what is happening. He doesn't leave until Acedia appears around the corner however. Looking at Chay with a clear expression of comradery. In that moment before he leaves, if he could have made himself braver he would have. He returns several long minutes later and nods to the group. "I have let him know. We will have what we need."

"...one has papers, sser, now. And ink." And so he has. Chay hasn't been idle, either. The sith-makar has these wrapped in a cloth. And he wears his armor, his weaponry. A second, bucket, because they may need it. "...if one door sshould ever close, ssers, brave ssers," he says, and lowers his muzzle. "Then we will find another opening, ssers. One is sure of it." Such words he and Arzaneth had said to one another, once upon a time. He looks to them with a--we're going to do this.

We are going to survive.

Arzaneth--we did it once.

The Gobbo pulls on her backpack and the violin case, and checks the straps that hold her weapons and a variety of things. She bounces a little at Zeke's announcement, and nods to Chay. "We will make our own doors if need be."

Having done his part Zeke stands nervously nearby, his claw holding his cloak tightly about himself. He says nothing now because it has all been said. Said better than his words can make it. He only meets that steady gaze and holds it. Holds it when so often such hard looks make him turn away. Because they will survive. He will make it so with his own claw... his own claw/s/ if necessary. He is with Acedia. And always with his newly found kin.

-End