Scary Medicine, Good Company

It can be *amazing* how quickly one skips the lines when one cares little for angering the Altheans. Without even touching ground, Seldan is whipped through the gates, through the winding streets, into the Soldier's Defense, and past the front desk with nothing more than a curt "Saving the life of a paladin, be cross later." and through the halls, into a darkened room redolent with the smells of arcane spellwork and truly mad alchemy.

There, Seldan is deposited onto a stool, and dodgy-looking herbs and fungi are snatched up.

"It is Demon Rot," she explains as she scrapes electric-blue mold off a shrivelled black mushroom. "Not much time have you, for the foulness of a Night Hag works swiftly upon the blood."

Gray is decidedly -not- Seldan's color, especially not when compared to the fair complexion he started with. He shivers as the hair unwraps itself from him; he had stopped protesting by the time they got out of the forest. When she deposits him on the stool, he just sits there, one steadying hand on the stool between his legs. The bitten shoulder is a little hard to see, but further inspection will reveal that the fangs went right through the light chain shirt that he wore. "Foul indeed," he murmurs. "The drool was bad enough." Sure enough, around that shoulder and down his arm, and on his hand, there's an unspeakably foul goo that might resemble drool, or swamp slime.

He's looking down at the hand on the stool, and doesn't seem to be paying much attention to what is going on. Maybe it's a good thing he hasn't noticed that mold yet.

Behind the two comes Zeke, still concerned about the state of Seldan who seems to be getting worse rather than better over time. He makes apologies for Alba as he goes, nodding to the other shamans. Other shamans. The thought makes him duck his head even lower and move as quickly as he is able through the halls and to Alba's quarters here at the Soldier's Defense. "Thisss one appreciatesss your hard work." He nods to Alba and stays as close to Seldan as... well it's not terribly close, but it's close enough that if the other was to reach out he could /almost/ touch Zeke and that's close enough by some measures.

And the mold goes into a mortar, joined by what looks like a mint leaf, but blotchy red, and what is probably a chunk of some cactus-like plant... followed by a live fish-white tadpole the size of her thumb. Her hair takes up a heavy stone pestle and begins its grim work, as she turns on her chair to nod at Zeke, removing her skull helm and setting it aside. Sullen black eyes peer at the paladin, she returns her gaze to the Sith. "Shaman, a kindness I would view it, if he was helped out of his armor that I may see his shoulder properly."

Only now does Seldan look up, at the request, and over at Zeke. "You're here. Thank you." There's real appreciation in those words. Slowly, he starts to slide off the stool, steadying himself on it so that he and Zeke working together can remove the surcoat above the armor, the light chain he wears, and the padding and shirt below. He winces several times and cries out once - moving that shoulder appears to be rather painful in addition to whatever corruption is in the wound.

It's... a hard order to swallow. It's not the first time he's undressed a patient, but usually - if at all possible - it's a task that he leaves to others that are better qualified than himself to do. Here however, Seldan has no such other to offer him aid. Zeke can see how grevious the wound is and so with delicacy and with care to not accidentally /touch/ Seldan he helps the other man disrobe enough to allow Alba access to his shoulder. Then he stands to the side, tail flicking uncomfortably holding the armor which they had disentangled from the softskin paladin.

"Well done, Shaman," Alba says gently; enough experience has the Witch with Zeke, it seems, that she understands at least something of when he is troubled and when not. "Now..."

Up comes the mortar, filled with a reeking, gunky black paste. "This is going to be unpleasant. But once it takes hold, there will be only chill, not pain."

And -- oh god -- she scoops up a large gobbet of the stuff with all four fingers, and smears it over the open wound.

It had better be magic, otherwise there is no way that would be healthy for anyone.

Now seated shirtless again on the stool, Seldan looks up, and his eyes go wide at the look and smell of that paste. He hasn't been paying much attention to this point to what she's doing, having been spending more attention staying upright and then disrobing. Is she sure about this? He looks over at Zeke questioningly - _is she sure about this?_ is the look he wears - but the reality is that he isn't in a position to argue.

He winces as the mold and herb mixture is smeared over the open wound, an uncontrollable shudder at the touch of that stuff rippling through him, and white-knuckle grips the edge of the stool, but gradually relaxes as it doesn't seem to do anything worse than stink. He's still unsteady, though.

Seldan's expression receives one from Zeke, but sith-makar expressions aren't terribly easy to discern. Surely the way his eyes mildly crease and his body leans slightly (ever so slightly) toward the man means something. It's a mixture of worry, empathy, and reassurance, but who knows what actually gets through those sith-makar features. "It isss for the bessst. Ssshe knowsss what sshe isss doing." There, words. Far better than trying to read a sith's face. A little sympathetic noise escapes his mouth as Seldan is /touched/ with Alba's coated fingers. He shudders.

As Seldan untenses though Zeke rustles, his scales making a slight sound as he straightens and the mithral shirt in his hands shifts. "Do you feel better?"

"He should not, else something is terribly wrong," Alba says, turning back to her worktable and snatching up a poultice bag full of dried herbs. "For the pain that was, not the fever. This, though..." She slides off the stool and walks one circuit around Seldan, carefully examining the wound from all sides as the pain is buried under layers of chill.

"The Demon Fever, shaman, kills twice inside as it runs its course. Where it can, the sickness saps the body's strength, hollowing further and further until nothing is left. But, worse, is that it tries to kill the very soul, destroying the spark of life that lives within a person."

She hefts the poultice bag, then presses it against the wound. "Fortunate, we, that the magics for cleansing a body of disease are knowable by any with even middling talent for the healing arts, as I."

And keeping the bag pressed against the wound, she begins to whisper. The words are not easily understandable; indeed, they make the brain twist, greasily, to try to comprehend them. Symbols written in green fire flare into view, one by one, around the poultice.

In short: Witch magic is creepy, yo.

GAME: Alba rolls 1d20+12: (12)+12: 24

Seldan shakes his head at Zeke, still steadying himself. The chill of that unguent soaks through him, and while it hurts far less, he's shivering when she touches him with the poultice bag. He closes his eyes as the green light flares around him, whispering a formulaic prayer to the Dreamer as Alba works.

When she is done, though, the fever is gone, and he takes a deep, experimental breath. "Yes," he says finally. "I owe you a great deal," he admits, hesitantly, looking and sounding stronger than he did. "That is better. A dangerous fever."

It seems that Zeke can only wait for Alba to finish her cure, though he had hoped that it would be as simple as an unguent. He shifts his weight again as Alba's voice takes on the cant of magic, magic that skitters and crawls through the air. This though does not make him shudder again. This is not nearly as bad as the other. Then, it seems it is done? "Isss it done?" He doesn't quite trust Seldan to be certain, but Alba... he trusts her judgement on this in spite of her claims to be 'merely' anything.

And Alba pulls the poultice away, the bag now heavy and stained, all but pulsing with yellow-green, feverish something inside. "It is done," she confirms, placing the bag into a heavy stone crucible... and lighting the fire beneath. "The chill will leave after a time, paladin. Be certain that you have what healers as can be spared see to your wounds."

With that, she returns to her stool, her hair picking up her helm by its eye sockets, and depositing it in her lap. "A good day, this," she murmurs, running a thumb over the polished bone where a monstrous snout once lay. "And the promise of better days to come. The hag that left... She will seek me in the Felwood. Whether she knows the truth behind my words or no, there will be a reckoning." The Witch tilts her head, then looks up and bares her teeth in.... well, it is as much a grin as a Sith-Makar fully exposing their teeth would be. "I shall *enjoy* this."

Seldan isn't sure he entirely agrees with the sentiment of a good day, but he does nod quickly, hair falling into his eyes. "May she and those like her be stricken from Ea. They have no place here." He slides off of the stool, steadies himself on its edge, pauses, and places his other hand on the arm just below the wound, and mutters several prayers. It takes him close to half a minute, but slowly, the wound begins to close, leaving only the unguent on his arm. Oh, and that swamp slime drool. Disgusting.

He changes tacks, making a few simple gestures that most will recognize as a simple cantrip. Both unguent and slime melt away into nothingness, leaving only clean skin on that shoulder, and he sighs in relief. "My thanks to the both of you. Did the coven break?" He might not have been paying a lot of attention.

The blue-scaled sith nods politely to Alba, though like Seldan he's not sure he agrees on the idea that today had been a good one. Different perspectives perhaps. Her expression though makes his tail wag once and then he catches himself, laying Seldan's shirt nearby the man so that he can redress himself when he is ready. "Thisss one isss not certain, but at leassst one ran off, and the other two were arguing. Thisss one... isss very concerned that they came to feed on the plague. That they came to feed off the sssaddnesss that it causses. Thisss one sshudderss to think what might come of their sssicknesss added to that of the plague. May they never meet."

"They had enchanted their woods to better serve their powers," Alba notes, fingers tapping hollowly on the polished skull. "Marks and runes, carved into living trees. Such ones as I could find were ruined, their power broken. Even still... It must be known that in the future, one need only separate them but a handful of paces, before the bonds that allow them to draw on the power of many break. It was better, though, to break the coven for all time, as we had managed. Better *yet,* to hunt them down in their solitude and slay them."

Here, the witch nods to the paladin. "It is as he says; they have no place upon this world."

While the others talk, Seldan moves over to the shirt laid out for him, with a nod of appreciation for Zeke. Another simple gesture, and the blood and drool is cleaned from the shirt. This he dons again, tying the laces, and seems to relax a little more as he tucks them into his trousers. He isn't as stacked as most fighting-types are, but neither is he weak - say rather that he is slender and toned of build. "That entire space reeked of filth, that much I knew. Slaying them is best, yes. You're planning to do so with the one that ran off?" he asks, approvingly, although he's looking at Zeke expectantly, or more specifically, the armor.

"Ah!" Zeke lets the soft exclamation comes along with the realization that he hasn't actually given up Seldan's armor yet. He could have sworn... He quickly settles it where he put the shirt. It had been so /light/. Zeke steps back quickly, nodding to Alba respectfully. "Thesssse thingsss are good to know. We did what we could. Alba dessssstroyed their marksss, we have divided them. Ssssome adventurer - oursselvess even may ssslay them." This gets Alba another acknowledging nod.

"So, and just so," Alba says, nodding to Zeke. "To my territory I have *called* the hag that left. Lured her away, did I, with the promise of boundless misery to sup and victims to lure. All truth, this, for live I upon the edge of the Felwood, a place with poison and misery in plenty. But it is *my* territory, and nothing has she, that I do not have in full or better. She will either come seeking allies or vengeance, and she will die alone and in pieces, that she may never rise again. No chances, take I."

As if realizing just how arrogant that might sound, the Witch shrugs. "But it is a thing that is true, only because I have spent much time and more learning, studying, and contemplating the truth of knowledge and fear. Had she greater power? To another I would leave her, and feel no shame. If a great evil must be matched by a great good, then if I am not great, I shall match myself upon such evils as I may."

"Thank you, Zeke," Seldan acknowledges, quickly repeating the process of cleaning with the armor before slipping it over his head. There's some residual weakness there, but nothing the clerics upstairs cannot handle quickly. "If the coven is broken, that is good news. The day has been worth it. Well done." He sounds pleased as he looks around for the blue surcoat that goes over all.

He pauses at the witch's words, and nods. After that display, he believes it. All of it. He stills a shudder. "Wise words. Seek the evil as you may, and grow in knowledge and faith, that you be prepared to face the greater evils when they come." Wise, maybe, but he doesn't completely like it. "Would that I could aid you, but I am not yet enough, and that is made clear to me today. But ... we together were enough, and that must be enough for now."

In spite of Alba's bold words, and his own faith in her abilities coupled with Seldan's assurances Zeke can not help but turn his green-eyed gaze upon the woman. There perched on her seat with her horned helm in hand, surrounded by her own works she certainly looked a force to be reckoned with. Zeke however has not forgotten that once she too was captured by the plague. Evidence of that lay upon her lips and chin. Evidence of mortality. "Thisss one isss ever at your ssservice Alba. If you have need thisss one will come to that call. Thisss one isss not unaware of thisss onesss own weaknessss; far from it. However you need not fasce the hag alone if that iss not your wissssh." A nod, very low this time.

"If aid I am needful of, aid I will seek. As well, Shaman, for all that my home is unpleasant to many and more... You will always be welcome at my fire." Her scarred lips turn up in a brief, but genuine, smile, before she looks to the sorcerous paladin. "No, warrior. Together we were not enough. Together, we did what each alone could not hope to do. Lesser than the hags, we all of us were. But our power was yet greater, for our unity stood fast when theirs sundered with the *gentlest* of pushes. This, also, a lesson to remember; it is not needful to slay a foe, if one can break them."

"And that was enough to grant us victory," Seldan replies, finally locating the surcoat and pausing in his words to clean it with a quick word and gesture. "It is as you say. We need not be great enough to slay them, if in our unity we broke their power and drove one away." He disappears beneath the long garment for a moment; the light mail is visible through the fang holes in the left shoulder." He says nothing of the home to which she refers. "If you ask, I will aid you as I may," he adds, after a moment. "Both of you," he adds, looking over at Zeke.

"Thisss one isss thanking you. Thanking you both." Zeke is stilled, his eyes wide with surprise and emotion. "Thisss one isss grateful to be welcomed to the hearth, to be offered aid if there isss need." He nods low to them both and then shifts his weight, shifts to the side so that Seldan can reach the door.

"Come Ssseldan, we sssshould sssee the sshaman-casste here to have you healed and to ressst. You look weary." Indeed the paladin did, and Zeke is shaman enough himself to notice and know it. He makes a motion with his hand to encourage the man to move that way and offers a brief farewell to Alba. "Peasssce on your nessst."

"And peace to yours, Shaman," Alba replies, lifting a hand in farewell. "Rest, warrior, for the next day is like to bring another battle to be fought."

Rather than belting on the swordbelt, Seldan simply picks it up, nodding agreement. Zeke's eyes do not fool him - though he is no longer that frightening gray shade, he is still paler than he should be, and weary. "Yes, and thank you once more. May She watch over you." With that, he turns quite readily to exit.

-End