Noodle Soup
Tenebrae - Wednesday, August 10, 2016, 1:29 AM
-=--=--=--=--=--=<* A07: Lower Alexandria Market District *>-=--=--=--=--=--=-
Just west of the Northern Highbridge and east of the arena, commerce blooms. Noisy and bustling, most anything may be purchased here for a price. Vendors from all cultures sell their wares from exotically colored carts, and the smells of different nations and far-off city-states mix with local ones from Alexandria and its riverbanks.
For all its commerce, visitors are advised to keep hold of their purses. Even the merchants possess a certain, cunning look. Most are positioned at carts or stalls as opposed to a formal storefront, with trade here being mobile, and visiting from all parts of the world.
Though the quality of goods suffers here compared to Upper Alexandria, the options are more diverse. Too, the oversight of the Watch is slightly less, and during times events are held at the Arena, chaos abounds. After dark, the square becomes a hangout for bards and other entrepreneurs whose business is best conducted by night; the shadows at the edges of the square often contain furtive figures engaging in their own brand of business.
Svarshan remains where he is. Absolutely. He slides a slow look towards the door, and ...well, okay. He decides then it's a good time to get up slowly, with Rum in his hands. Clutched carefully. In his hands. Just in case the SPORES come out again and he turns into some sort of pod creature.
Myrana turns around and gives Fazahd, a hale and hirsuite specimen of humanity, a sort of stupifid look, like her brain is shutting all the blast doors and air-raid sirens are revving up in local districts.
"You've come to-er- er um, er uh SVAR! Svar!" She grabs her friend by the scaley shoulders. "You look ill, you should sit down."
Svarshan cuffs Myrana across the shoulder, except his hands are full of Rumcat. So she gets cuffed with spores!
"Examine you." Fazahd rolls his eyes faintly at her stammering. "Please be at peace. I don't need you to disrobe. The Oxleys have already given me a good deal of information about your condition, so I don't need to do that. However, sit down and hush. I am here about your health, not your fussiness." Ah. So there's that. He pauses to look to Svarshan. "Hello, paladin."
"I--" he starts to say, but he's caught in the SUDDEN AND INEVITABLE cloud of spores! And Myrana is there, shouting WORDS at him, as well as that strange priest. He coughs again, waving the cat about to clear the air and is just about to sit down when--
RAAAAAAAARRR!
- HISSST*
- SPIT!*
He stumbles back, falling against the books and toys. Little sith-makar toys, with toothmarks and clawmark, and oh look, that one has Maugrim's head gnawed clean off!
"YES, I SAID CHICKEN FAT," yells Sandy from elsewhere in the district.
There's no flash, no smoke, not even a pop. Mikilos is just there, peering around in mild expectation. Wizards. "Sandy? I have a quest- oh! Hello Myrana. And Svarshan. And.... um.... what exactly is going on?" The elf blinks in mild confusion and more than a little curiousity.
"W-well I care very MUCH, mister Fazahd so you're just going to have to-OH! Svar don't wave him he gets--!!!" But it is too late. They are all doomed. A green cloud of spores is fanned around the room by the waved, agitated mosscat, who hisses and flails stubby death limbs, and then springs to hellish freedom as Svar goes ass over teakettle and Myrana coughs and covers her face up with the corners of her blanket cloak, staggering back out of the musroom cloud.
"EXTRA CHICKEN FAT," Sandy tells. "FINE!"
At first, Svarshan sits there where he'd fallen onto the floor, coughing and yes, inhaling spores. He hics, then hiccups. Standing up dislodges more of the books and toys. The only good thing that could be said to come of it would be--
CRACK.
Yes, that. He leans down, lifting the crushed face of the Maugrim toy in his hand. Then coughs again. Expelling green dust.
Fazahd is studiously ignoring the cat. He has heard the stories, he knows the deal. "I want you to sit down," Fazahd instructs her, "And be quiet while I check you over. And if you are pleasant, I have brought you soup. And sugar treats. Both are made by Nilan's sister, and are possibly the best-tasting examples I have ever had the amazement to sample."
Fazahd adds, "It has chicken fat in it."
"You've brought Mikilos to do horrible experiments on me," Myrana insists, hiding her face behind the corners of the blanketcloak which she has wrapped around her like a quilted version of some wise and terrible sage's robes. If those ever came in pink-and-green scraps, her messy braids sticking out over the top. "Just let me die." She's sick. And dramatic. Sorcerers.
Myrana says, "..."
Myrana peeks over the top, suspiciously. "How much chicken fat?"
Myrana peers at the soup thermos, as if she had x-ray vision. Suspicious!
"A great deal. Now be a good girl and sit down." He says this gruffly, but there's an unmistakeable note of tenderness. Only he could pack one into the other.
Mikilos is very confused. There are Rum spores. This at least he's familiar with. "...actually I came to ask a question. But if there are horrible experiments to be done, I -did- bring my toolbag. Now, what's going on?"
Svarshan coughs again, once. He thumps, slamming a hand into his chest. ...and then sees Fazahd leaning over towards Myrana. He goes still, but whatever moment is ruined by another, hacking cough.
Oh there's chicken fat all right. That bottle's glass, man. You can see it floating in there. With chicken meat. And vegetables.
Finally, Sandy begins to make her way back. Of course she is, just about now, to see that everyone in the world has arrived at her storefront. Well, Faz and Mikilos. "The hell. Myrana, I got soup! I even made them... er.. I added chicken fat!"
SHe is indeed holding a bowl.
Another cough. "Rum," Svarshan manages that one, cursed word, for Mikilos' benefit. He forces himself to a stand, though ow--spores, and tuck the small toy away in a pocket. "Chicken fat," he says, when Sandy comes in. He sounds bemused, the words rough and colored by the thick shit that's in the air. Years in the Iron Hells, and yet--this is worse.
It just IS.
Mikilos waves casually. "Hello Sandy. I came to ask you a question." He looks from the pouting Myrana to the coughing Svarshan to the dark corner where he last saw Rum. "Though at the moment I've no idea what it was."
Myrana swells up noticably under the blanket as she sucks in a breath. Oh no, it has LOTS. And she needs that to LIVE. But then Mikilos mentions his bag and she remembers! IT IS ALL A TRAP! She narrows her eyes to evil blue slits beneath her bangs and the blanket frumph, and looks from the wizard to the masterbuilder. But is life worth living without soup? Clearly Svarshan is in on it as well. Cuuurrrrse!
"I don't feel like sitting down," she croaks. "I am not sleepy at all. I am in perfect health, and my lungs are full of oxygen, and NOT BABY RUMS. Oh!! Sandy! Sandy you're back! Tell Mister Fazahd and Mister Mithralla to go away and leave me in my healthy state!" Pause. "And to leave the soup."
Fazahd lets out a deep breath. He does. And then he takes a deep breath. And then he speaks, and it is rather spooky. Like he's doing his best impression of Gandalf swelling over Bilbo Baggins. You know the scene. "Myrana Jn'Rajh," he says in the soft, hard sound not of a father, but of a particularly fearsome mother hen, "You are going to sit, and you are going to let me look at your face, and I am going to look at your tongue and hear you cough and whatever else I damned well please and you are going to do this because you are sick, you know you're sick, and if you stay away sick the Oxleys are going to try and rob you blind - and then I will have to murder them, and I will go to prison, and it will all be because you were too stubborn not to let a /trained healer/ do something about your bloody illness!" You know the sound, you know how the words flow. He is a very, very practiced guilter.
Chicken--wait. WAIT. The mind seizes on that like a safety to a drowning man. Svarshan stumbles backwards and grabs the bowl from the just-arriving Sandy, and. Lifts it to his muzzle, guzzling it down. Swallow, swallow, gulp, gullllp. ...he isn't subtle. He isn't slow, and a sith-makar's muzzle works as a sith-makar's muzzle will, drowning the whole.
"....so... wait, Myrana's sick?" Mikilso is still playing catchup.
"Yes," Fazahd says, full of meaning. "And -refusing treatment-." The worst thing you can do. Neglecting your health. What is wrong with you. Don't you love your mother anymore?
Myrana's eyes get huge and dark and WOEFUL and GUILTY and she sits down with a flumph on the couch. It is enough to break your heart. The real danger, the actual real danger of the sorceress is not farting cats or explosions, no indeed! It is BACKFIRING GUILTTRIPS. Lesser men have thrown themselves off of bridges maybe you can't disprove it anyway! Or that is the impression. She sits down, and sniffs (which is, honestly, because she is hugely congested)-- and then sees the horrible betrayal. And she gasps, and she jolts back up to her feet!!
"My soup!!"
The bowl hits. Ringing on the floor. Except the spores are DROWNED. DYING from the scalding, boiling...
Gorgeous...
Soup. Svarshan drop-leans against the wall with a slow, hiccup'd sigh. "Oh sssweet battlefuck." He says. And then, "Sssa, no. I healed her when sshe came in." Because he's a dumb paladin and they're honest. Ooorr...he's a sith-makar, and completely missing the sneakery that Myrana is trying to accomplish. Regardless. ..."Dragonfather'sss. Blessing."
Then, more gulping sounds as the last, precious dregs are used in that most military of manners, snuffing out Rum's precious, and ruthlessly spreading fart-spores. Or adding food to them. He's...that's news for tomorrow.
"The soup is in the bottle," Fazahd says, and then he stares at Svarshan. "...I see." He hands the bottle to Myrana, and looks rather displeased. "Here. Soup. Drink it." He also hands her a small tissue bag. "Here. Sugar. Eat it." Don't choke on it. "I am going to tend the poor now."
Sandy clears hre throat, then delivers yet more soup to Myrana. She is eyeing Fazahd, then says, "WHat's wrong?" And then to Svarshan, she eyes HIm some more. Becasue she's worried. WORRIED FOR SPORES.
Mikilos nods, begining to understand. "So... technically cured, but still feeling crappy and wanting soup and good foods? I can work with that."
Svarshan lets go a gusty sigh. It's the sigh of a man who has set out to conquer the world. And has. One spore-bowl at a time. One scalding, boiling chicken-bowl at a time. He's not going to move. He's...
Sandy is probably going to murder him.
He looks to be rethinking his options.
"I am going to go. Make ssweet love to my. Beautiful angel," he says instead.
...and that is the story of how Sandy's shop came to be covered in mold, spores, and the chomped-off heads of tiny Maugrim toys. ...and it explains further why instead of leaving, he heads towards the wine cellar, and there's an answering, happy and horrible growl from below. Lizard love.
Fazahd has disconnected.
Mikilos blinks, frowns, and looks to Myrana. "Wait wait wait.... you were sick, feeling awful... and you came -here-?!"
Sandy is indeed staring at Svarshan. WITH BILE.
Svarshan has disconnected.
Myrana unscrews the jar and starts sipping at the fatty broth. Like a blanket monster. "W..well, my apartment is messy," she says, guiltily. "So I came to sneeze on Sandy's couch."
Mikilos nods, and frowns, sitting himself down on the floor, and setting on hand upon the carpet. Wiggeling the fingers. Just a little. Wiggle. Wiggle. "I perfectly understand not wanting to stay at your own place sometimes, but you ca-.... wait. Were you trying to get Sandy sick?"
"Yes. The sickest I'd ever seen her. She was miserable. And then she drank all the medicine," says Sandy, giving Myrana a stern look. "I still blame Rum."
"No!" Myrana curls up on the chaise and sulks in her quilt burrito. "...I drank the regular amount of health tonic," she insists, sternly.
Wiggle. Wiggle. Long innocent fingers, completely unaware. Perfect for pouncing. "I'm still not quite understanding why you came here. Comfort and relaxation are about the last thigns to find here abouts."
"...the regular amount is not ALL of it!" Sandy points a finger at Myrana. Then she marches over to her and sits next to her.
Rum is not stealthy. Nothing that fat, with stubby legs, ever is. But he is intent, and pancakes down into a murderdisc punctuated by two big orange eyes. And wiggles his butt, getting ready to super murder Mikilos' delicate fingers.
"I feel very relaxed here," says Myrana, making room for Sandy and offering the jar of hot soup towards her. "The Oxleys are too afraid to bother me here for some reason, so when the shop is closed I can actually sleep."
Rum is eyeballed, of course, but Sandy says nothing. Perhaps seeing Mikilos mauled is fine with her. She nods towards Myrana, solemnly, "Of course."
Mikilos is less than fully concerned over Rum attacks. It's Rum retreats that leave a cloud behind. "Okay, the Oxley deterant angle I can understand. Can't say as I find here relaxing, but I suppose we have different tastes."
"Well, ever since we returned from the war, I've lived above the Ox. When its all locked up, and downstairs is closed for the night or a holiday, its very quiet. I like the big windows, and I like my rooms..." Myrana hugs the soup and settles back against her cushion mountain. "But I can't take a bath there, because the Oxleys just wander up to raid my kitchen, and murder is illegal." Sage nod.
"...a damn shame, that," says Sandy, of murder being illegal. She gives Mikilos a look. You know, just so he knows.
Mikilos pfffts. "You're an Adventurer. Murder is part of the job description. You just have to get creative about it. For myself, big windows are nice, but I prefer the security of a few meters of enchanted stone." He glances sidelong towards the 'sneaking' Rum, and wiggles his fingers again.
AAAAAAAAAAAAADEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATHHH!!!!!
Rum pounces and comes up like three inches short, landing on his flat little face.
Mikilos is not the slightest surprised, and long fingers reach out to scritch Rum behind the ear. The left one, two thirds down, riiiight at the Itchy Spot. Wizards are pretty famous for Knowing Things. The best spot to scritch a cat is one of the less famed but more useful tidbits.
When Rum misses, Sandy's hand goes to her face. She probably saw that coming. Darn cat. Can't even maul Mikilos properly! She is DISAPPOINTED.