In which they talk vampires
In the room there are three cots. In the room there are two people. Of the two people, one has scales. Of the two people, one lies on his stomach, his eyes screwed shut. An overflowing bucket rests by the bed, filled with blackened goop.
The gobber, across from him, snores faintly.
A single candle illuminates the room; magic failing in this place. It burns brightly, its cheer at odds with the rooms' occupants.
A third, also scaled individual slips into the room quietly. Loudly enough to not be surprising, but quietly enough so as to not be terribly disturbing either. Stopping just inside the room Zeke looks around and quietly begins to clean up the room somewhat. Not that it's truly large enough for a mess to be made, but certain things can be tidied. Particularly the bucket which is picked up and a new one replaces it with barely a whisper of sound. This bucket is carried out again before at last the individual returns to sit down on one of the few small chairs here.
The motion is clearly difficult for Zeke to manage, his body moving slowly as he hunkers down, claws shifting to keep the left side of his body from flashing though no one is looking to see what he's hiding. "Are you feeling better at all?" The words are not a whisper, but spoken in such a low tone that it is only just audible.
"..." The word that comes out could not belong to a sith-makar. A duck, surely. A kicked goose? Chay barely moves--another might have curled against the sound, but the former slave lies still.
Swallow, then grimace because that hurt. "...one doess not know. I..." And he stops, bare opening his eyes. "...I."
The candle catches them; a moist reflection of such a tiny flame. The room smells no better than the bucket had, though the removal--helps.
"Thisss one... Had hoped that coming here would help." Zeke chooses his words carefully, trying not to hiss though his accent makes that all but impossible for him. As it is he manages to hiss but softly. Softly enough that hopefully he will not wake anyone he does not intend to. The blue-scaled sith-makar takes in Chay's prone form and shakes his head. "Could coming here be worth it?"
"...it is the...medicine that heaves the--" stomach. Chay's eyes pop, round like cherries and his stomach lurches. He holds the muscles in place at that lurch, holds, holds...slowly lets it go. Lets his body return back to normal.
Spits the bile into the bucket.
Breathe.
"--the medicine, kin. ...otherwise, one has felt. Well." Rough. The voice is rough. Mikilos made a good brew.
It seems that Zeke has spent too much time running errands for them, too much time back at the Soldier's Defense doing what little he can if he has missed this. "A medicine?" Even his desire to be quiet can not hide his excitement at the prospect. The tired sith-makar leans forward in spite of himself. "Alba'ss work?" No matter how hard he tries the words can not be perfectly without silibance. "Hasss ssshe been here while I wass away?"
"Mithralla's, kin," the hunter says, and looks to the fire. His look fixes on it and he stares unblinking for a time. The stomach tightens. He holds his breath--
--breathe.
"...one thought kin, to...expunge..." he heaves again, and spits into the now-emptied bucket. "...while the plague was. Less sstrong and could. Perhaps not reproduce sso easily. ...one has also found a ssalt lick. It begins to remind me of a sslug."
Heeeeeave. Splat.
Zeke nods and then... seems to consider the thoughts that Chay's words produce. "It hasss been compaired to a creature before." He nods once and lets out a soft exhalation of breath each time Chay heaves. It's clear that he wishes to help, but knows that the most help he can offer at the moment, to this individual, is to sit here and be at his side. "One believess it more like... many wormss. Cut in half they divide and live. Yet ssimple ssalt desstroyss them."
"...one ordered ssalt, kin. Ssalt cubes." He holds them up--for Zeke to see. Cubes, as one might feed a rodent, or other small creature. A rabbit, mayhap. He shakingly, holds them as a small treasure, however. Looks over them with a kind of sick wonder, before looking back to Zeke.
"One believes there is hope, kin. One has...an opportunity here, to try medicines, where the plague can not sso easily fight back. ...and the inmates. ...they are not without entertainment, kin." Still holding the salt, he gestures, loosely, towards the far side of the room. A place far enough away that the vomitsplash might not spread.
The blue-scaled sith doesn't make Chay make the unspoken request. He rises - painfully it seems - to his feet and far enough away from Chay that the other can be sick without worry. Standing however gives him an air of hovering; more prevalent than when he was sitting. "You are brave kin." Zeke offers this before any such sick can be made.
Hurk. "There is nowhere left to go. I was more..." breathe, breathe fast. "...sscared of the ice cream, than of the plague. Iss that not ssilly, Zeke?" Chay asks. His stomach moves up and down, quickly, quickly. In a healthy person, there would be nothing there but bile.
Chay leans over, and stares at the bucket, as though he might spit into it. "...iss it?" he asks the other.
"Fear isss never ssilly." Zeke says this with the sort of certainty that comes with cold experience. He watches the other, his face open so that Chay can see that he has nothing to hide. They know something of one another's fears after all. "Sssome think touching iss nothing to be afraid of, but we know different." He wonders what ice cream is, somewhere in the back of his mind but doesn't ask. Whatever it is, it must be fearsome.
"...one's other kin ...used to, sshe might laugh." Chay rolls back over--having emptied his stomach for the moment. Or, at least, the medicine for now having run its course. He'll drink more of it on the morrow.
...
"We musst learn to laugh, Zeke," he says. This philosophical Chay says. Not the normal one. He looks numbly at the ceiling, just...staring. Even the eyes numb at this point.
"Laugh..." It's not a question. Not quite. He tries to remember the last time that he did such a thing. Surely at some point he must have... But memory defies him and he's left watching Chay's vacant gaze with such an air of concern that he feels it himself and it hurts him somewhere deep inside. Knowing that he cares this much is somehow painful to him. He is used to not being able to help, to being useless. Zeke is not used to caring about people this much. "When is the lasst time you laughed kin?" He wants to know.
A coughing sound. Hoarse. "...when I caught the plague, kin. And right now, when you asked me. ..." Chay stares at the ceiling. Stares at it, eyes moist--and then rolls over. Stares at the bucket, but does not vomit into it.
Breathe.
"Charn was still worse, kin. ...but here. Here..." the shoulders shake. "Hah. One...we take this path of our /own/ choossing. That is the difference, kin," he says, out of breath.
It seems... an odd sort of laughter, and yet Zeke can almost understand it. He nods once. Bows his head but can not find laughter inside himself. "Aye. There are worse thingss than ssicknesss." Looking at him one can not be convinced of the sincerity of his words. It is after all not merely sickness he is facing. It is sickness of his kin. Which he has found is a different beast entirely than that other. "Thisss one hass never had oness kin... hurt before. Thiss one iss finding it challenging to fasce."
"...hurt means being alive, kin," Chay says, too quietly. Then, looses focus again. His gaze wander up towards the ceiling. "...too tired to be philossophical. ...but one is glad to be..."
"...look in the corner, kin. It iss near where yo uare at." Near Zeke, in the 'no splash zone,' are a stack of books. Stacks of papers. The books are on vampires. The papers...
"...one'ss notes, kin, on vampires. On...on the ramblings of the inmatess, here. Not all of them make ssense. Ssome might. They...ramble on how they might achieve a plague. Or how they might cure it..." Chay pauses.
"One has rarely been near ssuch mindss, kin. ..."
How true those words are. Hurt. Hurt /was/ being alive. That gives him heart oddly. He stands up a little straighter; nods a little firmer. Looks toward the corner and lets his green eyes roam over the papers. Carefully, so carefully he crouches by the papers. Touches them with his claws carefully so as to not really disturb them. Yet he also looks at them intently as they might hold some clue as to the secrets of the cure. He leans forward, finding something of interest and his cloak falls back enough to show his artiicial limbs. Particularly his leg, which is hunched over and looks oddly out of place on him even as it seems an indivisible part. "Vampiress..." He holds up a piece of paper with his right hand, angling it toward the fire to get a better look at it. "Thisss iss interessting kin." He tilts the paper more so that Chay can read the top line which states it is a dissertation on vampiric hierarchy.
Chay moves to sit up. He has to think about this, apparently--his hand goes to his midsection. Then, he slowly rolls to a sitting position, to look across to the other sith-makar.
"Hierarchiess...that is good, kin," he says. "Give me a moment--" The head is spinning.
After a moment. After a minute. He leans, and lifts a canister of water. "..."
"What. What doess it ssay?"
Zeke shuffles a little closer to the light and reads from the paper. "Vampiresss often are created by othersss of their own kind, and for many yearsss sserve under those who created them. Thisss changess ass the vampire agess however, and the oldesst vampiress serve no one but themsselves sseeking instead to make otherss to sserve them." Zeke could continue but he stops here and tilts his head at Chay. "Did Alba not sssay that the one who abducted her wass a vampire with a missstresss?"
The hunter squints at his kin. He SITS on one of the cots (there are three in the bare room, each with buckets). Sitting had been an achievement.
Chay is quite a while. Raises the water to his muzzle--and after a few false starts, practically inhales it.
"Hierarchy...kin." Chay says then. The first word brings pain. Sounds of pain. "..."
"Yesss." Zeke holds up a claw. "But he could walk in the sssun." A second claw goes up. "He captured Alba. Thesse are not featsss for a young vampire. Sso why isss he not making more of hisss kind?"
"Why did he not make /Alba/ hisss kind?"
"They are good questions," the hunter replies, sounding muzzy. "It's...good we have sstolen this time, kin. There iss sso much reading to do," the rustscale replies. He smiles to Zeke, a worn smile though for Chay, it's a genuine one. "...one would drink a while, kin. Could you--"
"--read, kin?" he asks. "The throat--" He's been throwing up. Tomorrow, he'll drink more of the medicine, and he'll do it again. And again.
Zeke nods. "Of coursse kin." He shifts, settles down on the floor by the papers where he can not be thrown up on and he can reach the papers that hold the information which seems suddenly so valuable. His crystal limb is clearly visible but he seems for this time not to care. They are alone, and Chay is paying less attention to him than to his words. They are safe. Made so by the warrior-caste at the door and the many layers of security above that. His voice remains low and quiet as he begins to read the essay out loud. Perhaps they can find something there-in.
-End