Awakenings

It's night. Late, judging from the position of the moon overhead, when it isn't blotted out by the patches of dark clouds that are drifting through the sky. Malik has set up a small tent on the edge of Mictlan, after bringing Seldan there to ask for the help of the Sith-Makar. It's large, and comfortable, and the air inside is warm, kept that way by a small fire pit in the center, letting out smoke through a vented hole in the top. Seldan, still asleep, has been put on a small pallet of skins and furs, kept comfortable and warm, as best as can be managed.

Malik sits beside him, wearing one of those calf-length waist wraps that he wears when he's studying, or wants to be comfortable. Judging from the redness and dark circles under his eyes, he hasn't slept yet, with seemingly every book on magic he could get his hands on open in various places around the little pallet, looking for just about anything that might help. He pulls away, rubbing at his face for a moment before leaning over to check on Seldan once more, feeling his chest for changes in the heartbeat, listening for changes in breathing. "You're gonna be fine," he whispers to the paladin in a reassuring tone, giving him a smile as he brushes one of those locks of hair out of the man's face. "I'm gonna figure this out." Though it sounds like maybe he's trying to covnince himself, as well.

The Goblin appears to be searching Mictlan for something or someone. She deftly avoids running into people, animals and carts alike, staying out from underfoot lest she be accidentally trampled. The tent on its own, on the edge of Mictlan? Acedia pauses to consider it, before making her way towards it. As she nears it, it becomes easier to see what she bears. Across her shoulders is a quarterstaff, hanging from each end of the quarterstaff is a large bucket. And by how she moves, they are full. Crouching at the tent's opening, she speaks softly. "Malik? Seldan?", she wonders of the person sitting there.

Nothing has really changed since two nights ago. For all intents and purposes, Seldan simply appears to be in a very deep sleep from which he has been impossible to awake. His breathing is slow and steady, slower than normal sleep would be, and he hasn't let go of a polished, ornate longsword in a style that is nowhere close to being remotely modern. Of fine make and balance, it has been blunted and polished, as a sword turned from everyday use into wall ornament might be. The pommel is carefully carved, but otherwise, it seems to be a serviceable if dated weapon. He doesn't wake at Acedia's entrance, either, although the skins and furs combined with the fire seems to be keeping him warm enough.

Malik looks up from where he's sitting as the little goblin woman makes her way to the tent's entrance. He offers her a smile, nodding for her to come in. "He's still out, for now," he tells her, gesturing to one of the open fur piles in an invitation to sit. Still, he doesn't stop his work. Very carefully, he puts his hands under Seldan's side, rolling him up gently to inspect something on the man's back -- a tattoo, from the appearances in the firelight. Fresh, but precise, a mixture of arcane and divine symbols interwoven in a complex pattern. "Still holding," he says to no one in particular, nodding approvingly as he lets the man back down, gently. The sword never moves from the opposite hand, and Malik re-adjusts the furs to maintain some modesty.

Finally, though, he looks up to Acedia, looking tired. "It's good to see you," he tells her. "Though you're taking a serious risk." As if to emphasize that point, a fit of coughing seizes him, causing him to turn away a bit.

She lowers the buckets to the ground, and brings them into the tent one at a time. They're labeled "SOAPY WATER". She sets them out of the way, so that they cannot be accidentally overturned. "I am glad to see you are both still alive.", Acedia says quietly. His comment about risk has her rolling her shoulders. "I had it, and now I am cured. I know it can be done, and I mean, it's already turned the whites of my eyes black. I know what I am up against. Even if I et sick again, it cannot stop me or keep me down. I'll beat this thing, one person at a time." She draws herself up to her full height of about three and a half feet. "So tell me what's going on here, hmm?"

Gesturing to the sword, she chuckles. "Not an approved bedside object to be clutching, you know?"

Seldan doesn't move or respond as he is turned over, and a pair of gray-black circles that look rather like fang marks are visible on the point of his left shoulder. They appear to be long-healed, but are a little strange-looking. He doesn't let go of it, but otherwise doesn't seem to hear or acknowledge either of them.

Malik watches as she brings the buckets in, giving her a little grin once the coughing is done. "You trying to tell me I need a bath?" he asks her playfully, though perhaps just to distract from the black-stained cloth he casts to one side. At the question as to what's going on, he gives a little shrug. "My best guess? A mix of magics gone bad. Unintended side effects." He brings his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. "I worked a sigil to try to stabilize them. But they're fighting each other," he tells her, most likely referring to that fresh tattoo on Seldan's back. "Powerful works. Divine, arcane. Something in between the two. Sorceries that were never meant to be mixed." He's quiet a moment. "I'm trying to figure out what can be done, but -- I think that he'll have to work it out by himself. There's power flowing through him. So much. I'm surprised it hasn't killed him. But when he comes out of it -- he'll be stronger for it." He says it with confidence, but a tiny undertone says he knows that's a theory. And a hopeful one.

At the question of the sword, he turns back to her, nodding. "It's part of the magic, though. He doesn't seem to want to let go of it. And I don't know what would happen if someone took it from him." He leans a little forward into the light, the beginnings of a black eye there, otherwise hidden by shadow. But that smile widens a bit. "Someone already tried that. We had a -- professional disagreement. They ended up seeing my side of things."

"Hmm.", she says, a note of distaste in her voice. "What was his reaction to someone attempting to take the blade from him?" Acedia smiles briefly, her nose working at the air. "You could stand to take one, yes.", she says cheekily before her expression turns more serious. "I mean, how did he come to be holding the blade? What was happening before that? What happened afterwards? And why are you sitting here in a dingy tent and not in the Soldier's Defense?"

Malik looks like he's thinking about the words to try and explain. But eventually, he just shrugs. "I'll show you," he tells her. He leans over, putting his hand on the sword and starting to gently pull it out of Seldan's hand.

Which provokes an immediate reaction from the unconscious paladin. His breathing starts to go faster, and his muscles tense. His heartbeat visibly races in his chest, more obvious with the shadows of the firelight. It's clear that he's struggling to hold onto it. It's only when Malik releases it, setting it back securely in its original position, does the man start to calm down once more, functions all returning to normal, though a clear sheen of sweat has developed.

"His mother presented the blade to him," he tells her. "An ancient family heirloom. He touched it, and some manner of magic reacted with the magic he's infected with. It charged the ooze to enormous proportions, the size of a building. I was able to get him away from it while others kept the thing mostly contained, but it infected some of them." There's another undertone there, but he holds back whatever he was thinking. "It's not safe for him in the city. The Arcanists would lock him in that damned dungeon, in their antimagic field. Potentially killing him in the process. And the patients at the Defense are defenseless against this." He turns to her, looking at her seriously. "But more importantly, he didn't want to go to either. We spoke of it, before. He believed that the Sith-Makar could help. And he's not capable of voicing his own wishes. So I'll voice them for him, until he can say otherwise." It's clear that Malik cares for the man, a slight defensive edge in his tone, though apparently not directed at Acedia. "This is what he wanted. So this is what happens."

Acedia cants her head to one side as Malik speaks, and she rubs at her cheeks. "See, something in there cancelled the magic of the plague, I am guessing. Or attempted to. It forced the slime out. It may be, at this point, that he is cured. However, obviously something else is going on here." She gestures to the comatose Seldan. "I don't think the anti-magic field will kill him. It did not kill me, or Chay or Zeke. We were all infected at one point. The dungeons kept us alive. But if you feel that this place is safer, well..." The Gobbo shrugs her shoulders. "I'm just a wee Gobbo who's survived the plague."

"...the keeperss do not. Know?" The low voice comes from outside the tent, yet outside the bones of Mictlan. Svarshan leans over, sharing words with an elder sith-makar. The sith-makar gives a slow move of her tail. "One will sshare words," she says. The warrior lowers his muzzle and holds it there, until she exits. Then, he heads into the tent. "Peasse to you. Thiss one...forgive me. For the ssoftskins to come to sscaled. Thiss. Thiss is new. When one firsst came to Alessandria..." Pause, pause. He looks down to the paladin, to Acedia and Malik. "It wass not thiss way."

Seldan does not react to the sith's entrance, nor to anything or anyone else, once Malik has let go of the blade. He does, however, stir a bit, his breathing deepening enough to resemble more normal sleep - and the hand releases the blade, relaxing.

"He may be," Malik agrees, pointing to one of those books. "Or," he says, pointing to another, "it could be strengthened. Or altered," he says, pointing to a third. "Or any of a hundred other things. We're well outside the bounds of accepted spellcraft theory," he explains. "And until I figure out what's happening, interrupting the process is as likely to kill him as the magic itself." He sighs a bit, rubbing at his face. "Others may have survived, but this is different. You didn't have confl..."

But then the elder Sith are approaching, and Malik falls silent, straightening a bit as they make their entrance. He bows his head respectfully, listening to the greeting. "Peace to you, as well, and peace upon your young," he greets, as best he can manage. It's clear that he's not very accustomed to Sith traditions, but is making an effort. "I apologize for the strangeness of it. But he believed that you could help. Told me that you were good, and could be trusted." This directed to Svarshan, specifically. "I have no reason to disbelieve him."

Malik turns as Seldan's breathing changes, eyes widening a bit as he releases the sword, Malik's own breathing starting to speed up as a look of nervous fear comes over him.

"I can agree that it might be different circumstances. But I do not think the base of it has changed. What do you mean by confl..?" Then Svarshan arrives. Most are content to respond to the intonation with "Peace upon your nest.", or somnething similar. Acedia simply squeaks and launches herself at Svarshan. "Svarshan!!"

"...one honors the Silver Empress," Svarshan replies. He looks to Seldan, and the answer--it could be every answer Malik could hope for, or none at all. The Silver Empress, the leader of the sith-makar, allies with Alexandria, he means.

Not every faction within the People would honor that tradition. Not every faction might honor those words, but. And but.

Honor to the Empress. And then there's a gobbo, and Svarshan doesn't seem to mind at all. He lifts the gobber, briefly, before settling her down again. Then settles, comfortably. Warm, comfortable, calm. He takes a breath, and the sense of it filters out: calm, comfort. Light, and hope.

"...one has heard whispers, from caste. ...it is good to sshare words again, Acedia," he says to her, warmly. Then looks to Malik, to Acedia. "It iss good to sshare words."

Seldan shifts at Acedia's squeal, turning half-over and blinking owlishly in the way of one who has seriously overslept. The lights are on, but is someone home?

"Conflicting magics," Malik tries to tell Acedia before she's launching herself at Svarshan, and he's turning to watch a woman just identified as an Empress walk into the tent that he has set up. What with his books and and candles all over the place, and the small fire keeping everything warm. Him barely dressed, even. A visit from royalty was clearly not what he was expecting, given the state of -- well, everything.

He's clearly unsure of what to say at this point. And even more unsure as to why someone of her rank would be visiting them in the first place, taking such a risk, given they're both infected. But he just gives her a deferent nod again, clearing his throat. "You honor us, Majesty. I'm sorry that I can't offer you more comfortable accommodations." Is that the correct form of address? Would he know the correct form of address anyway?

But when Seldan opens his eyes, Malik's attention fades off of just about everything else, turning to watch the man. He's quiet for a second, breath catching in his chest. But eventually, he manages a shaky-voiced, "Sel?"

The Gobbo obviously enjoys the attention from the Sith, and she looks a little disappointed when she's set down after only a few moments of contact. She offers a polite bow. "Peace upon your nest, Svarshan!", she says energetically. Acedia looks to Malik then, and nods, and seeing Seldan moving.. she moves to take up the sword. "Let us set this aside for a moment, yes? We can look at it more closely later." If there aren't any objections, she'll simply find something to wrap it in, and store it under Seldan's cot.

Svarshan tilts his head to the side, to Malik. He falls quiet and thoughtful. Listening, then watching as the gobber moves the sword.

"Caste-mates?" he asks of the gobber at length. A sith-makar way of thinking. Kin-within-caste. But outside of say, speaker-caste (diplomats, peacekeepers, and merchants), or keeper-caste (bards and historyfolk), the sith-makar are not known for adapting. And even then...

Before Seldan can answer, a coughing fit of epic proportions seizes him, taking several minutes to resolve, and leaving him gasping for breath and struggling not to dry-heave. Black stains mar his lips as he struggles to hold in the product of that cough, so as not to spit it on anyone. By the time he is done, he's half-sitting up, hanging on to the side of the bed, fighting for control of his breathing, but he does at least sound a little better.

Malik listens to the other two, raising an eyebrow at the question. He's a bit too preoccupied to put the pieces together right this second. When the coughing fit hits, though, he's already there, offering Seldan a clean rag and a bucket. He'll likely need it, given how long he's been on his back. But he watches all of it with a fearful sort of wonder, like he's not entirely sure whether he's awake or not. It's only when the coughing fit has passed, and the man seems to be ok, that he practically launches himself at the paladin in the same way that Acedia did Svarshan, wrapping the other man up in a tight hug, but being careful not to constrict his lungs too much. He doesn't have much to say at the moment, though, or if it does, words have failed him entirely.

The Gobbo blinks a few times at Svarshan's question, and then she grins, nodding. "Warrior-caste. Like you, Svarshan, but a different god, I think.", she says of Seldan, and then she points to Malik. "Also warriot caste, but I think he might enjoy a conversation or two with the shamans." She moves to fetch an empty bucket, returning a moment or two later, leaving it for Seldan to spit into. "It is terrible, isn't it?" Acedia then looks to Malik. Her eyes narrow. "You should probably get some rest, Malik. You've been awake far too long and are doing yourself harm. Rest, and let sleep overtake you." In a more gentle move than her voice would betray, she takes Malik by the arm, tugging at him gently. "He's awake, but he still needs his rest also."

Aaaah. The shoulders relax--that inch of tension, at the gobber's words. With a few phrases, Acedia has made clear the world to the reptilian. "One undersstands," he says warmly. And then looks to Malik.

"...this one dealss in demonic possession. The hunter-caste. ...the hunter-caste sshares words, that they are working on a cure. But one is no hunter," Svarshan says. Trust. Trust, and yet--frustration. "...sso one may not ask." Deeper, deeper breath. "...but one may offer a warrior'ss way. A brightsscale's way."

"...there iss a pool, prepared. Outsside of Mictlan. One has asked the shamans to bless it, in the Light of the Dragonfather. We might take him there, when you are ready. One would ssuggest you resst," to Malik. "But one undersstands you are caste-kin."

He stands there, quiet. Even, given the hug--the tackle. Perhaps because of Acedia's words, earlier.

Surprised, Seldan barely has a chance to spit into the bucket, and none to clean his mouth before he goes down in a pile of Malik. He lands hard on his back under the man's weight, in the pile of furs. "Malik, what- ?" With an effort, he shoves at the man atop him, wincing visibly at the hug. "What - where are we?" The Myrrish accent is definitely Seldan, as are the words, but it's a bit thicker somehow. "What is this? Where - where is Mother? Where is the blade she gave me?" If Malik doesn't move, he shoves again, this time harder. "What happened?" Someone is very confused, but does seem to register the presence of the other two. "Forgive me, both of you."

Malik pulls away, apologizing. He gives the man some breathing room, but in the light of the fire, it's clear that there are tears on his cheeks. "It's about time you woke up," he laughs, though it sounds a little forced. "Made me do all the hard work while you sit around sleeping all day."

He wipes his face, turning to the others, listening to Svarshan's words first. Now that Seldan's awake, he can form his own opinion on that. In the meantime, Acedia is tugging on his arm, though Malik shakes his head. "I'm fine," he tells her. "Better than fine. I'm perfect. Sleep can come later." Even though he's clearly not-fine. He definitely still looks sick, and tired. But there's a stubbornness about him, at the moment, that says he won't be moved.

Acedia looks to Svarshan a moment. "Won't the healing magics fail, though? Against the plague? Or is it just very pure water they're going to bathe in?" She looks to Seldan then, and moves to his side. Reaching over to gently lay her palm against his forehead. "Hmm, I have some nice clothes here, and cold water.", she says softly. "This is Svarshan, and I am Acedia. I do not know what circumstances you were in when you fell unconscious, but Malik has brought you to Mictlan. Your blade is wrapped up and down on the floor." To Malik, Acedia frowns. "If we were at the Soldier's Defense, two big burly men would carry you to your bed. You can still chat and participate... just lay down. Let us care for you, yes?"

"From what one has heard. From casste. ...any attempt we make musst be made with ssupport," to the gobber, in low tones. Svarshan falls quiet then, as the gobber speaks up and shares words with Seldan. He watches to see how the man reacts, and what he does.

Seldan is only mildly fevered, but shivers at her touch. "I know you both, Acedia. Darshan ..." He looks down. "I would not have troubled you with this, and would have your forgiveness." He looks up at Malik, and sighs. "You look terrible. Please at least sit down. I will - try to explain." He shivers again, now fully sitting up with one hand behind him propping him upright, the other pushing a lock of lank hair out of his face. "Malik, the family legend Mother spoke of is true. When I grasped the blade, I had thought to try its balance, but - a thousand thousand voices hit me, all at once. All trying to speak. All trying to tell me things. They were arguing ... some spoke to me, some to each other. That is all I remember ... but they said a great deal. Some I may yet remember. But ... was I injured? My back seems afire."

Malik relents -a bit-, at least, leaning back and resting against one of the support poles in the tent, decorated in those bright Tsuran colors. He listens to what the others have to say, raising one eyebrow to Acedia, though that smile grows. "Only two? I thought you were serious." Though he doesn't look like he's got too much fight in him, right this second. Instead, he just listens to the other two. "I know," Malik tells him. "Well, not the specifics. But that there was some kind of magic there. It was conflicting with the magic in your blood, and the magic in the ooze. They were warring it out for dominance. Had to stabilize them, or they might have burned right through you." At the question about his back, Malik looks a bit more apologetic. "We'll talk about why your back hurts when you're strong enough that you can yell, if you want. Deal? Maybe after your mom wakes up." Though he lifts a hand to cut off panic. "She's sleeping. Just sleeping. It's late. She's okay." But then his attention is turning to Svarshan, starting to piece together what the man wants to do. And there's a worried look there, though he waits to hear what the rest of the plan might be.

"Do you think that caste is getting in the way, here, Svarshan?", Acedia wonders. She glances to Seldan a moment, and nods her head. "Good, so you are in there after all. Uh, well, your back..." The Gobbo kind of trails off as Malik manages to avoid explaining the situation. She really gets a good glower going as Malik proves to be a cheeky patient. Crossing her arms, she huffs. "I think Svarshan might be worth at least four big, burly men. And he knows the plague. He will be gentle, but you will be resting." She rubs at her cheeks, and busies herself. Heading out of the tent with yet another bucket (there are a few more still hanging from the pack upon her back), she returns a short time later with it filled with water. "I shall give you both a nice, cold press to put upon your forehead. You should find yourself thinking a bit more clearer, hmm?"

Svarshan looks from Malik, to Seldan, and exhales a breath. Smoke and fire. The curling of ash. "Perhapss. Another time," he says to Malik. "Sssee to him and. Pray together. The prayerss taught to initiates are more than a praisse to a deity. They are a way to calm. The mind."

Svarshan quiets then, and looks to Acedia. A faint humor works its way there. And more quietly: "It iss also why. The sscaled sselebrate. Sso often. It iss better to bite. Into cake." A softskin word. Then, "Hrmmm. An elder of the hunter-casste has come to. Alessandria. To help."

Seldan fixes Malik with a look that can only read, _what did you do, and what are you not telling me?_ He lets that drop, though, at Svarshan's comments. "The hunters of Am'shere will know. They have a means." He sounds quite calmly certain. "They were able to stop it in the Nar-Sektoth. But, it is not enough to seek a cure. We must learn Zeheir's true fate, and take the fight to the one responsible. We are not safe until we do. I had not yet sought the library. But he is right, Malik. The prayers are a form of meditation, meant to still the mind and frame it properly. I had not yet mastered it." There appears to be a great deal running through the Silver Guard's mind right now, now that he is fully awake.

Malik isn't fighting. He's leaning against the pole, relaxed and comfortable. One could even say resting, given the tension that's left his body in the few seconds he's been doing it. The names that Svarshan and Seldan share mean very little to the man. That much is clear from the searching look on his face. But he's trying his best to follow along. Still, he occasionally glances back to Seldan, the worry not quite completely gone, though the smile is still there. "I have a theory about Zeheir," he tells the pair. "But I haven't exactly had time to work out the finer details to see if it's crazy or not. Been a little preoccupied."

Acedia's demeanour changes very quickly. "Cake?", she wonders of Svarshan. "There's cake?" The Gobbo is by the Sith's side in moments. "Where?" She looks at Svarshan with great big eyes. There's a pause as she looks to Seldan. "Chay knows it. Maybe he is in Mictlan, or will be soon?" At the mention of Zeheir, the Gobbo looks to Malik. "Oh? You should share it, no matter how small or crazy it seems. Fresh eyes on the problem are always good."

Svarshan looks to Acedia. And then takes out a pouch. From this pouch he produces leathered fruit--dried fruit made into jerky. Tiny, chewy jewels of flavor and color. "Not. Cake. ...but one hass thesse and ssome dried. Mushrooms. The crafter-casste makes."

He looks to Malik then, the expression thoughtful. And then to Seldan.

By now, Seldan is shivering, still sitting upright, unclothed at least to the waist and not appearing to notice. He pushes a lock of unruly, lank hair from his eyes again and directs his gaze to Acedia this time. "I had not seen you to tell you. I had sought augury of Her Temple, though I dared not approach it myself as I am. The question I sought of Her wisdom was this: What will I find if I should seek the wizard Zeheir?" He draws a deep, rattling breath. "She answered, Acedia, and her answer was: Weal and woe. Cryptic, to be sure, but ... I think his fate more complicated than death. We should seek the truth." He coughs again, this time seeking the rag that had dropped by the pile of furs in the confusion, and coughing hard into it. "Will you speak for us to Chay, Acedia? I will do what I must to see this stopped, and I cannot aid you from a sickbed."

Malik looks content to hold off, but then Acedia is telling him to continue, and Seldan is already laying the foundantion. "I'm pretty sure that he's infecting us," Malik tells the others, letting that one sink in. "It makes sense. His wife was dying. He was trying to cheat death. Experimenting with powerful magics more complicated than I could even fathom, into uncharted territory. There are other things that do it, too," he explains. "I think -- he might have been trying to put her in a state between death and life. If you can't find a cure for a plague, the next best, stupid, desperate option is to remove its ability to kill you, at any cost. We've known to to do that for millenia, but --" The magics involved are dark. Dangerous. And extremely volatile. "That -- thing. That we saw in the tower. The giant ooze," Malik tells them. "I think that might have been Zeheir. Or a piece of him. We found it in his study, after all. I think that maybe he made a mistake in his magic, and turned himself into something -- else." He glances back to Seldan. "Weal and woe. Marks and suffering." He points to Acedia's eyes. "Plenty of marks and suffering to go around, wouldn't you say?"

"...is Zehir the wizard who wass mated to the. Pale woman?" Svarshan asks, for he has not...been involved in such things. Not been a part of them. The scarleg looks behind him and...seeing nothing there, repositions. He finds that comfortable tripod of leg and tail.

Acedia immediately starts shovelling the dried fruits into her mouth, pausing to mumble a thank you. "Mmmph, it's a long walk from Alexandria, longer than I thought.", she says in between bites and chews. Seeing the dropped rag, she moves to snatch it away before Seldan gets a hand on it. "No. This should be burned." She shrugs out of her backpack, and lets it drop to the floor. From inside, she pulls out a number of rags. One is given to both Seldan and Malik. She soaks two more in the now-remembered bucket of water, folding them up carefully, and offers them to the patients. "Keep rotating through them. Anything you cough up into is to be burned." Acedia blinks at the gesture to her eyes and she looks away shyly. "Would that make the Queen Zeheir's wife?" The rag that Seldan attempted to use is tossed away into the fire. "That is certainly a dark turn, if you are even partly close to the mark." The Gobbo makes her way over to where Svarshan settles, and moves to climb into his lap, without a word of asking. Moments later, a faint snoring can be heard.

Well. Svarshan has kids. He has quite a few of them. So this--the gobber is handed more dried fruits. Leathered fruits, pieces made into jerky. "The crafter-caste makes these," he says, comfortably, and pats the gobber on the hair.

Looks to Seldan and Malik. "You sshould both ssleep. The gobber iss right--everything. Everything the goo touchess musst be burned. We will begin the sseremony ssoon and--one will sspeak with the sshamans. Thiss tent will be. Warded."

Seldan frowns at the mention of wards, for the first time looking troubled, but he wordlessly nods his understanding. "I shall remember." Despite his current state, he seems to be actively trying to pull shreds of dignity and formality around him. "I would ask your forgiveness for the intrusion."

Malik nods. "I'll sleep soon," he tells the Sith, looking over at him with a weary grin. "Pretty sure if I don't, she's gonna clobber me," he adds, nodding to the sleeping goblin. "But I have a few things to do first." He reaches over for a little jar next to the fire, removing the lid and circling around behind Seldan. "Hold still," he tells the man. "This might sting a little. But we don't want this to get infected, and it was hard to move you while you were asleep." His voice sounds reasonably apologetic, even. But he takes some manner of salve onto his fingers, rubbing it into the tattoo on Seldan's back, as gently as he can manage. Even though the paladin hasn't seen it yet. When Svarshan mentions wards, however, Malik nods his understanding as well -- even though he probably doesn't fully understand. "Thank you," he says, quietly. "For your help. If there's anything I can ever do for you -- you've done more than you can possibly realize. I'm in your debt."

Svarshan stares at the man a while. At both of them. And lets go a slow breath. "One...knew a ssoftskin onsse, who would. Roll her eyes. Ssometimes...one may understand," he says. He looks down, and pats the gobber's hair.

"It iss true you have. Plassed others in danger. ...but the Light sstands together. Only becausse we sstand together do we sstand againsst the. Darkness. ..." to Malik then: "Pleasse enssure he goess to. Prayers. One will join you if I. May. ...if I cannot--" he says, and goes quiet for a time.

Then carefully, carefully. He reaches into a bag, and tosses something to the tired man. Carefully, underhanded. It clinks.

Still a bit confused, Seldan submits to Malik's ministrations, wincing a few times but saying nothing. He looks up at Svarshan, then, and nods slowly. "I dare not risk Her Temple, but She yet speaks to me. I could do no less," he says to the sith-makar's retreating back, pulling the fur up around his shoulders. "I pray only that we have not angered them unduly."