DKMortals/SessionFortySeven
[ST] The bubbling of diseased water echoes off the rounded stone curves of the Deepwell, overlaid with Manaba's sobbing. The panicked Haslanti cringes against the wall of the Wellfather's chamber, seemingly attempting to vanish into the First Age stone there. Before Iscal and Kekkonen crouches the lank, dark form of the disease spirit, its glossy black skin making it all but invisible in the
[ST] weak light provided by the luminescent lichen.
[ST] It tenses, knobby bones moving under thin, leathery flesh. It's... smaller than one might expect, little larger than a big dog, but its teeth and claws look sharp, and blood drips from its every orifice.
[Iscal] Iscal draws his sword. The blade is mottled with rust. This was not different from being any kind of physician. Save that the disease did not normally have long shining talons, by the time it got to him. He shouts and attacks in an awkward motion, chopping at the thing's back, at a joint in its spine, readily visible under the tight-stretched skin. It looked somewhat like a starved child, to his mind.
[Iscal] The thing seems to disappear beneath his blow, as it leaps easily out his reach. Iscal unbalances as his stroke goes astray, and he stumbles, then looks around wildly. "Gah!"
[Iscal] He should have brought his fucking gore-spattered club. It served him well in the ship. Why hadn't he brought his club?
[ST] The spirit skitters back, claws capering across the floor, a powerful hiss emerging from its lipless mouth. Dark motes of Essence like a horde of buzzing flies appear around it, droning loudly.
[Kekkonen] "Shit" he curses softly. It was a disease spirit, of course it used magic. But that didn't help the wild imaginations in his head of what it would do. He circled to the side to clear Iscal from his target, still crouched even though the ceiling was higher in the chamber than it had been in the tunnel.
[Kekkonen] He didn't want to get close to it - really didn't want it to bleed on him, so he started with the javelins. Maybe he could nail it to the floor. Or Manaba. Then the big bastard'd be useful.
[Kekkonen] He whipped two javelins at the beast fast as he could, then backed away more, and to the side. The thing was fast, but it couldn't change direction in midair if it pounced at him.
[ST] The spirit screeches as Kekkonen's javelins strike home, quivering in its taut flesh. It springs atop the Wellfather's ornate desk, crouching and hissing.
[ST] "Ppaaaay for that, little mortallll...."
[Kekkonen] He spat. The thing'd be trying to kill him either way, but he didn't like it singling him out. Still, they weren't going to survive if he tried to rely on Iscal.
[Iscal] Iscal liked to think of himself as a realist, these days. No way was he hitting any thing so fast. He glances around, then narrows in on what looked like a spirit's liquor cabinet. He busts the flimsy lock with an impatient blow- a dead ward, now that the Wllfather was dead- and frantically rumages through it. Wellfathers were spirits of health and purity, at least in part. Surely there would be some vial with
[Iscal] some spiritual property abhorrent to disease. Surely.
[ST] Iscal can only make heads or tails out of about half the bottles that he shoves aside. Most appear to be celestial brews of one type or another. Apparently the Wellfather drank like a fish. Priceless bottles shatter on the floor as he rummages through the shelves, looking for something. At the bottom, he finds it; a small round tin marked with the spreading silver leaf that indicates it is Lunar Dew.
[Iscal] Iscal grins a little wildly. He looks at Kekk.
[ST] The disease spirit flexes its talons against the surface of the desk, shredding it and sending chips of wood flying. It gives a brief, cackling laugh. Then, it moves, flickering into near invisibility, descending on Kekkonen with slashes of its razor sharp talons.
[Kekkonen] He tries to catch its claws in the metal plating of the palms of his gloves, but he had two hands and it had it fucking clawed feet.
[ST] The creature's clawed feet rake across Kekkonen's belly, splitting the clothing there to allow blood to flow. As it strikes, the buzzing motes around it dart in and bite at him, seeming to burn where they strike his hands and face. The creature rebounds, landing on all fours, releasing a burst of chittery laughter that is suddenly choked by a gout of bloody vomit.
[ST] It moves forward smoothly, slick with the moisture of its own disease.
[ST] Kekkonen feels a wave of dull sickness move through him, spreading a pounding ache into his every joint. The world swims.
[Kekkonen] He curls slightly around his stomach, more panicked than he would normally be over wounds he could fight through. He would swear he could feel them burn. He would die then. He gritted his teeth. Then he would be taking this spirit with him. He was not going to die something elses prey. He was going to die a killer.
[Kekkonen] He was going to die well, and they were going to burn this thing with his funeral pyre. Or bury it near him, or something, if they didn't want to get sick. He growled, lurched, and found his javelins with fumbling fingers.
[ST] The disease spirit springs back, clinging to the lichen, covered walls. Fitful blue light paints its features in bizarre silhouette as it gives a low, rumbling mewl. It seems to have forgotten entirely about Iscal.
[Kekkonen] He cast them at the thing, but the wrenching pain in his guts killed his aim. He stumbled back into a wall, fighting down bile.
[Iscal] Iscal runs to Kekkonen as the disease spirit momentarily retreats, unscrewing the tin as he went and pouring it on to his hands. He pulls the remaining javelin from Kekk's quiver without so much as asking, coating the points with a pale, lumiscent oil. With a similar lack of repsect for Kekk's personal space, he smears his hands over the rents where the spirit's claws had struck. The wounds burn anew, but
[Iscal] with an almost invigorating fierceness.
[Iscal] Iscal hands the javelins, their points glowing, back to Kekk. "Kill it," he says succiently.
[ST] "Interloperrr..." the spirit hisses, crouching against the wall. It extends a taloned finger, pointing it at Iscal, and beckons...
[Kekkonen] He grins harshly. "I'll bring it with me." He doesn't really get the significance of the ointment, but if it'd harm the thing, then maybe spreading it on him would make him a weapon to kill it himself.
[ST] The mortal suddenly feels a fiery pain along his collarbone. An intricate symbol of interlaced cuts appears, weeping blood and pus.
[Iscal] Iscal suddenly gasps, crumpling forward holding his chest. Some of the ointment transfers from his hands to the symbol, and the pain suddenly eases. He straightens up.
[Kekkonen] He gathers himself, hefting one of the javelins Iscal had coated, waiting for the moment his body felt right to throw. He'd been too hasty with the others, that was it. Even with his head swimming, it'd clear for moments, and those he'd take.
[Iscal] The symbol is blazed in his mind, and a chill runs down his spine. A curse. A fucking curse. He empties the remainder of the ointment and wipes it ceremoniously on his sword.
[Kekkonen] A moment and the time feels right, so he roars a wordless challenge and spears the demon with his javelin.
[Kekkonen] He hadn't been steady enough for anything fancy, just went for the center of mass. It took the javelin in the pit of its stomach, collapsing around it with a screeching scream almost beyond hearing. It clawed at the thing desperately, cutting deep grooves into the haft and wiggling the blade against it's ribs before it got a firm grip and wrenched it out, steaming with filth.
[ST] The creature casts aside the weapon contemptuously. The javelin rattles across the floor, leaving behind it a trail of tainted blood. The spirit staggers back, shivering briefly. Maggots fall from its chest, writhing on the stone floor.
[ST] "I... am one among many...."
[ST] The spirit nods almost jauntily at Manaba, who gives a groan of dismay, then vanishes in a burst of Essence.
[Iscal] "Fuck!" Iscal slams his blade down. It glows in the dark. He whirls at Manaba. "What did you DO?"
[Kekkonen] He slumps againt the chamber wall. Couldn't kill it. He'd die and he'd have nothing to bring with him at his funeral. He'd already died a pauper once.
[ST] "N-nothing," the miserable man - or boy, for that's what he really is - says, putting his head in his hands. He shakes with terror at the things he has seen. Maybe he was a brave man, before his brother died. Maybe he was always gutless.
[ST] "I convinced my brother to go with me to the city. I w-wanted to see the girl with the dolls. We watched, and returned late. The Wellfather did not accept the sacrifice. We thought we had offended him. The spirit m-must have come back with us."
[Iscal] Iscal clamps his mouth shut and fights an urge to hurtle his weapon and the infant. "Sure. We'll talk again. Later." He turns to Kekk, crouching beside the man. He hisses thoughtfully when he sees the wounds, reaching the satchel wrapped around his waist for his medical tools. These are pointed, and sharp.
[Iscal] "Don't whimper," Iscal says unfairly, as he stabs at Kekk's wounds with no gentleness. He draws the thread through the wounds with rapid expertise, and indeed, in most senses the wounds were trivial. "There may be some discomfort," he recites as he treats his comrade without remorse.
[ST] "I didn't mean for this to happen," Manaba says again, clearly miserable.
[Iscal] "I didn't mean to end up in the cold frozen bastard's hell." Iscal shrugs. "Tell me about the girl."
[ST] "H-her name is Milly," the Greenfielder name sounds odd in his tribal patois. "She is a street woman. W-with. With dolls." Hands shaking, he holds up his fingers and twiddles them, nodding to complete the absurd demonstration.
[Kekkonen] He looks up at Iscal with almost panicked hope. "Am I gonna live?" He didn't think the man would waste thread on him if he wasn't.
[ST] "I like to watch. And I- it- I-" he shakes again, moaning into his palms.
[Iscal] "Yes, you fool," Iscal says impatiently. "Unless you trip on the stairs."
[Iscal] "What's her address?" Iscal asks, watching the young man. "She may have been the first infected." Or worse. Gods help them all if plague broke out in the city itself.
[ST] "Milly? You don't think-" He blanches still more. "I d-don't know. She has a cart in the crow's market every n-night, but she's probably gone now, it's late. I-"
[ST] "I don't know."
[Iscal] "We'll close the market. You, you man- you're coming with us. We may need you to identify her. Come along."
[ST] "Identify?"
[Iscal] "Yes. Her or her pox-wrecked corpse." He stops and glances around, meeting Kekk's eyes. "Do you hear...?"
[Kekkonen] "I'll live?" He doesn't quite believe it. He - senses trained by years on the ice pull him from his hope. "Whats that? You hear that?"
[Kekkonen] "Its getting closer." He gets to his feet fast, ignoring the pain of stretching the fresh stitches in his belly.
[ST] Manaba stands, scrubbing at his red eyes and trying, far too late, to put on a look of wounded dignity. "Hear what? I don't hear anything."
[Iscal] "A rustling noise. We should be going. Up. Up and out." He sheaths his sword- it would still be useful. Later.
[ST] Iscal's collarbone itches and burns again. A glance downwards reveals that the sigil is reappearing.
[Iscal] "Shit," he says quietly.
[Kekkonen] "Whatever they are are squeaking, too. Rats? Do disease spirits control rats?" He didn'tknow much about the particulars, but it seemed likely enough.
[Iscal] "Yes." Iscal rubs at his skin frantically, then buttons his collar up. "Kekk, you'll have to grab the girl alone. I'm needed in the camps."
[ST] The sound is growing louder. Even Manaba hears it. He steps away from the wall, drawing a knife from his belt for the first time that evening, glancing around wildly.
[Iscal] "Up," Iscal says succiently. "Up and out."
[Iscal] He doesn't wait for the others, but runs for the stairs.
[ST] As Iscal turns, they begin to pour through the chinks. Rats - dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands, squeezing from between the cracks in the ancient stone, tumbling fatly to the stone floor of the Wellfather's chamber. They are misshapen, patchy, covered with weeping boils and strange tumors, tiny clumps of madness in the blue witch light. They shriek as they come, welling up from cracks in
[ST] the floor. One falls past Kekkonen's face, squealing. Another crunches under his boots.
[Iscal] He runs forward frantically, scrambling over loose gravel like a terrified beatle as he hears the noises louder and louder behind, now perfectly audible over the sound of the gravel. Devoured alive by monsterous rats. He had survived Ragged Red to be devoured by rats?
[Kekkonen] He runs, making sure he got to the door before the lumbering tribesman. The low ceiling of the tunnel slowed him, as did the thin ledge over the putrid water. Even running, he retained enough caution to slow over that. He could hardly see Iscal by the time he'd crossed. Panic lent him luck, it seemed.
[Iscal] One launches itself at his arm from an overhanging staglicite, hanging on grimly with yellow teeth as Iscal yells and frantically tries to shake it off. At last he grabs it and squeezes, until it squishes in his hand and he flings it away with a curse. The bite already tingles, presaging infection.
[Iscal] The monsterous rats swarm through the water. Gods. The sigil on his chest itches painfully, and he scratches at it even as he runs.
[ST] Manaba lags behind, swaying and staggering across the narrow ledge, leaping at the last moment to safety. He stumbles, falling to his hands and knees, and then the first of the rats swarms over his boot to bite him on the calf. He screams, surging forward with renewed vigor, outpacing the rats behind. They fill the width of the tunnel like one virulent thing, shrieking murder.
[Iscal] Iscal claws at his chest as if he can rip off his skin.
[Kekkonen] The swarms of rats were making the footing a crazy bedlam of blood and writhing half dead animals with teeth and anger. His thick tall boots were saving his legs so far, although nothing protected him so well from the rats falling from above. He wwas soon running with his arms above his head, trying to shield himself.
[Kekkonen] He made the stairs soon after Iscal, both of them pelting up them like madmen. Beast was baying at the top of the well, a hollow distant sound. He could smell the explosion of blood and filth.
[Iscal] Iscal's fear bites at his heels, or maybe that was the rats. He hears there little shrieks and screams as he steps on their little spines. When he bursts into view of the stars, he almost shouts. The rats shy away from the moonlight, and their momentary hesitation adds distance. Iscal kicks one last rat off the stairs in front of him, and sprints upward.
[ST] As the three burst into the light, Beasts begins baying anew. Some combination of instinctual fear and the light of Luna drive the rats back, squealing, into the darkness. Only the largest and bravest wriggles over the lip of the pit to spring at Iscal, and it is crushed a moment later by Manaba, rolling over the rim of the hole and onto the grass in his haste.
[Iscal] He couldn't even act as a doctor, Iscal realizes. Not with a hoarde of monsterous rats at his heels, nibbling at his bed-ridden patients. He was a one-man plague. "Manaba," he says finally. "Who is the most powerful shaman of all the gathered tribes?"
[Kekkonen] He runs to a tree a few yards from the well lip before collapsing against it to draw great pants of air. He wanted warning if the rats were going to swarm out of the well, and his wind back to run again.
[ST] Beast sticks his head over the rim of the Deepwell, barking into its depths. His baying echoes up, strangely distorted, moments later.
[ST] "I- I- uh-" Manaba shakes his head. "Kono Graybeard?"
[Kekkonen] "What next?" he asks, still breathing hard, and for damn sure still watching the well. "Beast, come away from there." It was a mark of his disturbance that he told Beast anything. He remembered a moment later to signal him with his hand, as he'd taught him. For silent hunts. He shook his head, realizing that he needed to gather himself..
[Iscal] Iscal fights an urge to push the boy back into the pit. "A living one!"
[Iscal] That was the problem with the barbarians, and Haslanti in general: they had no more wits between their ears than a newborn kitten.
[ST] "I d-don't know. They all make claims of their power, and call their rivals f-fakers and frauds." He blinks. "It is said that Oko Coldeyes of the Elk Tribe is a learned Shaman. But I have heard the-" He lowers his head, coughing. "Forgive me. I have heard the Guild employs powerful wizards from a foreign land, and none are so powerful as the Dragon Lady. B-but the Dragon Lady would not help
[ST] a Haslanti unless she benefitted."
[ST] Beast reluctantly lopes away from the well, head down and ears flat. No rats follow him. Manaba sits in the grass, breathing heavily, and stares determinedly at his boots.
[Iscal] Ralionna. Yes- the oh-so-spiritually-enlightened Dragonblooded may have some skill. "I will try Oko first, then," he says finally. He whirls on Kekk. "You. Take the boy, get the girl, and bring her back to quarantine with the Frost Bears. I will...consult...with this spiritual leader."
[Kekkonen] He nods. Snatching a girl. That was simple. He glowers at Manaba. "Come on boy, you've lived. Get moving, and we're gonna go get that girl you like so much."
[Iscal] Iscal turns away from the others. Until he got rid of this sigil, he was useless. He runs a hand raggedly through his hair, and twitches. Was that skittering?
[Iscal] He stomps in the direction of the Elk camp, pushing through the brushes, eyes scanning the ground. He wished he'd thought to ask Kekk for the damned dog. It would warn him of on-coming rats, surely.
[Iscal] He makes it to the camp in record time, and begins accosting random Elk for the direction of their shaman. He made a foul picture- smelling like a sewer and covered in little nips of blood, but there is a desperation in his eye, and twitch to his head, they little like.
[ST] No rates present themselves. At least, not yet. The first few Elk he accosts have no interest in pointing the way to the Shaman, and even Iscal may not know how close he comes to several duels of honor.
[Iscal] Iscal resorts to bribery, waving a fat silver coin to a thin-looking young man. "I just need to talk to the shaman!" he says, increasing desperation obvious in his voice.
[ST] The tribesman is too proud to take Greenfielder silver, but before a fight can break out, a young girl with long, intricate braids recognizes the symbol of the Once Dead, and directs Iscal to a large circular aghar that stands alone in a small defile. Even at this distance, he can smell the sharp tang of incense. Another sick tent.
[ST] Iscal himself is beginning to feel poorly, his joints aching, his head fuzzy with a rising fever. He hasn't taken the time to stop and doctor himself, and his condition is worsening.
[Iscal] Iscal nods, and turns his head aside. He didn't want to infect her with his vapor; he was sure, absolutely sure, that he was ill now. He'd made tea later; for now, he licks his hands to catch any remant of the Lunar ointment still remaining, and pushes his way into the tent.
[Iscal] "Shaman," he says, sounding like a hoarse crow. "I am from the Once Dead. I need words with you."
[ST] Oko Coldeyes sways slightly as he turns to face the newcomer. The shaman wears a long, snowy wolf pelt down his back, and is heavily bent with age, with hands like gnarled roots. He dances barefoot across the tent, chanting before the rows of the afflicted, tossing incense into fires, burning breathwort and redroot. He has only one leg, but his movement is not hampered at all.
[ST] Iscal cannot help but notice with a physician's eye that the stump is scarred - the leg was severed long ago. For Coldeyes to still be in a position of such authority, he must be powerful indeed.
[ST] "What do you want, stranger? I must attend the ill."
[Iscal] "I am Iscal, a physician from Great Forks. I was sent by the Once Dead to coordinate efforts to fight the disease. We fought off one of the disease spirits, but it cursed me." Iscal unbuttons his shirt, baring the cursed mark. "I need help."
[Iscal] Oko seemed competent enough to do without flowery promises or efforts at intimidtation.
[Iscal] "Your skill is obvious," he adds, glancing around the tent.
[ST] Coldeyes does not flinch, instead stepping forward to run a hoary fingernail over the mark experimentally. He does not respond to the compliment. "Far from a minor curse, but there exist worse. You say this disease is the result of a spirit?"
[Iscal] "Many spirits. The one we fought was the size of a small dog. We are trying to track it to its source, but I cannot help while plagued with- " he grits his teeth. No need to panic the patients. "It referred to others; I am inclined to think it no bluff."
[ST] "Yes. They do breed. It is their nature." He turns aside to sprinkle a handful of dust over the face of a coughing woman; her struggles diminish slightly. "If this sickness is not eliminated, it will spread beyond my ability to care for it. The entire city could be afflicted."
[Iscal] "Yes. Hence my urgency. I see you've implemented quarantine here; the Rabbit have as well, now. The Frost Bears." He shrugs. "I'm sure you know them by now. I suspect a human hand behind the disease." He returns to his errand. "I need a spirit's blessing to remove this curse, so I can return to Icehome, quarantine, and investigate."
[ST] Oko nods. "If I had that power, I would aid you, though you seem to have the stink of the Greenfield about you. But our gods are not what they once were. The totems are gone, and their scattered attendants listen less than we might wish."
[ST] "Those I can contact are bending all their effort towards healing the tribe of disease. I cannot spare one for you. Not without cost."
[ST] "Perhaps your god of the Once Dead can aid you. Or do the dead have gods?"
[Iscal] Iscal represses the urge to shake him. "We have one. I suppose." He hesitates. "You've done well here. Better than any of the other tribes. I cannot spend time with the diseased until the curse is removed; I beg you will go to the other tribes and teach them a little of your medicine; I have done what I had time to do, but they would benefit from a more thorough teaching." [ST] "You speak wisdom. I will try. They must send their healers here, however. I cannot leave my tribe."
[Iscal] Iscal nods.. "Please send messengers. I don't wish to bring my plague with me to other settlements, if I can avoid it. I will find another way to end it." He smiles, a little creakily. Physician, heal theyself, indeed.. He is feverish already, and his joints ache. Poisonous vapor no doubt rested in his lungs; soon he would begin to cough, and then what use would he be?
[Iscal] He glances at the patients. "Luck be with you." He can't stop interjecting a bit of advice. "I've found that infusions of redroot are more powerful when they are mashed, rather than cut." He leaves the tent on this bit of doctorly advice, as Oko calls in messengers to send to the other tribes.
[Iscal] The Haslanti could pull together, it seemed, in the end. It would almost be inspirational, if Iscal weren't so afraid his end was near, bitten to death in the woods by a swarm of diseased vermin.
[Iscal] He wanders away from the encampments, back to the wilderness, and builds a small fire. He had never liked spirits; never felt comfortable around them. He had seen too much of them in Great Forks to harbor any illusions; one drug-addled spirit lustily hollering for a youth was disillusioning; thousands were enough to make one quit prayer altogether. But Iscal has a hazy idea of the rituals.
[Iscal] He cuts strips of new bark from fragrant trees, and soon enough there is a blaze. He reaches for an amulet on his neck. "I offer this in praise of Lucky Jak, Once Dead, in humble hope for an audience," he says ceremoniously. It is gold, and etched with a hundred crowded characters. He had been betrothed to the girl who forged it, until their relatonship ended in arguments, and acrimony, and he had departed
[Iscal] Great Forks in a huff, grand ideas already forming in his mind of a school up north.
[Iscal] He casts it into the fire and watches it melt, eyes hard.
[Iscal] He kneels, as a matter of formalities. "Jak! Jak of the North!" It was a long shot any way, he tells himself.
[ST] The wind seems to blow a little more fiercely, tugging at Iscal's clothing almost mockingly, driving the fever chill deeper inside him. He hears the faint sound of teasing laughter.
[Iscal] "Damn it!" The wind bowls him over, and he coughs. "Come, if you mean to, you worthless spirit!"
[ST] "Is it a prayer? For ME? And without a single 'fuck you, you worthless little bureaucrat' or 'go suck a maiden?' I have, you know. It gets old, along with everything else." As Iscal's anger increases, so does the laughter. "There, THERE, that's more like it."
[Iscal] "How terrible for you," Iscal says, anger still coursing through him. Fucking spirits. One could never win with them. "I have a curse. I need it gotten rid of."
[ST] The wind blows a gust of blinding snow, and when it fades, a man made of snow stands before Iscal, shrugging slightly. "We all have problems, no?"
[ST] Jak (if that is he) shakes himself like a dog, and the snow falls away, revealing what appears to be an ordinary mortal. He stands only a little over five feet tall, and the first finger of his left hand is missing. His cheeks are red and ruddy, his hair short, blonde, and tangled. Only his eyes, a brilliant flashing gold, give away that he is more than he seems.
[Iscal] "Yes, I'm sure it's terrible for you, driven mad by boredom." Iscal had heard it all before. "Are you going to help me? Thousands of people are at risk of plague, and I'm one of perhaps three competent doctors in the city. Or do you even give a damn?"
[ST] "So, were you so cynical before that woman got a hold of you?" Jak pulls a few knives from his belt and begins to juggle them with the carelessness most men give to breathing. "Don't act surprised. I know about all of you. And before you ask, I don't tell the others. That would be... unsporting."
[ST] "I care more about this city than most gods. Wasn't so long ago I was a mortal myself. I almost remember it sometimes."
[ST] "I'm no city god, though, or even as powerful as the Haslanti Triads. I'm just the god of the Once Dead and a few other mortals known for their recklessness."
[Iscal] "I was an idealistic fool," Iscal says. "But are you powerful enough to remove this cursed sigil?"
[ST] Jak squints as if examining the mark, the knives occasionally obscuring his face in flashes of silver. "I think I can manage it. But Jak doesn't work for free, not even for those crazy enough to worship him. You know you wouldn't, so don't give me any grief."
[Iscal] His nails dig into his fist. He hadn't appreciated hearing about Red, either. May she rot in hell forever. "What do you want?" he bites out.
[ST] "A story." He catches the knives one by one as they plummet dangerously, replacing them in his belt. "Can't ever hear enough stories."
[Iscal] "Fine. I can tell you a story." He tells the story of a great healer of the First Age, who flew in a golden ship and loved her children. He tells of her experiments with living life, her descent into madness, her death crashing her ship into the ice. He repeats her last stuttering message, trapped within the ice, begging for forgiveness, and the nest of horrors that ship became.
[Iscal] "And the children of the ship suffered for hundreds of years, until they were all killed by poisonous gas, which just proves that you can't trust parents to do anything right. The end. Enough?"
[ST] "Not bad. Heard bits and pieces from the crows that brought news of the Once Dead that died there, but that's the first time I've ever heard the whole thing. The Exalted never could control themselves." Jak smiles impishly. "Guess you win. Step forward, and receive benediction."
[Iscal] Iscal steps forward, his skin crawling.
[ST] Jak snaps his fingers and pokes Iscal in the forehead. There is a flash of warming light, and as Iscal watches, the sigil flares brightly before fading into nothingness. It is as if a great burden has been lifted from him. But beneath that, trapped in the sick heat, he is also aware that Jak has quite deliberately done something else.
[ST] The god steps back, giving a low, rakish, and ridiculous bow.
[Iscal] "What ...did you do...?"
[Iscal] He rubs the spot where the sigil had been. Thank the gods- thank Jak- that was gone, at least.
[ST] "Why, I bet that's what a certain someone wanted to ask you when you stabbed her in the leg and left her for those things you just got finished telling me about, don't you think?" Jak takes a long, loping step, twirling away across the snow before turning to face Iscal again.
[ST] "I don't know much. My domain is small. But I know every crow that falls." He stops. "Hey, that rhymes."
[Iscal] Iscal's face twists. 'What-did you DO?" She had deserved it, he wanted to scream, but her face flashes before his eyes and he suddenly knows she hadn't. He wants to scream. He wants to kill Jak. But as he had so many times before, he takes the rage and shoves it down, to burn in his stomach.
[ST] Jak turns away again. "I understand mortals better than most gods. It wasn't that long ago that I was one myself. And if you think I don't know what the other gods in Yu Shan - the ones that notice me, that is - have to say about my domain and my followers, you're wrong. Mortals are ugly, mean, brutal, backbiting, backstabbing animals. Most of the time, they get exactly what they deserve."
[ST] "But the one way, the ONLY way, that mortals can survive, and build something that will last, is by trusting each other. That's all we have. That's especially all the motley collection of idiots, lowlifes, fools and romantics that worship me have. And I do not take violations of that trust lightly. The Dead do not harm their own."
[ST] "As for what I've done? Well. You'll just have to trust me." He turns and winks his golden eyes. The wind gusts, and suddenly he is gone.
[Iscal] Fucking spirits. Nothing good ever came of meddling with them. Iscal turns and walks to the city. Then, thinks of the disease, and begins to run.
[Kekkonen] He nods. Snatching a girl. That was simple. He glowers at Manaba. "Come on boy, you've lived. Get moving, and we're gonna go get that girl you like so much."
[Kekkonen] He starts off, signaling Beast to heel him. He couldn't wait for Manaba to gather himself, but the boy would follow. If he knew what was good for himself.
[ST] After a moment, Manaba follows, glum, silent, and shocked by what he has witnessed. He doesn't even consider asking if the others want to tell Kachina. He doesn't want Milly to see him like this.
[Kekkonen] Kekk drags Manaba back to Icehome, getting more comfortable the more he can boss the kid around, and the more ratwaves aren't swarming over them in a maddened death-frenzy. A puppet girl was distinctive, and as he'd thought she lived near where she set up, so it only took banging on a few doors and shouting down the angered residents with questions before he found the place.
[ST] Manaba follows in stoic silence, only seeming to come out of it when they stand before the door of the residence. It is rather poorly constructed, a ramshackle slum lean-to perched against a larger structure. It would never survive a heavy snowfall if not for the sheltering arcade above. As it is, the two men have to kick a tunnel to the door.
[ST] A wind chime tinkles softly above the door.
[Kekkonen] He glances at Manaba, sneering. "You're so hung up over a Kneeler?" He doesn't wait for an answer, and hammers on the door loud and steady. He'd had to wake people up a few times tat night, and he'd developed a rhythm for it. He glanced around constantly, hating that he had to be so noisy, but there was nothing for it. People'd be more worried if he kicked the door down, and that was the other option. That and like as not he'd be met with a knife, even if she was a Quiet.
[ST] "A Kneeler?" This, if nothing else, seems to shock Manaba out of his grief and numbness. "She's not a Kneeler!"
[ST] Beast lowers his head and growls softly at the door. Kekkonen's knocking receives no answer.
[Kekkonen] He shrugs. "She is or someone here is, or they have bad luck buying charms." He gave it another half minute of pounding before giving up. "Hey, kid, break the door." He was exhausted from everything, and damned if he was going to bruise himself running into a slab of wood when he had an idiot built of muscle along with him.
[ST] "Are you sure?"
[Kekkonen] "What? Yeah, break the door."
[ST] Manaba makes a face, doubtlessly thinking about how his precious Milly will be angry with him, and throws his shoulder against the door. The cheap latch snaps, and the door swings open. A wall of stench like that from the Rabbit sick tent strikes Kekkonen full in the face. Manaba retches in the snow. Beast whimpers.
[ST] Within, a single lamp burns faintly and blearily. The smell of fish oil hangs heavy in the air.
[Kekkonen] "Well. Guess she was the source." The ruff of his neck itched, thinking of the disease spirit warning there were more. He backed away. "Close it. Close the door! Hey, you stand guard here. You run and I track you down and gut you." He turned. He needed the guard, to close the block off. He needed to be at the Tomb, to report the disease spreading into the city, and he needed to be far away from anyplace that smelled
[ST] "Who... who's th-there?"
[ST] The voice that comes from within is merely a whisper, but it is enough for Manaba. He bursts through the door, jostling Kekkonen aside, calling her name.
[Kekkonen] He stops, half ready to throttle the kid for pushing him like that, half remembering he didn't want to step a foot inside that reeking midden. Maybe he should burn it. "Your the doll girl, right?" he asks, his voice gruff.
[ST] "Puppets..."
[ST] He can see them, hanging from the walls, staring with blank, shiny bead-eyes. The bed itself is out of view, so he cannot spot the wasted woman within. Manaba is mumbling some empty assurance or another, but Milly seems not to notice.
[ST] "Who... are... you?"
[Kekkonen] "I'm, ah, a doctor's friend. Look, you two stay here, stray quiet. We don't need a panic." He says the last in a harsh whisper. "I'll get help." In a manner of speaking. He hesitated to leave them even at that. Maybe he should just kill the two. But maybe the girl knew something. He waited to see what the boy would do. If he took the wrong idea in his head, he'd have to do something.
[Kekkonen] At least the girl wasn't moving anywhere, wasn't screaming either. her he could leave.
[ST] "You have to bring him here!" Manaba says. "She's sick, just like my brother, she- I don't want her to die."
[ST] The woman coughs, unseen. Kekkonen can almost imagine the bloody mist, though. If Manaba didn't get the disease from slopping around in the Deepwell, he'll have it soon.
[ST] "Who sent you... did... was it Tansy...?"
[Kekkonen] "Yeah, yeah. I'll bring Iscal. You have to stay here. Give her water, make sure she's comfortable."
[Kekkonen] "Tansy? Who's that?"
[ST] "My friend... the... witch. She was... last time I saw her, she was..." The woman trails off into wet coughs.
[ST] "Is this important?" Manaba snaps. "Go get the doctor!"
[Kekkonen] "Where, what?" He wanted to be away, but he could hear Iscal berating him if he didn't question her while he could. From the sound of her, she wouldn't survive long, no matter what Manaba had to say about it.
[ST] "She needed me to.. take her somewhere. I brought her to the Blue Queen. She kept... asking if she l-looked sick..."
[ST] She grunts. Kekkonen hears the sound of tortured retching and gasping.
[ST] "Th-they rent rooms. Took- took her to the one in the b-back. Maybe she can... fix me... please..."
[Kekkonen] At least he'd gotten that before she died. The Blue Queen. Right. Two lots of guards then, then off to some other brothel in a different direction. Hell, maybe he should have them wall off the entire Quiet ghetto.
[ST] She retches again. Beast flattens his ears, placing his head on his paws.
[Kekkonen] "I'll go get help," he repeats. He wanted to be away bad enough that he could taste it through the filth on the air. "Take care of her," he tells Manaba, hoping the lad would be there for otehrs to gather up. couldn't have him running loose now.
[Kekkonen] He moves off, striding purposefully to the corner, then pelting to the nearest guardhouse as soon as he was out of sight. Pretty much the nearest guardhouse anyway. He knew the guardhouses well, professionally, so he knew to avoid the one near the tanneries. Sad lot of shit up there, since it was a punishment station. They'd complain, then just run, never get anything done without him standing over them, and he wanted aw
[Kekkonen] They'd complain, then just run, never get anything done without him standing over them, and he wanted away from the sick.
