(no subject)

[fluffiest_archadian]

[OOMs: Nabudis, days 4-6.

Days 7-8.

Warnings for violence and disease.]

The young man who staggers in through the door is not in the best condition. He's dressed in armour that looks like it's practically falling apart on him, with no helmet and a gash on his face, as well as a colourful bruise beneath one eye. He's limping, and both his hair and armour is stained with brown-red old blood.

About the only thing that isn't just a mass of red, brown and grey is his eyes, which are blue and pale and currently full of slightly fevered mirth as he sinks down next to the door and bursts out into helpless, admittedly slightly manic laughter, resting his head on one hand.

(The other hand is holding a pinkish, heart-shaped stone with carvings on it. It's glowing very faintly.)

Botherable, if - a bit worse for wear.

Comments

[herr_bookman]

And now he has a bottle of water not quite thrust in his face, as well as an adjoining wet, warm rag. "Use these," a boy says gently, "and I'll go get more."

[fluffiest_archadian]

Sherral would say that that's not what he's expected, but since the Mist sickness has clearly driven him to delusion, expectation is pretty much useless at this point.

With a fevered laugh, he just tips the water bottle back and pours half of it over his head, and then rubs the rag roughly over his face.

[herr_bookman]

As promise, the boy has another, and another. He pulls back on offering the fourth, though, lest the man make himself sicker.

He crouches down and holds out another rag. "Where were you?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Pray do not ask questions you know the answer to," Sherral says, before breaking down in laughter again. Eventually: "I should not have my madness demand report from me."

[herr_bookman]

Autor raises his brows. "Really? How often have you been mad? Its nature is--"

Then he shakes his head, picking up another rag from a wait rat, which may or may not contribute to the armored man's panic. "As you wish. You're not in any state to have anything demanded from you."

[fluffiest_archadian]

The rat gets a look which roughly translates to 'I see you are a rat with a tray and wet rags. Seems legit'.

"You say strange things," he says with undue cheer, and reaches to take the new rag.

[herr_bookman]

"You are not the first to say so," Autor murmurs, shrugging. "You're an interesting case yourself, stumbling in fevered and bloody. Did you want to shed some of that armor?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"I fear it's shedding itself," Sherral says, running a finger over the damaged armour.

But he does start to take it off, removing clasps and removing it bit by bit. He has a pair of woollen trousers beneath it, once grey-white and now mostly red and ash-grey, and a form-fitting grey shirt of some kind of tough weave.

[herr_bookman]

Next up in the variety of things Autor's offering? A towel. The wait rats are giving him a collective stink-eye for the rags and bottles piling up in this corner.

"So, what rank?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"First Lieutenant," Sherral says, then lolls his head to the side, grinning widely. "Lef. Leff-uh." He breaks down into laughter again, trailing off into coughs that leave red on his sleeve.

"Have you a name, tiny madness-lad?"

[herr_bookman]

Autor jerks back at the coughs. He searches Sherral's clammy, wan face, paling himself. "What manner of illness do you have? Consumption or something else?"

Internal bleeding, at least, isn't contagious.

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Pffft, that's not a name," Sherral says cheerfully.

He pauses, sobering. "Mist sickness. It's not contagious."

[herr_bookman]

The kid crouches down again, adjusting his glasses. "Is there a cure? How fast is it killing you? And what are you holding?"

And then, as an after thought: "I'm Autor. And I'm not sure as to how to convince you of this, but I'm not a hallucination," he says, and his grin is a touch wry. "Too complex."

[lifethatisscratched]

Here, Sherral, have a wide-eyed Kanien'kehá:ka boy.

Who doesn't know quite what to do with all he's seeing.

Eventually:

"Do you need help?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Not at all." Sherral says, and that cheerfulness is really only just on the right side of madness.

Really, the appearance of a giant bar in a magical forest was, at the end of the week he's had, the straw that broke the Mist-sick chocobo's back.

He sobers, slightly, though, because even obviously hallucinated children are still children. "Forgive me, I did not mean to scare you."

[lifethatisscratched]

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods, slowly. "You didn't."

Just, you know. Kinda freaked him out.



"Are you sure you don't need help?"

[fluffiest_archadian]

"Not entirely certain," Sherral admits. "But I've medication, and with more water I might well even feign coherence a while."

[lifethatisscratched]

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods once again.


Then:

"I'll go find a healer."

You know, just in case.

He scampers off his seat and jogs around the Bar for a while, looking for anybody who might know how to treat Sherral. Eventually, he stops behind a figure in a white lab coat.

"Excuse me," he says, "are you a healer?"

[pattersongs]

"Yes, for multiple species."

The figure that turns around is only similar to humans in that it has two eyes and two arms. One hopes the ruddy-skinned salarian's appearance doesn't cause too much distress.

"Assuming one of the Bar patrons in need of medical treatment? Lead the way."

[fluffiest_archadian]

- Well. It's no less human than a bangaa, and more human than a moogle. Even delirious, Sherral can cope with that.

He does, with some effort, drag himself to his feet, though, and throws a very sloppy salute with a wide, dazed smile. The presence of a doctor requires at least some decorum.

[lifethatisscratched]

We'd be lying if we said it wasn't a little distressing to young Ratonhnhaké:ton here - but, you know, life is life is life, bug-eyed salarian or - human-eyed human.

"I think he is a little touched in the head," he whispers to Mordin.

[pattersongs]

Mordin's already tapping at the array of glowing orange lights that've sprung up around his left forearm. "Definitely feverish," he agrees quickly. "Dehydrated, localized internal bleeding, odd inflammatory patterns... better get him into the infirmary. Haven't got the tool I would at home, but equipment here fairly decent nonetheless. Would like to investigate further, but we need to stabilize patient first."

He shuts down the omnitool glow. "Sir? This way, please. Don't think you want medical treatment in the middle of the bar."

[fluffiest_archadian]

Oh hey shiny glowing thing. Focusing is difficult right now.

It becomes much easier when the omnitool is shut down, and his attention snaps to the next most interesting thing, which is Mordin.

"Aye," he says, managing to gather his thoughts enough to sober slightly. "As you say."

[lifethatisscratched]

Ratonhnhaké:ton follows at Sherral's side, careful to keep an eye on his footing - if he falls, it's probably going to be on him, or at the very least it's safe to assume that'll be the case.

"What will you give him?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks Mordin as they make their way to the infirmary.

[pattersongs]

"Depends on his coherence when we arrive. Need to ask what he's been exposed to recently. Several different possibilities for symptom set springing to mind- could treat the symptoms individually but need to determine the cause to get them to stop. Probably standard medigel for the facial injury, though," Mordin says.

Briskly he guides the unfamiliar human over to one of the beds and indicates to him that it's time to lie down.

"Sir? Can you describe what brought you to this condition?"