Open The Sick Get Sicker (Open)

[Derailey]

Season of Winter

Day 10

Clearing Amongst The Tents

The Winter had turned the Cyphrus sky into an ungodly mix of greys and blacks. In the distance, thunder rumbled reaching Derailey's ears, matching the shudder of her body as the temperature outside seeped into her very bones. She pulled her furs tightly around her, fastening them as she exited her tent. Displeasure reached her ears in multiple forms; from the biting cold, to the sullen and defeated prayers of her fellow Drykas, for all those who were suffering. The cold was not the only plague that haunted the sea of tents.

The Pox had struck almost over night. Hundreds had already died because of it, more were well on their way. Derailey had yet to feel or see the complete effects of this disease, which is why she chose today to venture away from her tent. She was never one to socialize or be apart of the affairs of others, but something compelled her today. She needed to go out and see this damage, rather than assuming from the tales she would happen to hear from passerbys.

She stood in place in front of her tent, continuing to fix her appearance, more for comfort than for looks. She tied her hair back loosely, looking around for the familiar blob of fluff and white, which as if on que, greeted her as she emerged. She smiled down as Solo, who took his place next to her. She would be leaving her Strider here today, but Chel already know, having walked inside of Derailey's tent without so much as a sound, probably to relieve itself from some of this chill.

"Come on, Solo," she started off in the direction of the more populated part of the city. She figured that would be the best place to start. She had a feeling people would be needing help.

Never before had Derailey wanted to be wrong.

Tents were full of the sick and infected. People dead and struggling to hold on to what little hold on life they had left, lay helpless and moaning of pain and fear, only a twinge of comfort came from bedside healers whose attempts to help were all but useless...it was the act of kindness that kept their spirits up. Coming across an exceptionally large group of people, Derailey couldn't help but be taken aback by the site before her. They all layed outside on small blankets and mats, all of the surrounding tents having been full. Their skin was frost bitten and thoroughly blemished by the disease; children, adults, and elders alike.

Many of these faces Derailey recognized. She took in a shaky breath. Many of these faces she knew she wouldn't be seeing again.

A small, broken voice called out, "Please...help."

[Aarias]

For the first time in what seems to be years, Aarias did not strap his Falchion to his side, encase training armor over his body or slip a borrowed bow over his chest to hang horizontally.

He knows that today he could not train. Aarias would not train, even if asked to. His fellow warriors at the War Storm Pavilion would understand his absence.

The clan has been plagued with the Pox, the sound of screaming, moaning and praying openly filling his ears. It is impossible to fall back asleep, he has to assist his fellow clansmen and clanswomen. There has to be some way he can help.

The dawn creeps over the hills, illuminating the frost frozen strands of grass of the Sea. Aarias thinks to himself of the beauty of this land, the fabric of the tent flap rough against his hand. This is the only region he has ever known. It's here where he feels comfort. It's here where knows he is safe.

Those images of glinting grass blades soon fade as his eyes pan to his immediate surroundings. Black and gray clouds swallow the morning sun, turning the land dark. Today there would be no feasts, dances, or song. That, Aarias is sure of.

The mats or blankets in front of him create their own sea, containing frostbitten individuals, the life slowly being ripped from them. Aarias could not look away from the ghastly sight until his elder brother’s words reach him.

“Where are you going?” Vacien calls from the belly of the tent, the rustling of sheets reaching Aarias’ ears as he holds open the flap of the tent. The cold seeps into the room, covering Aarias' bare torso with goosebumps.

“They need help Vacien.” He states strongly over his shoulder, strong emotion for the cause evident in his forward attitude.
“At least put some fur on! Or would you rather like to join them?” Vacien remarks, the rest of his comments lost to a sleepy mumble. His tone is almost always gravely and commanding. Vacien always has to be protective of his younger kin.
“Thank you, brother.” Aarias whispers, hearing the snoring echo through the tent once more. He tries his best to sound kind, knowing Vacien means the best.

Aarias moves through the room, finding whatever is closest to him. He pulls the simple white shirt over his head and then fixes his cloak over himself, the end easily reaching his ankles. He passes through the tent flap this time, feeling the chill of the morning wind slap him in the face. Quickly, Aarias wraps the cloak around himself, pulling up the hood and adjusting the knotted clasp as he moves away from his tent.

His boots make a soft crunching sound as he treads over to the mass of bodies. His sharp blue eyes find the faintest of movement from the closest body. Am I allowed to touch them? Aarias ponders to himself, kneeling before the sickened individual, his pants and cloak tails licking the frosty earth.

“What do you require?” He questions, his concern overshadowing the pain in his own eyes. These are his fellows. His heart immediately feels like lead at the sight of such sickness. The infected man is pale, intensely blemished, from what Aarias can see, all over. The stench of sweat and vomit only worsen the longer he stays kneeled down.

“Water…” He mid-age man croaks out, his lips looking swollen and purple from frostbite and sickness that plagues him. His fingers grip the thin blanket around his body, red and black splotches rampaging over his body. There is no eye contact between the two, Aarias' eyes staring at a face that's as good as dead.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Aarias stands slowly and glances back at the man, “And per—” His words catch themselves in his throat, knowing it’s too late to cover him with another blanket. The chill of the night has taken its toll, letting the disease fester. This poor soul doesn't have much longer.

His whole morning is spent doing small and large favors to make the dying as comfortable as he can. No one wants to die alone.

[Akilah Windsong]

Akilah sat on the ground, absentmindedly stroking her dog's short fur.

She was afraid. It wasn't a new feeling. There were plenty of things to be afraid of before--glassbeaks, failing, her grandmother. And while not all of these things were tangible, there was always something she could do about them. She could train. She could learn. She could run and hide when her grandmother got too angry.

Disease on the other hand was something she knew nothing about. Akilah couldn't heal, and it wasn't something you picked up overnight. It took time and training and a patience she didn't have.

But Fajra was sick and Fajra was important and Akilah had no time to waste sitting on the ground, afraid. Fear wouldn't help her cousin. Fear wouldn't help herself.

"Vespera, you have to go back," she signed, shooing the dog. Where she was going, he couldn't follow. It would be easy for a curious nose to bring home a disease unwittingly. He whined, confused, and circled her.

"No, no, you need to go home."

Vespera sat for a moment, cocking his head at her, before whining again. Agitated, he got up and circled her once more. "GO H--"

Akilah stopped herself, surprised by her short temper. There was no point in getting short with her friend. He wasn't the reason she was angry. He didn't even understand.

In fact, she was making him worse. Even now he was pacing in front of her, small sounds escaping his throat.

Stopping him, she ordered her dog to sit. Reaching over, she stroked his fur slowly, hoping to make amends. "I'm sorry." Vespera wagged his tail, happy for the attention.

Akilah felt tense, nerves frayed, and she closed her eyes as she stroked his fur. His heart was beating fast, his body in constant motion, and it took some time before he slowed. Breathing in, breathing out, in tempo with him, she calmed down.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, before Akilah had drawn enough courage to take her next step. Getting up, she dusted herself off, before dealing with her hunting dog.

"Go home," she ordered him, waving a hand in the direction of their pavilion. He whined lightly, but she jabbed her hand in home's direction until he turned around and trotted back.

After watching him leave, she headed into one of the sicker sections of the city, drawing her fur-lined cloak closer. It was a surprisingly cold day, but from what she remembered learning, the cold would help preserve the bodies.

No, Akilah shook her head. That was mainly for the dead. Most of her knowledge was for the dead and not the living. Her steps were too quiet as she moved. Around her she could hear coughs and sneezes, sobbing echoing in her ears as people cried in pain.

She knew too little about this process, of getting sick and healing. In order to help her family, she'd have to learn just what she was facing.

And maybe Akilah couldn't heal, but she could learn how to keep Fajra comfortable and stable.

As she walked, the smells of waste and dying bodies overcoming her, she hoped it wasn't in vain.

[Aarias]

Aarias weaves through the maze of sick, an assortment of blankets wrapped around his arms, canteens, as well as a range of bowls, jugs and tankards. He picked up anything he could to try and collect the bile from the throats of his fellow clanspersons.

Spending all morning in what seems to be a fog of stench, his senses have calmed down and come strangely accustomed to the smells. Aarias never thought a day would come where such a combination of odors could no longer bother him.

Knowing time is of the essence, he sets the items at one end of a row. He will move to and from the pile depending on what the people need. The diseased move feverishly in either a hazy state or tormented sleep. Taking a blanket, he lays it over the person whom he sees shaking the most, speaking low and in a soft tone.

"It'll be alright. Here is something to keep you warm." He mutters in Pavi, trying to keep as much emotion from his features as he can, wrapping the elderly lady up tight in a blanket before moving up the row.

He is a volunteer, taking orders from medicine men and those who have seen the Pox sickness in action.

By now he has learned some of the key stages of this horrible sickness and what he can do to help. Placing a container by those whom he knows will need use of it or just giving them a blanket and a fresh swig of cold ice water and praying for the best.

Aarias is not an extremely religious man but today he has made up for it in whispers of prayer both externally and internally. Old, young, weak, and strong-willed faces have asked him to pray with them as they gasp their last breaths or the ones who fear the start of the long decline.

He has complied to every single wish, muttering prayers of fortitude and healing. Hoping that Kihala, Rak'keli, Priskil, and Izurdin answer his prayers. The young warrior even directed some words to Vayt, to spite him and the Pox he has brought us.

His expression is grave the whole time as he works, wishing he could save them but knowing all hope is lost. The young boy he kneels next to lets the last stuttering breath from his body his convulsions ceasing. Aarias shuts his eyes and easily scoops the young brown haired boy up in his arms, making sure the blankets prevent the black marks from touching his own skin.

Aarias' ice blue eyes stay locked onto the limp body encased in his strong arms. He couldn't have been older than six years old... He solemnly concludes.

The tall man stands up, carefully stepping over the shaking, frostbitten bodies. He carries the boy across the sea, placing him tenderly in a nearby cart stacked with the deceased. Each step is precise, an odd sight to see such a warrior be so light on his feet.

Those dead are to be taken out into the fields, their chins raised so that they may look up to the sky and see Syna, Leth, and Zintila's stars. Welcoming the wind and the animals, becoming one with the web.

After returning the blanket to yet another body, he arrives at one of the icy wash stations, quickly dousing his hands and arms, sure not to catch the sickness himself. He scrubs and scrubs until his fingers are numb from the chill. By the end, his hands are clean and pink from the thorough wash.

His concentrated yet perhaps pondering gaze catches onto Akilah as she walks. She is one of the few, it seems to him at the time, untouched by the sickness. His keen gaze keeps steady, the seed of curiosity growing in his mind as to why she is here. Can her stomach handle it? Her eyes will never forgive her for the sights she is witnessing. Aarias knows the days of the Pox plague will haunt him and many other clansmen.

The scrap of cloth in his hands move of its own accord as he dries himself all the way up his forearm.

[Derailey]

Nothing could have prepared Derailey for this. Looking at life, everything she had been through, nothing...even came close to stopping the horrible chill that crept down her spine. It was at this moment in time, that Derailey was rendered speechless. She could do nothing, but look back at these two big blue eyes.

"Please...my mama...she won't wake up."

Not even the innocent were safe from this wave of punishment. Where was the gods sympathy? This small child, who couldn't have been any older than five, lay on the ground, body blotched and mangled, next to the body of a woman who obviously had endured the same symptoms. Derailey felt sick.

Her stomach coiled as she forced herself to make words, "It's ok...I'm here. Your mom is just sleeping." She kneeled and reached out, lightly cupping the side of the girls face, offering a comforting smile. Her skin was all but boiling, the whelps and infection that coated her body were proof enough. Her body was thin, as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. She was broken out in sweat, but at the same time, her fingers, ears, and nose, were faded black and purple from the cold.

How long had she been out here? Derailey's eyes strayed to the corpse next to her. She had never really prayed before, but if anyone was listening...Derailey really hoped that this women wasn't the only one who cared for this child and that she hadn't been dead for long. She hoped, but by the looks of it, her fears were more reality than she could ever possibly imagine.

She was about to ask if there was anything she could do for the girl, but a hand gripped her wrist from behind. She winced a bit at the strong hold, and turned to face the inflictor. Her eyes widened a bit. She knew this man. He was a fellow Diamond Clan member. She had trained with him on several occassions. He was strong.

The man lay gasping for breath, but every inhale seemed so painful. His body was built perfectly for that of a warrior. Derailey had seen him take down many a man, but now Derailey was watching the life leave from his eyes. He coughed and sputtered, blood spewing from his lips and onto Derailey's face. She drew away from him, but his hold did not relinquish. Their stares were locked for only a few moments, before his grip went lax, and the pain he was suffering through disappeared.

Derailey could feel her spirit trying to leave with him. She grit her teeth, and pulled her hand free, wiping the blood from her face slowly afterwards. She looked around. Others had come to help, men and women, but the result was still the same. Every man, child, woman or warrior who lay here was marked for one fate.

She then turned back to the little girl, who's eyes had lost their glint and were simply looking towards the sky. She looked away, standing. There were still others than desperately needed attention. She quickly went from person to person, finding out what they wanted, before attempting to retrieve the best she could for them, but it was never enough.

The sound of splashing water reached her ears. A man had come, she had seen him helping as she did. He washed his hands and arms, going back and forth from body to body. He even carried the dead away. Returning from her thoughts, she continued as well. There was much to be tended to.

[Aarias]

Aarias places the rough cloth down on the warped planks, taking his wondering gaze away from the clearing. All he needs, is a moments rest to clear his mind. His trained arms come up to the tabletop, easily supporting his weight as he leans down ever so carefully. The steady basin below him allows his eyes to accept his own reflection.

The wind rides through the clearing, making Aarias' teeth chatter. He easily forces his cloak around himself even more, hearing the unsynchronized drumming of various tent flaps.

Aarias bows his head once the screams and groans reach his ears. He cannot blame the infected, they're exhausted and dying, but the small flame of anger makes a quick flicker only to go out again. Every part of him, cold and warm, stiffens, his head turning slightly to his left, eyes squeezing shut. Anger is not the answer. He reminds himself promptly.

"Aarias!" Calls a healer near Deraily's current row. The experienced man turning from one body on his right to the one on his left. Aarias' stone-like form looming over the water cracks and allows him to find the owner of such a rich voice.

The warrior reaches half way between the start of the row, passing by Deraily with nothing but an honest, but seemingly forced, smile under the circumstances that tug at the corners of his lips if their eyes should meet. Then he weaves his way across the filled blankets. With his leg up in the air, calculating his next step, the healer starts waving his arms for Aarias to stop.

"No, no no!" He calls, "Go back you fool! Get my toolkit. And a mortar and pestel. Quickly now!" A half sigh escapes Aarias' lips as he spins around and easily finds a safe spot to step.

He retraces his steps to the nearest outlet, being sure not to grab onto any kneeling persons shoulder as he passes them. Spreading out his arms at a reasonable distance from his torso, palms facing down. It seems a way to help him maneuver.

With a hop, step, and jump, Aarias finds his freedom at the end of the row. The warrior runs into the fortress of tents on a rampagent search for the man's kit and other needed supplies. For a while he seems to have lost his way.

All is well when Aarias returns long minutes after his orders have been given. Trying his best not to hit the sudden mass of living bodies escorting the dead to the Sea of Grass. Doing the best to control his breathing, he doesn't even try to weave through the people. Standing at the edge of this exodus, he bows his head out of due respect. The wafting smells making his nose twitch as he feeds air to his hungry lungs. Without even looking, he is sure he would recognize faces as well as families.

His gaze follows the group as they move, families crying, children whaling. Even the strongest of warriors are shedding tears. Emotions break through his skin and he finds his eyes starting to fill as well under shut lids.

Once the progression passes, he successfully delivers the supplies to the man. He looks around as he stands above the sea, looking for those who might need assistance - both helpers and the sick.

[Akilah Windsong]

She watched as the procession went past her, bodies carried off to become cairns. "Zulrav, Semele, watch over them." Akilah whispered.

Soon they would be joined to the web, connected to all the Drykas that were, are, and will be. One day, they might return as striders, completing their journey. Death was a cycle, death was just a state that came after life, and these were things she knew. These were things she and those around her clung to.

They were warriors, and a rest was what they earned.

Death was easier to handle than dying. The in-between state was something different.

And she didn't understand it and that was what scared her the most. Should she help? Would she get sick that way? Would she carry this hidden disease, this secret illness home and infect her family?

Staring at her hands, she closed them into two fists. Maybe she shouldn't even be here in the first place--standing here might be enough.

Looking up, Akilah saw a familiar face nearby, and stared at him. Aarias was standing there, looking around. He looked tired, worn; he had been helping no doubt.

Aarias must know something, then. She looked back at her fists. Fajra still needed to be helped. Gathering her courage, she opened her fists and started toward him. He could help.

Reaching him, she lifted her hand in a half-wave. "Do you know what's happening?" Realizing her questions was vague, Akilah clarified, "I mean, do you know how the plague's spread? Or anything about it?"

[Aarias]

Aarias finds himself standing for a long moment, just observing the events as they unfold. The desert growing in his throat only worsens, fatigue radiating from his legs as he makes his way to the end of the row once more.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to call for me." He informs those who are near him, taking a quick break to rejuvenate the energy he has lost. Not even realizing Akilah's movements closing in on him, he makes his way to one of the various tables. A glass is filled and his throat is satisfied, the first taste of the stunning water making Aarias cough.

If it weren't for Akilah's voice, he would have turned around and ran right into her. Luckily she spoke before he had a chance to spin around. The warrior tenses, clearing his throat and hoping that his newly refreshed voice doesn't crack as he speaks. The gap between them is stagnant due to the industrious day.

His blue orbs tell Akilah that he will do all in his power to help her, his usual smile coming into play. The shoulder length locks of his move over his face as he bows his head to her in a welcoming greeting.

His eye contact is unwavering, perhaps unsettling in its intensity. There are not many days where they actually get a chance to speak to one another. The casual nods or smiles dominating their contact thus far.

"And we meet again." He states in a comfortable tone, his voice holding for the moment. "I hoped it would have been under better circumstances though."

He listens to her question, both understanding the vague and clarified ones. Refraining from idle chit-chat, he ponders if she actually knows his name or not. Evidence flashes across his face of this thoughts, his eyes peering at her for a mere moment.

"You're from the Windsong lineage?" The calloused fingers and palm of his hand is offered to her, the space between them filled as he steps forward. "Aarias Stormshadow." There is, no doubt, pride in his name as he states it clearly.

While not trying to sound too hope-less, Aarias quietly explains the stages of the sickness and what he has seen so far. His head bows so that he may whisper as his arms wrap his cloak tightly around him. Another chilling gust passes by, his hair taking flight.

"I cannot say that I know how the Pox is spread but I'll advise washing of the skin at any point where contact with the sick has happened. It's best not to touch them as much as possible."

The warrior tries not to let the grave emotions come to surface. The modulated voice coming back once he takes a deep breath.

"First there is the growing fever, vomiting and lack of energy. Once those stages progress, the red and itchy marks start to appear, turning black when the victim is close to ... the end. Fatigue from eating or even speaking. Then there is the loss of control. They'll start to shake violently, much like an avalanche or earthquake and nothing can be done but to make them as comfortable as possible."

Aarias tries to lay down the facts as tenderly as possible, being sure to pause if she outwardly shows any signs of discomfort.