[ For a moment, he just answers with a small, noncommittal smile, wan and humorless. Death, the great equalizer. None of them were strong, fast, or clever enough to avoid it, it seems. But Augustine seems wiser than he is anyway, giving him advice that he ought to follow, but won't be able to. So he just smiles and sips his tea instead.

Dimitri's lost his sense of taste, but he's lived this way for a long time; he can still faintly smell the clover sweetness of honey, and the overall scent is slightly remedial and sweet. It's soothing; he'll never turn down a nice cup of tea, even if the quality of it is sincerely wasted on him.

He savors the drink, and it does help, if only momentarily. The relief doesn't show on his face though, because his brows furrow slightly instead. So it's not a plague at all, but a curse. ]

Do you know anything else about it? I've only heard bits and pieces... and no word of a cure.

[ And while he can handle some pain and discomfort, the congestion of petals only grows more obvious by the day. ]

Perhaps it will resolve on its own, but I'm not even certain why some are targeted by this "curse" and not others. Curses are born of malice, not spreading thoughtlessly like illnesses do. Or at least, that's what I thought.