(no subject)

[oblivium]

INHUMAN COURTESY

I. PUSHING UP DAISIES

---

cw: depiction of hanahaki, mention of blood, mild body horror

The Frightful Harvest ended on a bloody, eerie note, but the Respite's most welcome interlude has proven exceptionally fruitful. The sky's darkened again, moons struggling to glow through turbulent clouds, but crops all over Stygia have grown dense and healthy, herbs and plants and flowers aplenty. Normally, it'd be a time to rejoice, even as sleet pours and winds grow bitterly cold -- and it might have been, had greens and stems and petals NOT elected to blossom inside you. Your lungs, specifically.

It's an uncommon side effect of the Harvest, affecting those who foster affection or attraction towards another, triggered only by a stray thought. Almost as if punished by Oblivium for harboring any kind of positive feelings. The worst part is that the object of your desire doesn't even have to be in the Netherworld for you to be afflicted. Over the span of three months, you'll gradually experience various degrees of the "harvest's curse", depending on the source of your feelings:

► PHYSICAL/EMOTIONAL ATTRACTION & REQUITED LOVE
It starts with an itch. Your throat tickles, an odd sensation in your lungs, slightly constricted. Allergies? Not quite. It worsens overtime, and days pass by, perhaps weeks. You cough, a little more every day, a little deeper, and then it happens: petals, stuck to your lips as you wheeze and try to empty your chest. Marigold, carnations, daisies, peonies... Thankfully, for you, it's more of an annoyance, sporadic at best and leaving you exhausted at times, but you're in no immediate danger. Unfortunately, not all Restless share the same luck.

► UNREQUITED LOVE
It doesn't matter whether it is truly unrequited; as long as you think it is, whether you're fully convinced or distantly resigned, you get the whole package. It starts the same way the lesser variation does, gradual, and with unsavory (!) additions: lilies and dark red roses. The first slowly spreads its poison in your body, inducing fevers, skin rashes, blistering in your mouth and stomach aches. The second pricks your throat bloody, making speech difficult and breathing even more so. It spreads throughout Stygia, and if most wound up meeting their end in the past, some speak of a highly hypothetical cure. It's believed that if the object of your affection confesses equally strong feelings for you, the curse should rapidly subside. If this option isn't viable, Doran promises that all Healers in Hale are working extremely hard to find a solution. In the meantime, symptoms can be partially soothed with poultices and spells that you can find in the Marketplace or in Serene. Some merchants might even take pity on you and offer them for free.

if your character has heard of similar diseases in their home world, they're absolutely welcome to share their insight on the netherwork or anywhere else
the evolution of the disease can be as gradual, as fast or as severe as you wish it to be
a mini quest to retrieve ingredients for a cure will be available in december or january
by february, all characters should be cured

II. DO NOT PASS GO

---

cw: mention of blood, torture, branding, violence, forced captivity

Full-swing investigations concerning the Harvest's murders have begun, though the mysterious rider has yet to resurface. The day is young still, but no matter; the Hierarchy firmly believes that the creature was summoned by a group of renegades, fully intent on finding and dismembering the organization. Perhaps even literally.

If you've spilled blood not your own in the previous event, the Hierarchy finds you. Do they know? It doesn't really matter; they've targeted you for reasons they won't divulge, persuaded of your involvement -- and off to the Gallows you go. Each of you receives the same greeting when you arrive, held down by rough hands and branded upon the arm with the letter F. The mark signifies ‘forsaken’, and the painful scar is indelible proof that each of you has betrayed the Hierarchy's hospitality. Writhe and scream and glower as much as you want; next thing you know, something heavy hits you across the head, and you collapse.

When your vision slowly creeps back, your eyes adjust to a dimly lit stone cell. Your feet are secured by iron cuffs tethered by one long chain, and you lie in nothing but filthy, tattered rags. It's dark; the air is bloated and filled with agonizing shrieks. Dead vines scrap the walls of half-crumbled buildings, weather-worn stone pillars surrounded by withered clumps of grass. You may converse with your cellmates: the guards patrolling the Gallows couldn't care less, convinced that no one could possibly escape anyway.

► Ironically, a magical barrier around the Gallows prevents magical/spiritual abilities from functioning. However, characters who roam free still can absolutely sneak in! Be careful not to get caught, though!
► Loud disagreements might attract unwanted attention. A single guard will come, and if he finds nothing else amiss, will threaten them to be quiet. A second violation earns the offender a rap on their bare feet with a club. A third violation will cause the offender to be gagged. Note that in order to beat or gag the offender, the guard must first open the cell.
► If you share affinities with Gargoyles, incapacitating a guard in any way will draw the attention of one. It'll show you to the gates where you'll be able to escape, taking care of sentries on your way. You should probably keep a low-profile from then on, and avoid showing-off your brand.
► A secret passage may be found through a mausoleum nearby; an arrow of flaking red paint marks the entrance. Or is it blood? Inside, it's nearly pitch-black. Perhaps, if you're lucky, your vision extends as far as 30 feet in front of you, but occasionally, the darkness is broken by clinging phosphorescent fungi or crawling luminescent creatures, and from out of the silence echo sounds of dripping water. You're underground, and Abysmals can be encountered here if you're too loud. You should also watch out for cave-ins, but as you get farther away from the general region of the Gallows, your magical abilities gradually come back.
► Eventually, a long, broken staircase will lead you to Hale. If you're injured, you'll be sent to the main infirmary; characters with healing abilities or knowledge are super welcome to help!

Luckily for you, there are so many prisoners it's a difficult task for the Hierarchy to always keep track of all of them. Your brand, however, is a dead giveaway, so you might as well try and find a way to get rid of it; you might hear through the grapevines that the dead skin of Badaliscus can be used as bandages, and overtime, the brand will fully heal and disappear.


III. TO THE RESCUE

---

As you attempt to escape, or perhaps once you’ve successfully snuck in, you come across a terrifying spectacle: in front of you, impaled through the shoulder by a spear, a weary humanoid figure covered in blood. The body is being restrained by additional shackles on each arm and leg, which are linked to chains anchored within the walls. There's a guard nearby, armed to the teeth… and still you decide to free them.

The guard’s magic is just as useless as yours, and while impressive in size, dexterity definitely isn’t his main strength. He hits hard — with brass knuckles, a chain mace, and a sturdy shield — and his stamina almost seems endless, but it’s not. Keep evading, and he’ll eventually tire enough to topple over. It’s also possible to have him chase you around if you don’t go too far, which would allow someone else to grab the spear. Once he’s too exhausted to go on, you can either kill him or chain him to the wall. The keys are in his boots, and you’ll find a bottle of water as well as a small vial of ointment in a satchel on the ground, where he previously stood.

The prisoner is a young man, perhaps in his mid-20s. Once freed from his shackles, he immediately keels over, though he’s not unconscious. He thanks you with a deep and raw voice, begging for water. You can tend to his wounds if you’re able—the ointment quickly soothes—and when he finally stands again, he asks you a question: “I’m a stranger to you, and you could have died. Yet, you chose to free me, unaware of my past. Of my crimes. Of my virtues. Why?”

Regardless of your answer, he smiles, a private understanding that turns the stretch of his lips enigmatic. There’s a bubbling chuckle in his throat, very hoarse, and then he hisses, touching where you’ve helped him apply the ointment on his body. “You know what they say. If it stings...” He looks at you, deliberately pausing there and staring bold into your eyes. “... then it must be working.”

It might feel like there’s more to what he’s trying to say, though it’s pointless to ask: he bows, and then he slowly inches away from you. “Until we meet again.” White and thick tendrils of smoke envelop him, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and then just like that, he’s gone.

so you’ve chosen to free him, which in turn has generated a future plot point that’ll occur some time in february. some of you WILL see him again.
what he says to you is a clue.
you can answer his question OOCly right here. it’ll have some bearing on the way your character will be approached re: future plot point.
if you've voted no and would still like to participate, you could always allow your character to be convinced or reluctantly dragged by another!

ooc note

► As always, check out the Notice Board if you'd like additional prompts! Older quests from previous months are always available as well. You'll also find the Calendar right here.
► You'll find already answered questions just here, and if you'd like to ask new ones, ask them here!
► For fun's sake and similarly to the puck adventure, you may play it out in different groups or on your own, and still obtain the same results as everyone else whether your characters threaded together!

Comments

steve harrington | stranger things

[fawcetted]

●●● pushing up daisies — ;

[ Jesus fucking Christ.

The first time Steve burps up a rose petal, he initially thinks he’s seeing things, and the blood-red colour of the petal is some kind of whacky illusion, a sign that he’s probably taking this ‘hey I’ve died and now I’m stuck in this crazy hellish afterlife’ really, really badly. The homesickness for his own crappy town and its peculiar antics hits deep, like a sharp stabbing pain in his chest.

... turns out that stabbing pain is really just a coughing fit about to happen, and this time it’s the snow-white colour of chrysanthemum petals that fills the palms of his hands. He sleeps it off, doesn’t try to think too much of it (denial, anyone?) but then the fever and the itching starts, and his body feels worse than the worst hangover he’s ever had. He kinda feels like he’s dying.

He’ll be in the marketplace now, visiting any vendors with healing items, in search of something to sooth his insides just as he hacks up blood and thorny red roses — ]

Sorry, do you guys have any like … Extra-Strength Pepto Bismol? Or something?

[ Or just a little later, having found something to pacify his insides and surface ailments, he can be found sitting by a particularly pathetic curb somewhere, head hanging into his lap, looking pale and a little sweaty but at least … stable enough to breathe. There are remnants of carnation buds strewn about at his shoes but at least the blood is minimal.

His voice is hoarse when he says a little bitterly: ]

No, I’m not doing great, thanks for asking.

●●● do not pass go — ;

[ Steve hadn’t spilled any blood during the Harvest, too busy taste-testing bad beans and generally being a little more of a social butterfly than a blood-lusty killer, so his appearance in the Gallows may seem odd. Almost uncharacteristic.

Thing is, he got here on his own volition and not as a prisoner but a guy in search of his missing soulmate. Once the thought had been put into his head, it was hard not to pursue the possibility that Eddie Munson might have been captured by Reapers and taken here along with some of their fellow Restless. He sneaks in during a shift-change and starts to make his way down the length of cells. ]

Hey — you haven’t seen a tall nerdy guy with big hair in any of these cells, have you?

[ Don’t worry, he won’t leave you to rot — unless you mean to stay here, anyway. If he can, he’ll offer to help you out. Of course, he might need a little direction; jailbreaks aren’t exactly something he’s an expert on.

Hell, he only won his first fight like, last summer. ]

Hold on, okay? I think I can get you out.

[ From time to time, you might notice him pausing to reapply some healing poultice for a blister or a rash that’s gone a little sour but at least he’s got the coughing under control for now. ]

●●● wildcard — ;

[ if none of the above sparks any inspiration, feel free to leave your own starter below (or use the bits you like)! send me a PM or plotting comment to hash out any details. ]

knock knock

[redsoil]

[ What's life ( or unlife? ) without a wholeass divinity showing up at your door, huh?

Following the mark made upon the map, Set arrives in the harbor with a small basket tucked over one arm and the most perturbed expression upon his face. Many souls have gone missing over the past few days - drawn into long-winded field missions, or simply taken away by rough hands. It concerns him, to think that those he has begun to grow close to territorial over, could vanish so readily without his knowledge. Then again, he was never the all-seeing one, nor even a god that was very close to others.

It is why his arrival at Steve Harrington's place is unheralded, sudden, and loud. He bangs a fist on the door, after checking the map pin on his phone, demanding loudly: ] Come to the door and let me in! I know you are expecting me.

[ this guy ]

[fawcetted]

[ this guy!!!!

But considering that Steve had agreed to the visit, sending a pin on a map and a verbal (well, written — but same thing, basically) invitation and all, it would stand to reason that when the god comes a knockin', Steve ... would be home to accept said visitor.

And he does! After the second or third knock, Set might hear the echo of footsteps through the paper-thin walls, and then the slight squeak of a lock being turned, and knob being twisted. Steve looks like he always does when he pulls the door open — typical 80s fashion, great hair, white sneakers — but there's a decidedly stressed out expression on his face beneath the polite smile. ]

Hey — hi. You really didn't have to come over — [ He's fine! Really! See how convincing he is?? ] — but come on in, make yourself at home.

[redsoil]

[ Unhooking the basket from his arm, he thrusts the whole thing at Steve the moment that face appears in the doorway. It thumps liberally, almost aggressively, against his chest, shoved there by the force of Set's arms. Set, himself, stands in the doorway looking utterly nonplussed; he is not the type to expect particular appearances, not from humans nor gods, nor would he know what makes -- uh, good hair or bad. It's very well-kept, though! That's a +1 in Ancient Egyptian hygiene standards. ]

I would not have come if I didn't want to, Steve Harrington.

[ That, and there is the matter of their person-in-common being MIA.

He never really expects that he'll miss worry be concerned for the existence of mortals until they happen to vanish without his knowing. Certainly, their lives are finite and their health is often fragile, but he had never truly been on name-basis with as many of them as he was now. Jonas, Steve, Eddie, Dimitri, Ruby, Claude, Silco, Gilia -- they have names, and thus, he remembers them and their presence far better than were they nameless masses.

As he steps inside, he drags the pale traveling cloak from his shoulders and hooks it on the nearest jutting structure he can find, leaving it to drag along the floor of Steve and Eddie's little -- abode, as he examines it with... well, not judgment, but definitely something. ]

I brought you something to eat, from the market. If we're going to look for your friend at any point, you'll need to keep your strength up. And not dwell on your turmoil alone.

[fawcetted]

No, no, for sure. You're right.

[ Steve is forced a clumsy step back, arms suddenly now full of a basket of goods while he allows Set to sweep past him and into the space. He slides back over to the door and closes it behind him and then heads towards the ... kitchen? Space? Thing? To set the basket down.

And okay, sure, their living quarters isn't exactly a five-star room at the Ritz, but man, you should have seen it before the clean-up. Still full of dusty, half-broken, half-abandoned furniture, with most surfaces still covered in the thinnest layer of dust, it clearly has some potential to be kind of a cool 'two bros just sharin' a space' space.

It just needs a little sprucing.

Truthfully the literal house-keeping portion of the move-in was set to a low priority the night Eddie didn't come back. His abandoned phone can be found on the table across from the couch where it was left, and Steve is now poking around in the basket to investigate the items that have been brought over. He can't deny that all that stress has made him a little hungry. ]

This stuff looks pretty good, thank you. [ He is nothing if not polite, at least. ] I wasn't — [ The retort starts off strong and weakens considerably, deflating by the time he finishes. ] — I wasn't dwelling.

[ Okay, he was absolutely dwelling in his turmoil and he's got an entire network post to prove it. ]

So ... so what are you thinking? Some guy was saying that he might have been taken to the gallows.

[redsoil]

I am thinking of too many options, with little information to support any of them. There are numerous places he could have become lost in, or been taken to -- none of them are truly why I am here.

[ He watches the way Steve begins to protest, and the way he fails at his convictions by the end of it. The way he clutches at potentials and possibilities, none of which speak to savory or safe things. Eddie either left, was taken, or became lost. Those are the three options available in explanation, and Set wishes to linger on none of them - ruminating on the unknown is not his style, and there are important things to do in the interim. ]

Though, I will continue to look for him and should I uncover anything, I will tell you. Right now, I have come to meet you.

[ How direct. Standing in the middle of the decaying home the two young men have eked out for themselves, he walks the length of it - investigating and examining the phone left behind. Set is barefoot, nearly bare of skin, save for the gleaming gold upon his limbs and throat and the dark shendyt -- clothes are secondary for him at this time, and he has not grown any more sickly or in need than others. ]

The thing they call our 'shadow' lead you to say particular things about yourself. That must be your greatest concern -- that your friendship with him is a lie?

[ he just,,,, fucking says things without flinching doesn't he ]

[fawcetted]

Oh.

[ Honestly, it's kind of refreshing, the blunt way Set comes out and just says what he wants to say. Well, it's refreshing in a way that it sets him back on the right path and doesn't send him spiraling down several venues at once. He's good at doing that on his own, the last thing he needs is someone else offering him a hundred different possibilities to set his brain on fire with panic.

He still isn't even sure that all of this anxiety is his own, which is a really weird and ironic relief. It means somewhere out in this hellhole of a world, Eddie is wandering around, lost, but still very much ... existing. And right now that's all Steve's got to go on, and it's what he's going to cling to.

He just needs ... a really solid lead.

But for now — ]

Yeah. Yeah, that's right. I mean, how much can we really believe our shadows, right? Isn't their whole purpose to spout out all this bullshit?

Wildcard!!!

[janescayre]

[It's the dead of night. The worst time, if you ask her. As if being a freshly escaped fugitive weren't petrifying enough.

Fukawa isn't one of the lucky souls who found her belongings on the way out of prison. Her sole saving grace had been that line of laundry hung out to dry, but she can't change out in the open. So she'd ducked into a nearby door, pleased to find it open, and began to sweep the long skirt on through a fit of sniffles.

Everyone had made a break for it around the same time, but she'd lost track of everyone along the way. First through the maze of the Gallows itself, then the tunnels, and now the streets.

It's better that way. She can be her own liability, thanks. No one deserves to get caught again if she messes it up somehow. And god, where is she going to go after all this?

As she pulls the rag free and yanks on the sweater, she hears a noise from further inside. Fukawa freezes up.

Was someone there?]

[fawcetted]

[ Getting in to the gallows (without getting caught and/or arrested) had taken some amount of skill and prowess, but Steve admittedly has a little practice with sneaking into places so the task hadn't been an impossible one. Getting out — once he'd discovered his reason for coming in the first place was something of a fool's errand (both a frustration and a relief, if he's gonna be completely honest) — is another task all together. But, you know. He's done that a couple of times too, so ... slow and steady wins the goddamned race, or something.

It's the darkest part of the night when he makes his move too, sticking to the shadows and the fringes of the area, moving with some of the others until he breaks off to do one last sweep around the area. He thinks he hears someone or something out there, and decides to duck into a quiet, seemingly abandoned house for cover until the noise passes.

(And while he's here, he might as well scavenge for supplies, or weapons, or something to help him the rest of the trek back to the Harbours.)

He's coming out through the back door with what looks like a broken chair-leg in both hands, into the yard where a line of laundry is still hanging when — ]

Jesus Christ! [ He's dead and he still feels like his heart might explode out of his chest. ] It's you! [ A gasp of breath. Two. Three. ] Of course it's you, of course you're gonna be here too.

[ And then he makes a move to head past the rickety old fencing, now with less heart-pounding and more urgency to get a move on. ]

Please tell me you don't live here or something. We've gotta get out now while we still have the chance.

[janescayre]

[When he shouts, she screams back in kind. It's a short and shrill cry and it propels her back seven paces (what the hell is that in his hands, some kind of a bat?), but he kills the panic quick enough to shock her. Fukawa stands impotent in the yard and watches him yammer away, check the fence, take charge. Urge her to get a move on.

She's got no idea who he is.]

Wh-what? [Her whole face rumples, shucking shock for a curl in the lip and a wrinkled nose. She's not not afraid, tensions are still running high and this guy is armed. But the way he flits about and bounces ideas off of her, that he uses "we" when proposing escape? It's derailing half her fright in favour of a resounding "What the fuck?"] No! N-no, I don't live here! Who the h-hell are you?!

[And why does his face stir something in her chest? It's giving her the worst sense of deja vu. Fukawa scowls, backing against the wooden siding and tracking his every move.]

I'm not going anywhere with you...you c-can't make me!

[fawcetted]

What?

[ If Steve notices any difference between this girl and the more psychotic one he's used to, he certainly isn't saying anything about it. Each time they'd spoken, tensions had been high and every situation called for a whole other level of panic and anxiety that became their baseline. Panic clouds Steve's mind now, and while he might think on this moment later and slap at his forehead for missing such obvious cues, all he can think about at this very second is putting a crazy amount of distance between him and the Gallows.

He needs to head back 'home'. ]

Look, in case you didn't notice, we're in freakin' enemy territory here! [ He waves a quick hand around them to demonstrate the severity of their situation. It's dire, dude. ] Any moment now one of those guards is gonna catch wind of us here and put us both in cells. And I don't know about you but after this break-out, they're probably beefing security up as we speak and that means it'll probably be like, impossible to escape.

So, come on!

[janescayre]

Y-y-yeah, b-but...

[Her head is shaking no and she's wedging herself against that wall like she means to meld with the wood. He has a point, several of them in fact. She doesn't want to get caught again, this is true, and time is of the essence. However?]

Who the — you...who are you, dammit?!

[Her hands fly out, giving a furious waggle in his direction. It's a harried edition of the "what's your problem" gesture.]

I've never s-seen you in my life, and you're running out here saying stuff like, "of course" I'm here? [She scoffs furiously, sliding along the wooden slats to put more distance between them. Get out of batting range, in case he comes to his sense and gives her a whack.] D-don't act so familiar with a complete stranger! Like I'd r-run off with anyone who ordered me to!

[fawcetted]

[ Is this girl for real? Seriously?? ]

Now's really not the time for your super weird jokes.

[ And when it looks like she really isn't willing to relent, he sighs. ]

Fine. If you want to stay here, be my guest. I know you're more than capable of taking care of whatever it is you need to take care of. You saved me more than once. [ Proved that she was actually kind of scarily badass the last couple of times they'd been banded together for some life or death situation or another.

He flaps a hand at her too so they look like a couple of overly animated caricatures. ] Is that what you wanna hear?

[janescayre]

It's not a joke!

[Any further protest hits a brick wall as he makes his closing remarks. There's a stone in her gut suddenly, sinking ever so slowly to the bottoms of her feet.]

S-saved you? [There is a beat. He looks so familiar and so strange at once. Something about his gestures, the way his face moves when he talks.

And he's not scared of her?]

Was I...acting all c-crazy? With my tongue hanging out? [She winces. Digs her fingers into stringy hair and groans.] Nevermind! I already — ugh, do you even have ears? C-can't you tell we're not the same person?

[For crying out loud. She can't believe she has to introduce herself second. And what's with this crap about saving him?]

We have a sp-split personality. Okay? That girl is just a shitty side-effect of it. [She shoots him a heated glare.] And don't you dare say that's ridiculous! I kn-know how it sounds! And I don't want to hear it!

2nd daisies

[prozaic]

[the scent of blood in the air is what draws shalem in-- quite faint, but still strong to his senses, his sensibilities. he's always been sensitive to blood after all. trained into it.]

All right-- perhaps that was a stupid question for your affliction. [at least he admits it.

then he crouches down in front of the man, slipping his tail onto his thigh to keep it off of the petals and blood. he's well aware that this illness isn't contagious, but he's so used to being careful, especially when blood is involved.]

I've medicine from the markets, if you want it. ["want", not "need". shalem does believe it's needed, especially when it was made to alleviate symptoms. he thought he would be affected by the illness going around, but apparently not? he still doesn't understand how, but oh well. best someone else take it since it's clearly useless for him.] You don't even need to repay me for it.

[fawcetted]

Isn't there that saying — [ This is said in between a particularly graceful cough-slash-hacking up of his increasingly sore lungs. They are doing so much work right now for someone who is, by all rights, dead.

And no, he is never getting over that. ] You know, 'No such thing as a free lunch.'

[ It also doesn't escape him, despite the watery eyes and snotty nose, that this guy has ... a tail. Like, an actual 'definitely not baseline human with this tail' tail. But that's a priority for another time.

He pulls a small vial of a mossy, paste-like substance from the pocket of his jacket to show the other guy. ]

It's not the same as this stuff, is it? Because this isn't — [ Another cough. ] — well, it's not great.

[ It'll soothe the rashes he'll no doubt develop later, but for now it's all happening on the internals, baby. ]

[prozaic]

That's mostly for external issues, isn't it? No, it wouldn't do for your issues right now, unless something happens and you start sprouting on your skin. [was that... too morbid... sometimes shalem just thinks of these things and remembers other people aren't like him.

he gives himself a mental shake and reaches into his jacket, pulling out a small dark bottle and holds it out to the young man.]

Here, this is for internal use. I bought it for myself, but I haven't been afflicted, and I'm getting the feeling I won't be, having been around so many ill lately.

[fawcetted]

[ Steve bobs his head in an affirmative motion, and he does so a little miserably. ]

I wouldn't count that out either. [ He groans, and if something like that ought to faze him, scare him even ... it's probably really weird that it doesn't. Why is his life so weird that this kind of thing doesn't even cause him to flinch?

Still. He tips his head up to peer at both the other guy's face and then to the small bottle being offered in his direction. Grateful, Steve takes it. It's the balm he needs. Jesus Christ, if it'll help the roiling discomfort in his stomach and the fluttering in his chest ... ]

You're immune to this? Lucky. Also — how?

[prozaic]

That I do not know. It's not as if I'm immune to every illness either, I distinctly remember having a cold not too long before my untimely death.

[then he shrugs, and pushes himself back up to a standing position.]

Perhaps fortune favours me right now, and it's only a matter of time. Or... [perhaps it's because he's already ill, well before this happened. he gives himself a mental shake. best not to go down that road.]

Do you remember when you first started experiencing these symptoms? [now he's just mimicking the medics he's interacted with over the years.]

[fawcetted]

Ugh, I don't know, I don't know. [ And focusing right now is hard. ] I think I just ... I was doing something normal, you know? Something like cleaning the kitchen or brushing my teeth or something and then it felt — weird. Like, I just started coughing and it wouldn't stop until — [ He vaguely waves a hand at the bloody petals strewn about. ] — that happened.

[ He pauses for a moment to uncork the small bottle he's been given and tip some of its contents into his mouth. He can already feel another bout of painful coughs start to make their way up his system, and he can only hope this stuff really works to suppress it.

Please God. He hates this. He hates this so much. ]

I just wish I knew why this was happening. And I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. [ Well. ] Except Vecna. Yeah, I hope he feels this every day.

[prozaic]

[ah... a young man getting worked up. shalem's used to dealing with this, and is quite calm in giving advice.]

If you feel you need to cough again, take deep breaths until it passes. But if there's something that needs to come out, whether it's blood or petals, they're better out than in.

You don't often expel them, do you?

"pushing up daisies" 2nd part ♥

[aflowers]

[ From what she understands, it starts with a tickling, a strange feeling in the lungs. It's something she herself has felt in the last few days, and yet at least for now, whatever symptoms she's experiencing don't seem to be getting worse. The people all around her, though? Some are similar to her. Others...

Well, others are like the poor soul she can see sitting on the curb nearby, his head hung, breathing hoarse and carnation petals scattered at his feet, a few of them spotted with blood.

He speaks before she can approach, and so it's with a gentle smile that she sits herself down on the curb by him, not particularly fazed by how grubby it might be or by the potential for getting blood on her pale pink dress— quite frankly, she's a little more worried about him right now, despite never having seen him before.

Her free hand holds out a flask of water mixed with something that she's pretty confident is honey— out here, of course, you can never be entirely sure of these things, but she's been sipping it herself without any negative effects of which she's aware, whenever the tickle starts in the bottom of her throat.

Her voice, when she speaks, is gentle and tinged with worry, but still (perhaps surprisingly) spry and upbeat: ]

Well, that just about covers the first question, so I'll just skip to the second: drink some of this, okay?

[ He may notice that that's not really a question. ]

[fawcetted]

[ It totally isn't really a question. But his throat's so scratchy and hoarse and probably irritated from the dryness that he doesn't even argue.

Steve takes the offered flask, sniffs it, finds that his sinuses are so clogged up with the coughing and the misery that his sense of smell is temporarily shot anyway, and then tips the spout to his lips for a taste.

It's surprisingly cool, and also surprisingly sweet when it touches his tongue. He can't quite figure out what it is, but it isn't bad.

A moment passes and then he lets out a breath, cough-free for the time being. It's a relief. ]

Thanks. Sorry about the — for being an asshole.

[aflowers]

[ She's almost surprised at the apology. Compared to that of some of the people she's met before, his attitude when addressing her hardly came across as him being a jerk— and even if it did, how could she blame him for it, given his current situation? Aerith shakes her head, and offers a bright smile in his direction. ]

Even if you were being an asshole, I'd say it's totally understandable. Nothing about what you're going through is okay.

[ It's not quite the right word, but she's pretty sure he'll understand. ]

How long has it been this bad?

[ Her case is mild compared to others she's seen; his situation is the exact opposite: she hasn't come across anyone struggling as badly as he is. ]

[fawcetted]

[ Well, she's not wrong.

This whole coughing, and throwing up flowers thing is getting old, and not only that but it's starting to hurt his insides. They're sore and kinda sting and the coughing doesn't relent even when he wants it to. Like it won't let him catch a break. ]

Got worse like, yesterday? The day before? I dunno, the last forty-eight hours feels like a blur.

[ He takes another sip of the offered drink and relishes in how damned good it feels to drink it. ]

But before that it was just the standard stuff. The coughing and the tightness of breath. And the guy I went to see gave me this stuff but I think it's for external cuts or whatever? Which, you know — does that mean I've gotta worry about that too?