Solo Sick & Tired

[Alric Lysane]

18th Fall 521 AV - Alric's Shack Alric opened his eyes and saw that there were slivers of light plastered across the ceiling and walls, penetrating through the shutters and the odd hole on the wall here and there. It was near midday he thought from the angles of the light, the notion creeping across his skull much more slowly than usual. He blinked a few times, noticing after a few moments that he felt somewhat numb and sluggish of limb. He turned his head slightly and felt the room swim and the nail of pain slam into his forehead and temples. The back of his head felt as if it were twice as large as usual, swollen with something that could only be described as gunky. He groaned…he had been right. He hated being right but few times and now was one of them. He shivered and felt another wave of aches and pains ripple across his body. He groaned once more, slowly managing through great effort to bring his hands up to his head and stop them slapping limply into it. He rubbed his temples and knew that despite the way that he was feeling the first day or two were the most critical. He hadn’t survived in borderline poverty for this many years and not learned how to survive – including when ill. In fact, it had been because of an illness last year that he had known it was time – and necessary to – prepare. “I hate my life” he moaned to himself sadly. He took a few moments to steel himself for what was about to come. It took a few chimes to summon the energy required to roll sideways out of the bed. The plan had been to twist his legs around to get his feet under him. The plan failed and with a very ungraceful sound Alric slammed into the floor, possessing just enough wherewithal to pull his fact up so he went chest first instead of face first. He took a few moments to get some air back into his lungs before groaning further and dragging his arms around until they were under him and pushed himself onto all fours, head feeling like pain itself were pooling into the front of it. He managed to stagger to his feet in the end, legs wobbling and propped himself up against the wall next to the pegs he had installed so long ago for his clothing. He would need them, despite the fact that he was sure his skin was aflame. He felt cold and the quicker the fever could be broken the better. He got his shirt one reasonably quickly under the circumstances, his trousers took much longer and involved him falling over onto his back by sliding down the wall and then dragging them on. He was now in his wooden chair by the fair, gloves on and cloak around him, shaking fingers pulling at things that he would need. As he pulled out the pouch of rugberry tea leaves, he sneezed, and the pouch slipped from his fingers back to the table. He left it there with a sigh and summoned up the fortitude for the next big job – the fire.

[Alric Lysane]

His fingers were sluggish and his grip was far from sure. Not to mention that he was shaking anyway and occasionally sneezing. Setting the fire was something that usually took five chimes or so. It took his fifteen just to make the square bed of thinly cut kindling. Picking up a handful of shavings and curled, thin spindles to use as tinder he was about to put it into the bed he had made when he sneezed into it, sending a third of it scattering into the air to land all over the hearth. He groaned. He put what was in his hand into the bed and quickly grabbed another pinch or so and added that in. He had had the forethought at least to feather some twigs yesterday and so added them to the horrifically poor construction and then grabbed his flint and steel. He eyed them with suspicion and felt sure they were about to betray him, or him they. Either way there would be betrayal. Lacking his usual strength he struggled to get a decent amount of friction going. Eventually he got so frustrated that he slipped off of the flint with the steel unexpectedly and his hand slammed into the stone of the hearth. “Dammit!” he hissed with pain, bringing the steel up to his face to glared at it, “traitor. This will be remembered” Eventually he managed to get the spark required and set about blowing it into life. This turned out to be a mistake and he had to turn aside as he coughed on the exhale to stop him losing what work he had managed to do so far. Instead he blew more shallowly, still stifling coughs and waved his hand like a madman to get enough wind for the flames to eventually spring up. He immediately grabbed logs and placed them atop to catch light in time. He leaned back, arms crossed across his chest, and groaned. He watched the fire like a hawk, he was not about to lose it after so much effort – he was not sure he would be able to summon enough strength to get it going again for a while. Maintaining was easier than starting, that much he knew well though he was no wilderness or camping expert. When the tow logs on the fire shifted and blackened he added two more to feed it further, sure now that it would keep going for some time with minimal tending. He turned and looked at the cooking pot he had bought. It was their time to dance now.

[Alric Lysane]

He had dragged the pot over to the barrel, which had been the easy bit. Testament to the mighty struggle of the barrel and pot were sloshed of water on the floor around the barrel’s bottom. Not to mention the spots of damp clothing on Alric’s shirt. Filling it had been a nightmare, trying to hold up what was a heavy barrel by ill Alric’s standards and trying not to drop it to smash the cooking pot but also not tilting it too much to lose more water than necessary. The titanic battle had been reasonably successful given his shaky hands and sneezing. Now he sat in front of the fire, hands out and two waterskins on the table next to him. The third was by the bed. The water had started to bubble a little now but he knew it had to be boiling to be of any use. Pure as the waters of Yedra’s were he wanted tea and soup. He had already ripped off and buttered a few fragments of break for dunking and had taken the last of the vegetables he had and placed them in a pile with the salted pork. The beef would be used up during the rest of his sickness, smeared atop the buttered bread to help restore and fortify. He’d wait for the worst to pass first though and so held it in his pack in reserve. Instead he grabbed his polished wooden cup and took out enough of a pinch of tealeaves to seem like a single dose and sprinkled them into it. “Tea and soup…the best and easiest restorers. If only I had had chicken that would be better. But I’ve got what I can” he said to himself, trying to keep his spirits up between coughs and sneezes. Once the water had started bubbling for the boil he took out his serving spoon and dunked it in, pouring the water gained into the cup, filling it to a finger’s width below the top. Then he pulled out his store of traveller’s stock and teased out a quite disgusting looking ball of dark gunk and dumped it into the boiling water. Chopping up the potatoes, carrots, onions and mushrooms as carefully as he could they followed. He simply tore the salted pork apart, nibbling at chunks as he went, and threw that in. A few long stirs and he left it to its magic. I may be a pale shadow of Tazrae but at least I’ll survive to maybe eat one of her meals one day he told himself as he watched the tea start to bleed into the clear water, darkening it a deep red, the steam easing his blocked nostrils as he breathed it in and trying not to cough into the cup. His first full coughing fit started a half bell later, forcing him to sit back from the table and his tea so as not to knock it over. It doubled him up almost and felt like a web of crackling fire across the front of his chest and up into his throat. Once he had finished he took in a few deep breaths and sniffed. He sipped at his rugberry tea a little more – it was half finished by now – and stirred the pot once more. “Show me the way to go home, I’m tired and I…oh I am home…shyke” he chuckled and then regretted it when the coughing started again. “Urgh” was all he managed after that.

[Alric Lysane]

He had finished his tea now and it had seemed to help a little. His stomach was still empty but rebelling at the idea of food but his chills had eased slightly which had left him more able to move normally. He still sneezed and ached like a drunk after a barfight but his trembles had abated for now. The cough had been getting worse however despite the warmth of the tea helping to soothe the itching in his throat. It felt deeper than his throat and that concerned him enough that he was forcing himself to eat the soup he was in the middle of making. He was hoping that if he forced himself to eat on day one then he’d ride out a few days and be ack at work. Well…grave hunting at least. He wondered how Tazrae would chide him for his terrible efforts as he sipped it and his lips twisted in the opposite of anticipation. He’d have to ask her what she gave out for illness, if they even got ill with the chills and cold out in the warm jungles. Moritz would probably give him a lecture on medicinal herbs and Medeira…well she’d be hoping he didn’t die. He hoped at least. He drank from the waterskin again, this time finishing off the first waterskin and leaving it upon that table for refilling the following day. Whilst he had waited for the soup of cook and between stirring he had managed to drag the barrel across the front door. He’d wedge the chair in later to add extra security just in case. Anything that was even vaguely weapon-like he had propped up next to his bed for the same reason. Some might call him paranoid, but he called it cautious. He was in no shape to fight and he didn’t want to be seen as easy prey. Few knew him and fewer where he lived but lips talked often about the weak and witless to be targeted. “Oh…and I had that book to pick up to…damn. Remmy better not stiff me. Not without buying dinner anyway” he chuckled and then coughed. Worth it he told himself with a deep breath. It was a shame though, he suspected there were some clues as to the whole Craven thing. Those tales were old and fabled. Anyone claiming to have actual accounts it was wise to take with a pinch of salt but still…if there were anything in there then it’d be worth following up on. The gods knew he needed all the leads and luck he could get. Either way it’d be a good read to pass the time between coughs and sniffles. Alas he had not been so fortunate. Instead he kept himself preoccupied with mental speculation. He carefully pushed the pot out of the fire proper when the soup was finished, scooping himself a few spoons into his bowl before dunking his bread in to soak. What I’d like to know is why nothing was reclaimed or looked into before. Is this the first time? Or have others tried without Dusk knowing? Was it to do with the uprising? Was it too unsafe perhaps to do much but threaten vengeance without proper burial? Or was it even worse than that? Or does this go all the way back to the mining days? he wondered as he chewed his now soft bread and felt it slip down his throat pleasantly.

[Alric Lysane]

Anyone who could look through walls would see a strange sight if they looked in Alric’s direction. They’d spy him hunched over the table, arms either side if his head and his head resting on something. If they looked closer they’d realise he was resting on his bowl of soup – now mostly gone but still a few chunk of reasonably warm potato and similar inside it. Closer still and changing perspective they’d see that he was face first and bubbles were being formed from the breathing through his nose. If they paused to watch for a moment they’d see what followed. “Arrrrghhhh!!” Alric shouted before his cough cut him off and he started to choke slightly, face pulling back and body springing back, hands wiping desperately at his face to get the warm food off it that caused the pain. The sudden jolt backwards caused his knee to ram into the bottom of the table. “Ow!” and without thinking his hand jerked forward towards his knee only to meet the table. Compromised as his position now was there was only one place to go – back and sideways. He ended up sprawled on the floor feeling very sorry for himself, traces of soup still in his rough half-beard. He almost sobbed but instead whimpered for a while until the immediate pain faded. It was time to call it a day, that much the divines had made clear to him. He set about slowly, and with a little limp, wedging the chair into place, forcing that last of the soup into his stomach and throwing another few logs onto the fire. Then he practically collapsed into his bed, his cloak used as an extra blanket atop the wool one had had bought the day before, and wearing his most stained clothes already he lay there, looking up at the grimy ceiling and wishing he could pass out once more. He wasn’t passing out. “Figures” he said sulkily as he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable and now finding that he was burning up instead of chilled. He tore a piece off of his shirt with great effort and soaked it with water before slapping it across his entire face. A few moments after almost inhaling some water he changed it to just over his eyes and forehead once the spluttering had finished. “I hate my life” he sighed as he felt the coolness wash over him and make him feel a little better. Eventually he passed out and if one were listening through the cracks they would hear him snore between mutterings of strange an likely fever induced words.

[Alric Lysane]

Your Grades Alric Lysane Skills Cooking - 2 Observation – 3 Wilderness Survival - 1 Lores Cooking: Brewing Tea Cooking: Making Stew Rugberry Tea: Good For Chills Medicine: Symptoms of Flu Sickness: Makes Everything Difficult Stew: Good Sickness Food The Art of Falling Asleep In One’s Stew