Open Fever heat

[Wyatti]

34th, Winter, 512
East Street: Dusk, 19th Bell

It was during the morning hours that Wyatti chose to go out, a simple want to see the outside world once more. So after a brief mention to those she was residing with, the Kelvic left to begin her exploration. She started firstly near by learning the local streets, before expanding her web outwards, dipping into darker places. At first the girl went out with high spirits, happy mind and light spirits, looking and absorbing in all that was going on, but then as the day went on Wyatti found herself dipping. At first Wyatti ignored the feeling, a simple sneeze that had followed her about for the previous few days, but now had grown worse.

The Kelvic rubbed her brow as a headache began to form, the cool midday sun becoming sharp and piercing. She felt herself growing tired, her eyes heavy as she walked. Wyatti took a stumble through the crowd, shaking herself and giving a quick apology to who ever she fell into. It was unlike her to stumble when walking, and so she took herself to the side, pausing to clear her head. She was unsure where this feeling grew from, but for the moment the Kelvic chose not to worry too much, it would no doubt pass, it had to pass. But as the day drew on, the colours of dusk filled the sky, and little Wyatti began to feel worse.

The simple headache had grown into throbbing pain, intense and burning in her mind, her muscles aching with every step she took. Her throat felt dry, parched, deep rasping breaths escaping from her lips. She felt hot, a broken gasp for air, a crave for the cold. But she could not get cool, she could not throw off this heat. She placed her tiny hand against the wall for support, her eyes having turned dull and glass like, turning to look at the world that sped around her. Since when did everything seem so fast? Her head sunk for a moment, her mind swimming with confusion. She had to keep moving, she had to get home, but...

The Kelvic turned her head, trying to take in the sights, to give her some form of knowing where she was, yet it escaped her. There was nothing familiar that she could hold onto in her fevered mind. She was lost. Wyatti trembled and pushed herself on, she had to find somewhere, just to lie down for a bit, rest. Yes, rest sounded nice, just not yet. She swallowed, the sounds becoming little more than a dulled noise, her sight a blur. Her foot slipped, her legs weak, no more strength in them, and perhaps it was for the better just to rest where ever she landed. The cold ground was rather pleasant after all, the damp cool creeping in, before there was simply nothing else to feel.

[Philomena]

The streets of Zeltiva in summer have a certain stench to it, the sort that makes countryfolk shake their heads. The smell of wintertime is subtler, but far more dangerous - it is the scent of fever, and this year, it is particularly rich. Minnie was a life-long ity girl, and had the advantage of the smarts a girl gains growing up poor, and the knowledge a woman learns growing up in the academia. So she knew both sets of tricks - from professors who know something of the body, she knew to carry a cloth close to the mouth, and to douse herself in violet, to dispel the miasmic airs. From the street smart days of her childhood, she remembered that you don't hang about the busy streets so much, that you avoid other people, that you shun the pale, the sweaty, the oughing.

But a child? A child, lying in the cold. She'd been that child - at 11, she'd fallen ill on the streets of Zeltiva, the other girls from the orphanage to frightened of her burning red rash to pick her up and carry her home to the infirmary, to frightened to do anything but run away. She remembered dragging herself in a fever dream into an ash heap, gnawing on the bones, and rotten vegetables for two days, before getting the strength to stumble home.

And she lookwed down at her hands, in their woolen gloves against the advancing winter chill. The gloves were so thick! PERhaps... it is safe, to... perhaps.

She pressed the handkerchief hard against her face, so much that her hand slipped, knocking her delicate spectacles from her eyes to the pavement. She scooted them gently with her foot, as she bent to use her hand - her arm extended as far as it could go, to very gingerly, very tentatively prod at the girls face. The skin felt hot, even through her glove, simultaneously a relief at not finding a corpse, and a terror, at if miasmas coudl travel as far as heat.

"Child? Child! You are on the street!"

[Valo]

The events of that afternoon lingered in the young artist's mind. He had a habit do this, cursed with over thinking events and conversations for days. His worry for the fisherman only grew in strength with every passing moment. He'd been a strong man, yes, but the fortifications of his mind had grown weaker, for the loss he had suffered tore at his heart. The poor fisherman. Life has not been kind to him. And little did Valo know of the ominous could of events that would unfold the very next day.The very claw that would tear open his own heart, hung above him like the illness hang over Zeltiva. Yet he in turn, remained oblivious. That afternoon he had parted ways with Wyatti and perhaps it was not the best of things he could have done. Yet he had remained oblivious to her apparent condition also. It seemed he was still oblivious to many things. A young mind and a young heart. Casually, the red haired artist strolled towards East Street. It seems he visited that place often, but the merriment provided far outmatched that of the dreary old Kelp Bar. Courtesans provided good conversation which, unlike their other services, was usually free. And if he was to drink too much, he would abandon his very elegant manner and cheer with the rest of the crowd whilst watching some brawl. A frivolous place, was East Street and one much too his liking. One that perhaps reminded him that he was not as stiff and dignified a gentleman as he perhaps looked. It hadn't been long before he witnessed a woman crouched in a sort of suspicions manner over cobbles. And so the curious mind that he was, he strolled over to her with a pleasant smile on his face. He was about to greet her, about to pry a little upon her business, but then his eyes landed upon the little body that they were so fixed upon. "Wyatti." the name slipped his lips as his entire expression fell. The sight was somewhat pitiful. The little, ash haired creature lay on the street, face red with fever. He leaves her to wonder off for no more than two bells and this is the result. "What happened to her?" he demanded keeping a calm posture. A state which was much harder to retain than perhaps it seemed. ”We should move her.” said a soft voice behind him. Valo spun on his heal abruptly, only to be faced with another woman who seemed to be perhaps as concerned as he was for the Kelvic's safety. "Yes." he muttered before speaking a little louder. "Yes we should move her. In fact we should take her home, or perhaps to a doctor." It was no time for flamboyantly crafted sentences now. Then again there was no time for carefully piecing together a first impression of him self in the minds of the two women. At times like this his parental instinct and gentle storge for children, prevailed over any inner mechanisms that made him who he is. Wyatti was the priority.

[Ayatah]

Listening to gossip was one of the better ways Ayatah had improved her Common tongue. She enjoyed the secrets girls shared on street corners (‘I kissed him’, ‘But he has a wife’, ‘So?’), and also the contests men would have (‘Kissed a young woman last night, whatta beauty!’ ‘What did your missus say?’ ‘What doesn’t know won’t hurt her!’). And most of all, it made Ayatah feel in on the secrets. For example, she knew that a particular fishmonger was in love with a fair Kelvic maiden - however she only had eyes for the fishmonger’s older brother. It was dreadfully tragic, but gave Ayatah bells of entertainment.

She was in the East Street, minding everyone else’s business. But there was only one topic that people were discussing that evening; the mystery sailor with whom Maria Satterthwaite had been spotted arm-in-arm. There were plenty of theories and controversies around this, from the bizarre to the simply stupid. Ayatah kept her own opinion (which was of little interest; she still had huge amounts to learn about the inner politics of Zeltiva) to herself.

But something caught her attention; a young woman staggering through the streets. It’s a little early to be that drunk, was her first thought. But the girl wasn’t drunk. Ayatah knew that there was a fever spreading throughout the city, and the young girl certainly looked pasty and exhausted.

As she watched, Ayatah saw an older woman - who was strangely familiar to her - approach the child gingerly and prod her face. The woman had a handkerchief to her lips, obviously in hopes to protect herself from the illness. a Professor - Ayatah realised as she watched the odler woman investigate the fallen youngster. Ayatah herself was a student at the university - in Anthropology. She made note of the professor’s appearance, and stood up.

The fever did not scare Ayatah. In Taloba, she lived amongst deadly plants that did not kill her. She expected to the same with this fever. Her Godess-Queen had granted her people the ability to live in treacherous conditions. An illness in a city would not faze the young Myrian woman. She walked up the woman and child and crouched down. ”We should move her.” She said softly, so as not to startle either the child or the Professor with her thick Myrian accent.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Wyatti]

It was the prod upon Wyatti's face that brought her back to the reality that surrounded her, the words a swirl in her mind, making very little sense. The girl barely had time to understand before one of her eyes squinted open. Those that stood above her appeared not as people, but as shadows, their features and colours drained away, mere husks of their former selves. Monsters perhaps in the eyes of a child. She had to move, she had to get away. A fevered mind controlled Wyatti, she could not see the true world before her, all the light had been stripped from it and only nightmares remained. She shook violently as she pushed herself up, a chill grasping hold of her. She felt cold, very cold, a thin layer of sweat had broken out across her skin. But even the simplest of movements was now difficult, her body refused to cooperate and her mind screamed out as if it was in pain.

Wyatti heard them talk again, but whatever was said was lost behind silence. She could barely breath, her fever filled eyes barely able to focus. The Kelvic's hands weakly reached out, to what was a mystery even to her, be it to grab hold of something or to fight something away? Her head shook, her throat having now grown tight, a rasping noise escaping from her lips. Wyatti may of felt cold, but there was no doubt that her temperature was high and continuing to weaken her by the moment. She had to move, somehow. She gasped as she pushed herself forward, a weak tumble. She could not summon any strength, and quickly her mind returned to that of the darkness.

Help... someone help... please...

It was the state of in-between that held Wyatti. The words of the outside had been lost once and for all, and no doubt would be lost for as long as she slept.

[Philomena]

The work of the unfamiliar leaves one vulnerable, open to experience. Fragile, one might say, for it is easy, even inadvertently, to shatter the tentative heart. Two voices approached Dr. Lefting on the street, two voices, both with the liltings of foreigners. The first... she was no anthropologist, she could not place it. Far away. No Sylirian accent, she did not think. But the second... the second, Myrian. Myrian? Yes, she recognized it, simply from the street plays and farces where the actors hammed up imitations of it, there great, leaping, hulking forms, the puppets on great wooden rods on Kenabelle Wright day - //Me eat your flesh! Me gnaw your bones, foreigner!//

The academic within her took over, with a start - A Myrian! She had never spoken to one, they could answer so many questions! The Myrians were the great villains of her Kenabelle Wright, the ones who murdered the famous Doctor Edgetower... The passionless excitement of questions a Myrian might be able to answer flew through her, distended from the situation - was she ever truly immersed in it anyway? How deep did she ever really fall into the living of life?

But then, the girl started, and she was, for that moment immersed, it was in retrospect difficult even for her to understand why - though a ticking watch within her brain kept considering the question, the entire time - why am I so concerned about this little creature? I could walk a-purpose and find fifty such souls on a day like today, with the fever raging, dead of winter. Perhaps it was the Myrian in part, the juxtaposition of the great villain-murderess of Kenabelle Wright beside, now, the silent villain of sickness, that laid low far more even then the Myrians did of Wright's crew - a younger, a more flexible mind, would perhaps have now realized how deeply she was immersed not in the world about her, but a distant, half-imaginary world, born of the words of a woman long-dead. She always, always thought of the Circumnavigation, her life's work was bound up in it. And now, these days, with the words of Charm Wright at the speech she had given gnawing at her, even more.

And it did not matter really, because the quickening, the fragile clawing at life of the little frozen thing - it was a thing in her heart, even as it was a reflection of herself, for what is more objectifying than to make a doll of another human being, to play out bits of one's self? Now, this thing was living and pulsing, and she felt its desperate need to want to keep at the business, and she felt some tiny spark of what her heroines must have always felt - that desperate urge to save, to preserve, not words, not books - these she always felt the urge toward.But life. Sheer, miserable, idiotic human existence.

And this particular life, which had the slathering hands of foreigners, cannibals over it, telling her they had to take it away. These were no city-knacker-men, who at least would take the girl to some pittance of a pauper's infirmary where she would die feeling at least the edges of firelight. These... were scavengers. Who knew what a Myrian and her foreign companion might do with a burning, raving child?

"She's... she's mine, I will take her... my... cousin! You back, both of you! She's my... sister's child, you've no right to her! I will call at the watch! I will call at the watch! This one is not meat! She's mine"

She jerked forwardas she spoke (and lied abominably - the misguided call of heroism does not grant one extra skill, and she was a horrible liar at any time, being so devoted normally to truth), pulling the shivering child up - her handkerchief forgotten, her knee landing with a sickening crunch on her spectacles. She peered half blind up at the two of them a smear of leprous white and fire on the hand, leering over the shoulder of the savage, sickly brown and the black-coal eyes of the savage, the savage who she must keep from this little child, all of a sudden.

"Back! Back! I am... I have a weapon, I do!"

Yes, yes, Minnie Lefting. Not the best of liars.

[Valo]

The brown haired woman's wound her self protectively around his precious little friend. Her mouth a splattering mess of, lies right and left, a loose cannon who looked more mature than to play these childish games. Yet her words proved otherwise. A sharp crunch of her spectacles was the pitiful accompaniment to her threats. A half blind, petite woman, perhaps just little less than twice his age. The Inarta brought a pale hand across his face, settling two slender fingers into the tear ducts of his eyes and held them there. eyes closed with embarrassment at this woman's actions. For a moment which perhaps lasted a little longer that it was in reality, he'd been frozen like this in an expression of the utmost disgust. "Are you familiar with the card game called Cheat?" he asked after that moment has passed. A voice as smother as honey, yet with notes of irritation within it's liquid substance, spiced by a more prominent Nari accent. This was a habit beyond his control. Whenever this condition of frustration or irritation overtook him, his accent thickened. Perhaps it was a subconscious method of intimidation on his behalf. Towering over the woman imposingly, being a man of admirable height already, Valo looked her straight in the eyes, face stern and severe. A face that would strike fear into even the bravest of men, though perhaps that was an effect of those chiselled featured of his. Taking a step towards the woman he spoke. "The aim of the game is to lie though your teeth, to steer your way to victory. You lay down a card upside down and then lie about it's identity." his voice was very calm but cold and somehow cut the air like ice. "Most of the time your opponent has to rely on his gut feelings to decide whether you are indeed lying or telling the truth." he took yet another step towards her. "You see sometimes your opponent may posses the card you're claiming to have laid upside down and he know very well you're lying. You see that girl is no relative to you and I am the one in possession of that card." his eyes were piercing and only grew in severity as he spoke. His mind was made. No longer had he trusted the woman and no longer did he wish her presence. Being somewhat a father figure to the little girl, he felt responsible for who lingered in her surroundings. This petite, lying woman seemed as poisonous as the illness it self. For it went against Valo's very nature, to be this harsh with people and judge their character so quickly, before taking the time to know them. But she gave him little choice to do otherwise. Perhaps it was this terrible turn of events that so poisoned their very first meeting, but having so little shame and lying so carelessly was unforgivable. "Unhand the girl." he ordered, without taking his eyes off the woman. Perhaps the lady that stood beside them must have thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle. If he was in her place, he would; for it must have been a truly ridiculous spectacle, to say the least. Two adults squabbling over a child as if they were children them selves. It was a funny world, this Mizahar. Or perhaps it was just filled with funny people.

[Ayatah]

The older woman’s straight-to-the-point racism towards Ayatah seemed to have no effect on the Myrian-Eypharian mixed blood. Instead, her expression remained blank, her eyebrows raising just a fraction whilst she watched the woman. Her words seemed to simply wash over Ayatah, but she was difficult to forgive, and she never forgot.

The other person, a male with flaming red hair, stepped forward. Initially, Ayatah felt the need to stop this gentleman from speaking - she did not need rescuing, let alone from a male who was not of her own species. Confusion came, however, when the fellow seemed more interested in a metaphorical game of cards. Ayatah stared at him, her expression a mixture of bewilderment and amusement. People here are strange, she thought, glancing down to the young girl still on the floor.

The people of her race were brutal, yes, but they would never allow a young girl to remain in such a state for so long. She would have been taken into the closest hut by now, her family would be sought after and her symptoms would be being investigated. The man and woman around her, however, seemed more interested in the power struggle between them.

”You might have a weapon, madam, but do you really fancy your chances against a savage like me?” She said, her voice full of icy coldness. The opinion of the woman did not bother her - why would it? - but at the same time, Ayatah’s pride was bruised for being insulted so directly. Neither did she believe that the woman had a weapon, unless she planned to use her intellect to stab at Ayatah’s ethnicity again.

And that was all Ayatah had to say to the woman.

Her attention turned to the red-haired man. She spoke to him with the same bluntness, the same severity. Although he had not insulted her like the other woman had, his statement about the card game still confused her, and she was wary. ”I don’t care for your card games, but I care to see a young girl die in the street.” She knelt beside the child, her hand touching the clammy forehead. She was a proud woman, Ayatah, but even she had to admit that she had no clue where to take the ill child. She’d need the help of the other two, regrettably.

|| Ayatah's speech || Ayatah's thoughts || Others' speech ||

[Wyatti]

Voices, that was what Wyatti could hear. Voices talking, voices arguing, a firm arm wrapping around her. She was still shivering as she was pulled up, her body for a moment suspended by a force that she could not quiet understand, the threatening words exchanged, of anger, worry and fear. But then something grasped at Wyatti's senses, a familiar voice, a familiar scent. It snaked into her fevered mind, twisting it's way round, trying to alert her of who it was. But when ever the face appeared before her, it was snatched away. Who ever it was sounded angry, or more perhaps threatened. She could not tell, all she knew was that the voice was important at the moment.

But then there was another, one with a different accent, foreign, before a cool hand was placed upon her forehead. It was soothing, and for a moment it chased away the heat that consumed her. Yet too quickly it returned, ensnaring her and dragging her down. Was there voices? Was there not voices? Was it just the fever effecting her? She thought for a moment she heard mother, her smooth voice, her gentle words, but even that was quickly snatched away. She felt the heat of the fever grab her, it suffocated, making her gasp and choke, the air escaping her lips. She felt lost, frightened, unable to find the strength to make herself awaken. She needed mother, she wanted mother, she would know what to do. Her lips let out a small murmur, uttering a name upon her lips, if it indeed could be called a name.

"Mother."

[Philomena]

If there is anything that an unpleasant childhood trains one for, it is an utter hatred of bullies. Of intimidation. Of threats. At a moment when Minnie Lefting, the dotty professor is kneeling on a street in the worst part of the city, half-blinded, with someone threatening her, impeded by the limp body of a child... well, one is left to reflect on the nature of adrenaline - it can inspire fear or fierce, fight or flight after all. And when flight becomes impossible - or unacceptable - fight is triggered, even in the most retirning of souls, to some small degree. And this red haired gentleman - if he can be so called! - who is stooping to veiled threats toward an old woman and a sick orphan alone in the dead of winter, he is, unavoidably, in the adrenaline-fueled mind of Minnie Lefting, a bully. And her old instinct, the instinct to resist, is awoken.

She braces herself to try to pull the deadweight of a girl just as tall as she is from the surface of the street, the chips of gravel and glass giving her none the best footing to begin from. But, she pulls the girl in tighter to her.

She speaks, and her erudition, the clumsy echo of years of reading poetry and prose by greater minds than hers, takes hold. She speaks, low, very, very quiet, very clear. The whining, nasality of her voice does not leave, but it takes on a tremulous sort of... attempt at power, "Go ahead, you coward. Kill an old woman and a harmless child. I hope our souls gnaw at your conscience. But in the meantime, until you do so, I will try to bring her somewhere safe from monsters like you."

And then, of course, the whipsaw of emotions drags the other way - the monstress, the savage, the cruel blade of the other woman turns, pounces - or in her keyed momentality, it seems so to Minnie - and... does not harm the child. Touches her face... gently, perhaps. And speaks of helping her. The arithmetic of the moment cogitates in her mind... one bully. One monster who acts meek. And one deadweight there is no way her slight form will be able to carry away in time. She hesitates - it is so short, it is less a moment in time, then a passing slackness of the muscles in her face. Then the child murmurs mother, and she melts. Her blinded eyes glisten wet, and she sucks back tears only with her best effort, pulling a glove off with her teeth, and laying a humid, sweat-chilled hand on the girl's face. She turns then, to the savage, and speaks with a quaver, there is no denying the quaver, but with fervor behind the quaver as much as fear.

"If you mean her harm, a pox on you. If you are trying to help, let me save my apologies, we must get her off the street, now. I am not... strong enough, I think, but I know a friend nearby, with a warm house."