Closed A Sickness of this World

[Philomena]

50th of Winter, 512 AV
Mid-morning
Forum, University of Zeltiva
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The luminosity of the day seems almost like a mockery of the misery and paranoia that imbue the air of Zeltiva. The crisp smell of new snow and the promising crystalline humidity of more coming, blend dyspeptically with the smell of death. Even in the forum of the University, the smell pervades - the smell of running sores, of sour stomachs, of fever sweat, and then the odors of the various poultices, perfumes, and oils of those fighting or trying to prevent infection. The sickly sweet smell rises, intermixes, dissolves, with a rapidity that makes it difficult to tell its source, that sends scurrying students and staff into shaky perambulations to avoid perceived sources of infection.

Minnie with the sun of the morning, stands on the grass (or what would be grass in the summer) of the forum, a long pointer in her hand. On her back, she has what is, perhaps, the most hideous imaginable piece of outerwear imaginable, it is a wool rain-coat, once perhaps grey, but now stained and faded into a sickly dark green. The sleeves are battered - a long tear mars the wool of one, letting a sun-yellowed lining peek through - and unused anyway. The whole contrivance is simply thrown over her shoulders like a cloak, the top button done up tightly, mashing the scarf at her neck into an ugly knot.

A student stands near her, shivering miserably in the cold, a young fellow in a gloriously well cut (but marvelously impractical) great-coat. He watches the pointer with the energy of the damned.

Dr. Lefting draws a broad arc in the fresh snow with the pointer, and looks up at the student with tired, nervous eyes, "Alright, Mr. Parks. Now, this arc, say this is the walls of Pre-Valterrian Zeltiva. Of course we've no idea the shape, but honestly the poet probably took some license with it…" she stops abruptly, "Are you cold, Mr. Parks?"

Mr Parks coughs, and mutters, "Just a bit, Dr. Lefting…"

Minnie frowns, and rubs at her face with her left hand - its the first time she's pulled it from under the coat. Its wrapped tightly in a linen bandage. Her own cheeks have the pallor of too much chill on them as well, but she pays little attention to them. She sighs, and nods, "Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow then, yes. But, if you please, revisions to your paper on the Eyriad. Off with you then, child…"

Mr. Parks waits for no further invitation, scurrying off into the nearest fire-warmed building. Minnie calls behind him in a wheedling squeak of a voice "And you're going to have to do a far better job of convincing me, if you're going to argue in favor of the musicality of the third book!"

The boy doesn't hear. She sighs. It would be best for her, perhaps, to go inside, but she doesn't consider the option, crouching down instead, and drawing absently in the snow with the pointer, murmuring lines of poetry to herself:
"The patter-pat of art is proved
A petty player on the stage
Born with a flash of great applause,
But in the end no painter's brush
Or poets pen can turn the heart
So strong to hold away the blow
Of cruel and artless steel."

[Valo]

Zeltiva was too terrible a place it seemed, for barely had he left his home and an unsightly ordeal had befallen his delicate eyes. And he had been a delicate man, even more so than always, for his city had become a monster that devoured it's citizens. A hungry beast that knew no satisfaction to it's ever growing hunger. Slowly, very slowly he began coming to terms with all the death that surrounded him. Though very slowly indeed. A scarlet rose, cut down in her prime had been stomped into the ground with such brutality that nothing but tears lingered. A beautiful girl, perhaps a little younger then Valo with dark locks and carmine lips. He had watched that morning as her family wept for her cold body, her skin riddled with grey and ochre tones, bruises of death beneath her eyes and around her nose, for she had succumbed to the pestilence merely the night before. Her lip stained with bloody cough. He watched from afar as her limp body was taken from her home by two men, wrapped in clothing that not even their faces could be seen. Her mother ran out into the cold after the girl, heart broken in two by the loss. The woman broke down in the middle of the street and wept with passion, cleansing the snow from the cobbles with salty tears of remorse. The father too was sick and so were the girl's sisters. Helplessly they watched from the front door as the eldest child was taken from them. Ripped brutally by the hands of the plague. Valo too wept a tear, though he had no connection to the girl. The pain of her family however saturated the air around the street where he lived, breaching the hearts of everyone around. The soft heart of the red haired artist too. Terrible were the times. He wondered whether Zeltiva mourned all this death. Whether, after devouring yet another innocent soul, the city wept for the pain and grief of it's actions. Perhaps the city took the weak, riddled their immune system with an illness they knew not how to fight and then mourned, or perhaps it killed in cold blood and with a deathly grin on it's face. Terrible were the times. He had spent the early hours of the morning, before the sun even rose into the sky painting, for nothing had brought him greater relief than the feel of colour onto paper. And the artist needed relief. Elaborate mixes of grey he had produced. Grey toned oranges and reds, blues and greens. So many tones of grey existed within the world. Those warm ones and those not so warm. And he painted by candle light in water colour, creating illustration after illustration of figures with little recognisable features to them. People with no faces, dressed merely in elaborate, grey toned clothing. Both female and male, structured by geometry and perfected by anatomy and in turn embellished by the artist's love of colour. Perhaps two pages of little paintings he had created, each figure in a different position, side by side, some overlapping, before the sun had risen and he finally desired to wash him self and venture into Zeltiva. When his mind was troubled, Valo took to knowledge for temporary release. Though not all troubles of the world could be buried by a good lecture, learning was a drug. It provided a temporary sort of comfort at least for the duration of the lecture. And after that was done, he would once again succumb to the deep depression that lingered over the city like a dark could, weeping snow that created a thin film over Zeltiva that morning. For his place of destination was the library at the university and he sought books on anatomy, precisely facial anatomy and then perhaps he'd try his luck on West Street to obtain some books of his own. Yet something had caused him to stray from that pat that morning, though what it was would eternally remain nothing but a mystery. In the Old Quarter of the city was a place known as Scholars' Forum where many a bright mind gathered. A public place that he had not a habit of visiting frequently, thus it was not apparent as to why this sudden change of plan had occurred, especially with the plague upon them and the terrible prospects of him succumbing to it also. Upon arriving, Valo briefly rooted him self into the ground, taking a moment to observe the double row of magnificent white granite columns that formed the graceful, quarter-circle around an open, cobbled square. A narrow corridor stretched between the rows of columns and at the feet of the those, a set of curving steps lead down into the square where at the centre a number of wooden benches have been scattered, each now blanketed by snow. A marvellous sight really and a credit to the city. Had there not been such a magnificent sadness that lingered in the air, the artist would perhaps have been able to marvel at the profound beauty and elegance of the Forum, yet the case was not so. His dulled green eyes simply observed the feature, taking in the very details that he didn't often have the chance to observe, seeing merely what it was and not the artistic potential it beheld. "The patter-pat of art is proved A petty player on the stage Born with a flash of great applause, But in the end no painter's brush Or poets pen can turn the heart So strong to hold away the blow Of cruel and artless steel." murmured a voice at close proximity. A voice that had been nothing but familiar and upon turning toward the voice, had he realised quite how familiar it truly was. A woman was crouched in the snow, drawing absently with a pointer. "Quite beautifully said." spoke Valo quietly, yet not too quiet for her to hear as the lined of poetry drew to a closing. And though his body was still very much oriented towards the columns, his attention was on him and should she choose to look up, he would face her politely, for Valo as a man who, despite having little talent for poetic expression, loved very much to appreciated that which is beautifully written.

[Philomena]

In a moment of greater mental clarity the voice that now murmured to Dr. Lefting may have struck her as familiar. In a particularly lucid day, perhaps even the red hair would have solidified this impression, possibly even suggesting that she had encountered a previous acquaintance. Today was neither a day of mental clarity or lucidity: Minnie Lefting's brain was as muddled and disorganized as the leaden sky. She returned to her feet, hearing herself addressed, with just a hint of the trepidation of the habitually nervous, and looked at the young artist with an empty expression. Her finger fiddled absently with the stick as she spoke, her voice musing and foggy, "You are in agreement, at least, with the sages of the world, there, young man. That is Marley, from his sole poem of the Post-Valterrian period: 'Elegy for a Shattered Vase.'" she looked at the man's face in silence for perhaps two second, then turned her face to the snow again, with a bleak sigh, "Ironic, isn't it? A beautiful poem about the utter meaninglessness of beauty. Do you know Marley? This was his last poem - he says it is about a shattered vase, but the scholars nearer to being his contemporaries seem to assume that it was about his mistress, an Eypharian woman who was killed in the riots and madness after the Valterrian - not even in the Valterrian itself, an irony which, I think, must have been painful for him. He took a draught of hemlock, the biographers say, three days after posting this in the shattered halls of the West Wing. The plague makes me understand why, I think - this plague. Too many years of this, of struggling against an obvious malignity to the world."

Her voice is clearly annunciated, measured, level. It rings with a cold hollowness. She rubs her moves her hands again, to cross in front of her belly for warmth. Her lips shiver slightly in the morning's cold

[Valo]

Her eyes seemed to stare straight though him as if in fact she didn't see him at all. As if he was some mystical residual haunting before her, a ghost she spoke to for no other soul kept her company on this cold morning. Eyes void completely of recognition. A woman buried in her own thought, much like he was and perhaps his gift of reconciliation of that terrible first encounter they shared, that hang over their head, greyer than the clouds over Zeltiva, was to perhaps relive a little of that mental clarity with conversation, even if very brief. A mental clarity which he too was in dire need of. The young artist watched and listened with intent as she spoke, taking in the words for what they were. Not often did he have the pleasure of conversing with someone who knew more than him. And perhaps it was his apparent lack of knowledge on the topic, or her apparent might of it, that made this conversation perhaps a smudge of temporary relief upon the canvas of plague and pestilence and death. "This was his last poem - he says it is about a shattered vase, but the scholars nearer to being his contemporaries seem to assume that it was about his mistress, an Eypharian woman who was killed in the riots and madness after the Valterrian - not even in the Valterrian itself, an irony which, I think, must have been painful for him." she spoke. "The plague makes me understand why, I think - this plague. Too many years of this, of struggling against an obvious malignity to the world." He watched passively as she twirled the stick on her fingers, then in an attempt to keep warm. Such a frail woman surrounded by snow, he thought and perhaps that thought was laced with the weave of pity entwined into it. "Perhaps the scholars are right." he replied, his muted green eyes now drifting to the cobbles beneath his feet and then into the distance. Once again at the structure of columns perhaps, or at the buildings that surrounded it or perhaps even farther than that. For his eyes could have been looking straight for the horizon line and he would not have made that realisation. "It is only natural that a proud man, struck down in his weakness, attempts to disguise it by some other means. As for the pestilence, I believe there's no more covering it, even by the proudest of men." There was a gentle tint of Nari to Valo's soft words, only ever so slight but rendered his whole voice that little bit more melodic. "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, is the sad truth."

[Philomena]

Dr. Lefting snorts, with a non-comittal shrug. Perhaps a touch of irritation.

"That's the justification of the survivor. Its nonsense. What doesn't kill you makes stronger? Nonsense. That's no better than 'Only the strong survive.' IT is the sort of truism that one says but does not think about. Do you want to know the truth of it? Sickness is a curse, pure and simple. It is not a curse-blessing, its not a cloud with a silver lining. Its not a crucible for smelting out human iron. Its a petcher's deal, that's all. You live, it only means you didn't die. The next time it comes? You have lost the strength you wasted on the first. Strength is neither reward or justification. It is simply strength. It comes and it goes."

She sighs, and shifts her coat forward on her shoulder, looking across the snow, murmuring under her breath, "It comes. It goes, it comes again. Again and again."

[Valo]

Her snort struck a cold with the gentleman who had until now attempted so desperately to stay calm in her presence. Perhaps even give her a second chance for the previous encounter. Truth was, he was not terribly fond of the woman for he perceived her of a lesser intelligence than his own and such undignified mannerism was a manifestation of it. A woman who had little in the department of wit besides her doctorate. And though it pierced his pride, he needed to keep a cool head and perhaps distance him self. Some people did not deserve second chances. Though perhaps he did not with do engage in a battle of ideology with her, that was the battle that took place. "It pains me to say it but truth it is, only the strong survive, for reasons beyond our control. It means not that we should just give up on those weaker members of society, but ultimately we cannot blame our selves in their demise. Plague is pure evil, I would agree with you there. There is no blessing in plague. But to turn a blind eye of the fact that the weakest of us will no doubt succumb to it, is consubstantial with living in an idealistic world. A world which does not exist." he spoke and his voice was cold. A voice void of emotion. How was it that this insignificant woman brought out his darker side, Valo did not know. Nor was he fond of this side of him self, but once it manifested it would not be subdued. "You are wrong on the topic of strength. It is a force both physical and that of will which is trained into us from our very first moments in this life. For we are all born weak, but it is only those who bear a fundamental determination who will, against all odds, become greater and stronger than we are. And to deny that is a foolishness." The words that now rolled off his tongue were not the words of the fundamentally altruistic young gentleman which he was, nor the words of a promiscuous boy which he had been. They were the words of a darker substance. Words of a shadow that was breathed into his soul on the 35th of winter. The shadow then brewed and expanded, germinated like a seed, was nurtured and loved by the death and horror of Zeltiva, until sprouts of it now spoke for Valo. The seed planted by Wrenmae, infiltrating Valo's very essence. They had conversed philosophically for a good few chimes, battling statement over statement. Neither backed down. Neither agreed to disagree. What caused her to bite so furiously at him, he did not know, but his own pride and darkness bit back, spite in his tongue, silvery scales of wit snaking though the air. And with each disagreement, the tension between them manifested all the more, until an abrupt climax was in order. Though such a climax was far from abrupt, nor was it terribly climactic. He simply quietened for a moment, closing his eyes in an attempt at gathering his thoughts before speaking to her in the coldest tone to ever fall from his lips. A painfully polite excuse of his persona, a hostility within it apparent. And with those words he left her to her own mind, no longer wishing to be antagonised by her and no longer wishing to be the antagoniser. For truth it was that the more he spoke the words of Wrenmae's doctrine - or rather the more he came to the realising of those - the more he despised his very mouth for speaking it all. Where had the idealistic soft soul of a romantic disappeared to? Had it died at the hand of the pestilence or at those cruel ones of the murderer?

[Cloud]

XP Reward!

From the sky falls your reward!

PC Name: Philomena

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Philosophy	+2
Socialization	+1

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	The Smell of Disease
•	Plagues Vicious Cycle

Notes :

Good writing! Try and bring more detail. Other then that everything looks good.

PC Name: Valo

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Observation	+1
Philosophy	+2
Socialization	+1

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	The Plagues Death
•	Poem: Elegy For A Shattered Vase
•	Picking Your Fights

Notes :

No notes.

This thread ended to soon for me, but I really liked it. I want to see more philosophical debates! Good work you two and keep it up.