kevintheradioguy
Salt
Three years ago, a cure for typhoid was found. Four years ago, for the Blue Death. A year ago, for a strain of smallpox. Science is all-powerful.
- Carter Calloway
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Fantasy Totum revolutum
- Thread starter kevintheradioguy
- Start date
Three years ago, a cure for typhoid was found. Four years ago, for the Blue Death. A year ago, for a strain of smallpox. Science is all-powerful.
- Carter Calloway
kevintheradioguy
Salt
The blood thumped in his veins, beating hard, and fast, its thick flow crushing his temples with each rhythmic beat. It felt like oil - thick, slippery, and hot - and he felt like a failing machine. Something inside, just below the throat, was grabbing him with its cold, hard claws, squeezing in a bundle of bleeding flesh and burning nerves. It almost felt like a heart attack if not for a small voice in his head: no, it said in all too familiar voice of some old professor, a heart attack feels different. His throat was dry, so much so, that each breath cut through him, making him want to hold his breath to avoid pain, but the nagging voice once more reminded that was out of the question. His eyes were looking down, at his own knees. Blood on them. Old, blackened, forming a disgusting itchy crust. He was sitting on a bench in a small room, looking into the window with nothing seen on the other side but blurred lights, and thick layer of soot. "Bodies...", he heard. "Bodies..."
There was nothing on the left of him, nothing to the right. The voice, and low moaning came from somewhere, but he couldn't see - where from. He was absolutely alone in the small room - more like a cell, with nothing but a window, a door, a stool, and an old lamp over his head. "Bodies...", the house groaned, and a low, rumbling howl - nothing human in it - was heard from some other room deeper in the building. He unclenched his cramped fists - all covered in scabs and dirt. He didn't know how or why he stood up - his body was numb from pain, and he felt like a puppet being pulled by the strings in the hands of an amateur puppeteer, tugging too hard, throwing the wooden body around too rapidly. The old stool falling on the floor, as he turned around, almost falling on top of the door in exhaustion.
It was all slowly coming back to him. Did he maybe doze off? This house, the confiscated house. There were people in here, people that needed help. His help. He needed to get back to work, now. "Bodies...", he heard again, realising this time it was his own voice that was saying it. That's right. He had to go, or there will be more bodies. Like a giant predatory bird, death was hanging over this town, and he was its only hope. His last hope. As on cue, the door finally gave up under his weight, and he almost fell into the next room, blinded by the sudden bright light of myriads of candles he himself placed around this improvised office of his, to light up every possible kit, note, and book he might need. By some miracle, he didn't fall down, managing to keep his balance - legs spread wide, uncomfortable high boots a few sizes larger making it harder to stand. And he was damn happy not to fall - or he would be, if he had any energy to feel emotion at all - as right under his nose he saw two bare, dirty feet. He automatically looked up to meet a terrifying, grimy, hairless face, covered in a thick layer of clay and blood. It looked like one of these local barbarians he heard so much about - covered in nothing but intricately intertwined rags, held together by dirt. Matted hair short, but still forming a chaotic mix of thick icicle-like locks. Nothing he hadn't seen on the front, but the eyes... oh, God, those eyes. There was so much cold, so much apathy in them, richly peppered with absolute insanity that his heart skipped a beat, and his grogginess was washed away by a cold wave of terror. If his throat wasn't so dry, he'd scream, before grabbing at anything heavy enough to crush the creature's skull. "Yǿu aгe a bгave man, pгǿfessǿг Тanneг.", it spoke. She spoke. A high, hoarse female voice, thickly seasoned with a weird, nasal accent. But peaceful enough. Her hands lay on her stomach, almost as if she was carrying a child, and she swayed gently as she spoke, like if half-dancing. Her whole face was odd, asymmetric. One eye larger than the other, jaw crooked to the side, her nose looked like it was broken more than once. Everything barely noticeable under the dirt and grime to an untrained eye. Years of in-breeding, perhaps? "Bгave indeed тǿ finally cǿme тǿ тeгms wiтh eveгyтhing, and face iт. I am pгǿud." She nodded slowly, wheezing, head twitching, as if these movements were giving her much pain. "Did yǿu cǿme тǿ say gǿǿd-bye?"
There was nothing on the left of him, nothing to the right. The voice, and low moaning came from somewhere, but he couldn't see - where from. He was absolutely alone in the small room - more like a cell, with nothing but a window, a door, a stool, and an old lamp over his head. "Bodies...", the house groaned, and a low, rumbling howl - nothing human in it - was heard from some other room deeper in the building. He unclenched his cramped fists - all covered in scabs and dirt. He didn't know how or why he stood up - his body was numb from pain, and he felt like a puppet being pulled by the strings in the hands of an amateur puppeteer, tugging too hard, throwing the wooden body around too rapidly. The old stool falling on the floor, as he turned around, almost falling on top of the door in exhaustion.
It was all slowly coming back to him. Did he maybe doze off? This house, the confiscated house. There were people in here, people that needed help. His help. He needed to get back to work, now. "Bodies...", he heard again, realising this time it was his own voice that was saying it. That's right. He had to go, or there will be more bodies. Like a giant predatory bird, death was hanging over this town, and he was its only hope. His last hope. As on cue, the door finally gave up under his weight, and he almost fell into the next room, blinded by the sudden bright light of myriads of candles he himself placed around this improvised office of his, to light up every possible kit, note, and book he might need. By some miracle, he didn't fall down, managing to keep his balance - legs spread wide, uncomfortable high boots a few sizes larger making it harder to stand. And he was damn happy not to fall - or he would be, if he had any energy to feel emotion at all - as right under his nose he saw two bare, dirty feet. He automatically looked up to meet a terrifying, grimy, hairless face, covered in a thick layer of clay and blood. It looked like one of these local barbarians he heard so much about - covered in nothing but intricately intertwined rags, held together by dirt. Matted hair short, but still forming a chaotic mix of thick icicle-like locks. Nothing he hadn't seen on the front, but the eyes... oh, God, those eyes. There was so much cold, so much apathy in them, richly peppered with absolute insanity that his heart skipped a beat, and his grogginess was washed away by a cold wave of terror. If his throat wasn't so dry, he'd scream, before grabbing at anything heavy enough to crush the creature's skull. "Yǿu aгe a bгave man, pгǿfessǿг Тanneг.", it spoke. She spoke. A high, hoarse female voice, thickly seasoned with a weird, nasal accent. But peaceful enough. Her hands lay on her stomach, almost as if she was carrying a child, and she swayed gently as she spoke, like if half-dancing. Her whole face was odd, asymmetric. One eye larger than the other, jaw crooked to the side, her nose looked like it was broken more than once. Everything barely noticeable under the dirt and grime to an untrained eye. Years of in-breeding, perhaps? "Bгave indeed тǿ finally cǿme тǿ тeгms wiтh eveгyтhing, and face iт. I am pгǿud." She nodded slowly, wheezing, head twitching, as if these movements were giving her much pain. "Did yǿu cǿme тǿ say gǿǿd-bye?"
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Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
Goodbye. Goodbye to...what? Noah's mind supplied him with little more than muddled bafflement made lethargic by the torpor of confusion and fear. The creature before him knew his name--knew him--but in his delirium he could not recall how or why, as if he dragged his mind through tar to reach a proper conclusion. Perhaps the only thing he'd the presence of mind to recognize was this place, its familiarity aching and this very room one that he knew well, primitive lights placed by his own hands. That feral sound still echoed in his ears without proper explanation and he stood, transfixed, wide eyes upon the one addressing him. Her words shed light on nothing, the pride and terms of which he had no current understanding, a goodbye that had no present meaning.
Bodies. The bizarre woman's accented tones aside, there were others, others to whom he owed his duty, and alien as the woman's frozen eyes were, nothing in her voice conveyed aggression. In time, his mind would undoubtedly wonder at her speech and her pride, about what reason he had to say farewell, where he was going or what he was leaving behind--but now there were others.
"Why--" he began, but cut himself off before finishing, scrambling unsteadily for the leather bag on the ground. His fingers grasped at its handle and his weight pitched upon its lifting. There was no time to remain and wait and exchange words with her, no time to ascertain what she meant or the sound was, so instead he acted on urgency--sense was to come after the crisis was averted, if even it could be. Supplies in hand, he stopped, the sudden realization that he'd no idea of where to go or what he was to do striking him, but there wasn't time. "Where are they?"
Bodies. The bizarre woman's accented tones aside, there were others, others to whom he owed his duty, and alien as the woman's frozen eyes were, nothing in her voice conveyed aggression. In time, his mind would undoubtedly wonder at her speech and her pride, about what reason he had to say farewell, where he was going or what he was leaving behind--but now there were others.
"Why--" he began, but cut himself off before finishing, scrambling unsteadily for the leather bag on the ground. His fingers grasped at its handle and his weight pitched upon its lifting. There was no time to remain and wait and exchange words with her, no time to ascertain what she meant or the sound was, so instead he acted on urgency--sense was to come after the crisis was averted, if even it could be. Supplies in hand, he stopped, the sudden realization that he'd no idea of where to go or what he was to do striking him, but there wasn't time. "Where are they?"
- music
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kevintheradioguy
Salt
Despite Noah's confusion about where he was and what he had to do, the woman seemed to know exactly what he mean and what he was even thinking. She blinked, slowly. So slow, in fact, it looked for a moment like she dozed off, before her lashless eyes opened again, and she cocked her head a little. There were doors around the room. To on the right of him, one behind, one on the other side. It would be easy for her to point to one of them, but hr hands, as if moulded together, didn't move. She didn't smile or even change her expression, but Noah felt condescending irony coming from the barbarian, as if she was trying to get through to a child that just didn't listen. "Nǿble as always. Misguided, hǿweveг. Yǿu wǿn'т be able тǿ save тhem.", as she spoke, a loud snort or a growl was heard from behind one of the doors - the one that led to a small bedroom Noah occupied - of something big and powerful. An image of a giant bull immediately popped into Noah's head, but a bull in a house? On the third floor no less? The woman however, didn't seem to notice or care that her last phrase got drowned in a loud KHR-R-R. "Lǿǿk aгound yǿu - yǿu made a misтake, and dǿǿmed тhem all. Fǿг тhaт, pгǿfessǿг Тanneг, yǿu aгe gǿing тǿ die тǿday." Though this sounded like a treat, her voice was calm. Matter-of-factly. Like of a servant, announcing what was for dinner. "Deaтh." She announced a little louder, before taking a breath. "Deaтh is waiтing fǿг yǿu dǿwnsтaiгs, aт тhe exiт. My ǿnly hǿpe тhaт yǿu will - тhis тime - give heг a pгǿpeг answeг."
The house sounded empty as her words stopped, asides for clacking behind the 'bull door', like the creature was digging the wooden floors with its hoof. The structure moaned, but not like a human would. It was an eerie, monstrous roar of a dying creature, eaten away by age, rot, and disease, as if it was going to collapse any second now. Yet, it stayed unmoving, sturdy. Stones protecting them from death outside, creating a sanctuary, a hospital in here. There were people here yesterday, he remembered. Sick and wounded. And many more to come. He remembered asking to bring the sick here, and then... he must have blanked out from exhaustion, waking up only now, with blurred memories, to the sound of his own voice and the strong smell of wet earth and blood coming from the woman. If anything, there should be more sounds, moans, and screams around, not this... silence. They couldn't all die while he was asleep, could they?
The house sounded empty as her words stopped, asides for clacking behind the 'bull door', like the creature was digging the wooden floors with its hoof. The structure moaned, but not like a human would. It was an eerie, monstrous roar of a dying creature, eaten away by age, rot, and disease, as if it was going to collapse any second now. Yet, it stayed unmoving, sturdy. Stones protecting them from death outside, creating a sanctuary, a hospital in here. There were people here yesterday, he remembered. Sick and wounded. And many more to come. He remembered asking to bring the sick here, and then... he must have blanked out from exhaustion, waking up only now, with blurred memories, to the sound of his own voice and the strong smell of wet earth and blood coming from the woman. If anything, there should be more sounds, moans, and screams around, not this... silence. They couldn't all die while he was asleep, could they?
Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
In spite of his confusion, he felt himself take notice of her strange intuition, the peculiar timbre of the building's moans, the bull's image and daunting message of mortality, but none of these observations made their way to conscious analysis. Instead, they were filed away in his memory to revisit upon a quiet moment of contemplation wherein he could record his thoughts on paper. For Carter. Carter; he was why Noah was here now. What would he have thought of this surreal instability, this waking dream, this grotesque visage condescending towards him? She said he couldn't save them but he had to. Had to try. Lives had slipped through his fingers before, taken by ruthless fates before his eyes, but he couldn't stand idle. Silent as it was, they surely couldn't all be dead--even when the heart stopped and the lungs went still, there was hope for revival.
But she hadn't told him where to go. Just said that he doomed them all. What had he done? If it was his doing then why would she not let him correct his mistakes, why did she speak to him as if an ignorant and naïve youth instead of helping him rectify whatever wrongdoing had been wrought by his hands? There was no choice, no option, no grey area: he had to find them, as if a silent God forced him regardless of all wills. Danger was of no consequence. It could be of no consequence--how could he value his own life above those he'd condemned?
For a fleeting instant, there was the urge to grab her, to demand that she deliver the information he sought before more died, but an instinct told him that it would be a futile endeavour. Instead, he pushed past her, the ache building dully as he pressed on to the door across the room from him and shoved it open. If she wouldn't tell him then he would find them himself. Anyone could be saved and Noah believed that--it was just a matter of whether or not he could be the one to save them.
But she hadn't told him where to go. Just said that he doomed them all. What had he done? If it was his doing then why would she not let him correct his mistakes, why did she speak to him as if an ignorant and naïve youth instead of helping him rectify whatever wrongdoing had been wrought by his hands? There was no choice, no option, no grey area: he had to find them, as if a silent God forced him regardless of all wills. Danger was of no consequence. It could be of no consequence--how could he value his own life above those he'd condemned?
For a fleeting instant, there was the urge to grab her, to demand that she deliver the information he sought before more died, but an instinct told him that it would be a futile endeavour. Instead, he pushed past her, the ache building dully as he pressed on to the door across the room from him and shoved it open. If she wouldn't tell him then he would find them himself. Anyone could be saved and Noah believed that--it was just a matter of whether or not he could be the one to save them.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
A long sigh was heard behind his back. "Stubbǿгn, stubbǿгn.", the woman murmured, watching him dash to the door. One of those, he remembered, was leading to something like an office, and another - to the stairs down. He couldn't really tell - Noah saw a lot of these buildings for the last few days, jumping in and out, trying to find survivors, and they were eerily different and eerily similar at the same time. Apparently, every floor was a small apartment for one or two families, and every floor was its own small labyrinth - a maze of doors and corridors, often of the oddest configuration, where to get to one room he had to go through the bathroom, and a children's bedroom was in the opposite wing from the mother's room, leaving one to curse the sick mind of whoever the architect was. This house wasn't an exception from the rules, and even without leaving his improvised office, he already felt lost in here.
The door swung open, and he, indeed, found himself in a long office room perpendicular to the one behind. It should've been connected to a series of other rooms to form a U-shaped house. He remembered they wanted to make this room a place for the doctors of the town to discuss their findings, but as he thought about it more, he realised that he was the last one left. The rest were... gone. Not dead, not wounded, not sick, they didn't flee, they just... disappeared one day. And he was left alone. Now maybe more alone then ever - there, on the floor, he saw a collapsed small female figure, and his brain kicked in immediately - Norah. She volunteered to help as a nurse alongside with her brother, and Noah was in need for help too dire to consider her credentials. Maybe if the other medical professionals would've been around he's deny her offer to help, but as the things were, a pair of willing hands were godsend. Or so he thought. Norah's figure was nothing alike to what she looked like when he met her. A pretty young woman that just hit her best years, she was nothing but a pale skeleton now, lying on the floor, with no traces of blush or even breathing. She, along with the two men, was working day and night, denying herself sleep, or food, or water - just like Noah, just like Murad - her brother. By the distinct smell of death in the room, it was obvious that her body finally gave up.
"Dǿ yǿu see nǿw?", the barbarian woman asked. She didn't move an inch from her place, and spoke in the same quiet, hoarse voice. "Yǿu came heгe tǿ exteгminate death, but yǿu dгag it behind yǿu like a tetheгed bull. That is nǿt the гight way. Yǿu aгe fighting the wгǿng enemy. What dǿ I have tǿ dǿ tǿ get thгǿugh tǿ yǿu..."
The door swung open, and he, indeed, found himself in a long office room perpendicular to the one behind. It should've been connected to a series of other rooms to form a U-shaped house. He remembered they wanted to make this room a place for the doctors of the town to discuss their findings, but as he thought about it more, he realised that he was the last one left. The rest were... gone. Not dead, not wounded, not sick, they didn't flee, they just... disappeared one day. And he was left alone. Now maybe more alone then ever - there, on the floor, he saw a collapsed small female figure, and his brain kicked in immediately - Norah. She volunteered to help as a nurse alongside with her brother, and Noah was in need for help too dire to consider her credentials. Maybe if the other medical professionals would've been around he's deny her offer to help, but as the things were, a pair of willing hands were godsend. Or so he thought. Norah's figure was nothing alike to what she looked like when he met her. A pretty young woman that just hit her best years, she was nothing but a pale skeleton now, lying on the floor, with no traces of blush or even breathing. She, along with the two men, was working day and night, denying herself sleep, or food, or water - just like Noah, just like Murad - her brother. By the distinct smell of death in the room, it was obvious that her body finally gave up.
"Dǿ yǿu see nǿw?", the barbarian woman asked. She didn't move an inch from her place, and spoke in the same quiet, hoarse voice. "Yǿu came heгe tǿ exteгminate death, but yǿu dгag it behind yǿu like a tetheгed bull. That is nǿt the гight way. Yǿu aгe fighting the wгǿng enemy. What dǿ I have tǿ dǿ tǿ get thгǿugh tǿ yǿu..."
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Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
Noah stalled, staring at the emaciated body upon the floor turned rigid in the claws of death. Once, his impulse would've been to race to her side in vehement denial of reality, to fall next to her and press his hand to her neck and a stethoscope to her lungs as if his seeking a sign of life would create one. Now he stopped in the doorway and beheld the terrible sight. He slumped against the doorframe, reality starting to creep in at the edges of his consciousness the more that his delirium faded. Would she have been a corpse if he'd never come? What of Murad, what of the patients? Had they disappeared like the other doctors had, or was this simply cruel fatality?
He steadied himself on the door when he stepped back into the room from whence he came, searching it with his eyes as if it would hold answers. This place was a fucking labyrinth, and when his eyes struck the threshold that supposedly held a bull behind it, the imagery's cynical irony didn't escape him. For a moment, it appeared that he might go reeling through the next unexplored door, but instead he came to a halt. His inhalations came in raspy, deep breaths and he stalled. Stalled, thinking, thinking. Norah was dead. The nameless woman before him seemed to believe his efforts useless, even damaging. He didn't know how to get out, and the extent of his knowledge towards any exit was that it was potentially lethal. There was a bedroom and several doorways that could lead next to anywhere. He had no idea where the patients were and there was no one to ask except the barbarian but she refused.
No, all he saw was death and nonsense! How he even got the idea of cattle in his head for a bedroom didn't make sense, much less the dead nurse, the silent house, the maze-like architecture and the cryptic woman before him. Racing about in a crazed fervor would do nothing. Abruptly, Noah pivoted, reaching out to shove open the door immediately to his left, the one that didn't contain imaginary livestock or--he hoped--a dead body, speaking as he went about his motions.
"What happened here? What mistake did I make?" he asked. The desperation present upon his immediate awakening had lessened, now, replaced by a forced calm that had become second nature. His tone was flat, neither warm nor rude, just to the point and matter-of-fact. He needed information, clear information, that he could work with and use to fill in the blanks of the situation.
He steadied himself on the door when he stepped back into the room from whence he came, searching it with his eyes as if it would hold answers. This place was a fucking labyrinth, and when his eyes struck the threshold that supposedly held a bull behind it, the imagery's cynical irony didn't escape him. For a moment, it appeared that he might go reeling through the next unexplored door, but instead he came to a halt. His inhalations came in raspy, deep breaths and he stalled. Stalled, thinking, thinking. Norah was dead. The nameless woman before him seemed to believe his efforts useless, even damaging. He didn't know how to get out, and the extent of his knowledge towards any exit was that it was potentially lethal. There was a bedroom and several doorways that could lead next to anywhere. He had no idea where the patients were and there was no one to ask except the barbarian but she refused.
No, all he saw was death and nonsense! How he even got the idea of cattle in his head for a bedroom didn't make sense, much less the dead nurse, the silent house, the maze-like architecture and the cryptic woman before him. Racing about in a crazed fervor would do nothing. Abruptly, Noah pivoted, reaching out to shove open the door immediately to his left, the one that didn't contain imaginary livestock or--he hoped--a dead body, speaking as he went about his motions.
"What happened here? What mistake did I make?" he asked. The desperation present upon his immediate awakening had lessened, now, replaced by a forced calm that had become second nature. His tone was flat, neither warm nor rude, just to the point and matter-of-fact. He needed information, clear information, that he could work with and use to fill in the blanks of the situation.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
The door on the left didn't budge, however hard Noah had tried, as if some invisible force was holding it from the other side. On the other hand, the woman seemed to appreciate his calmness - however forced it was. Something in her entire being softened, as she replied: "Yǿu aгe a gгeat dǿctǿг, pгǿfessǿг Tanneг. Theгe is nǿ denying that. Yǿu aгe skilled in fighting ǿff death. It has devǿuгed the city, but yǿu alǿne managed tǿ keep the bгidge distгict fгee fгǿm it. Yǿu have cгeated a citadel. Impenetгable. But lǿǿk ǿutside...", the barbarian said in a cryptic voice, though she knew full well there was no way to do so - the windows were covered in grime and soot as much as she was covered in clay and blood. Still, her finger pointed slowly to the black windows. "Yǿu shall see that peǿple aгe still dying. Why dǿ yǿu гeckǿn that is?", she waited for his reply, although it didn't really matter in the end. She had her own response:
"Yǿu have chǿsen the wгǿng enemy. Yǿu cannǿt defeat death - ǿnly pǿstpǿne the inevitable. Make it гestless. Force it take moгe lives than she needed to" It sounded like some local beliefs the tribes here had. Many cultures to sooth themselves came up with stories about afterlife, justice in death and destruction. That it won't take more than it intended to take. This is how they ended up with bloody sacrifices - feeding their dark gods with souls so they won't take lives. Was this what she tried to tell him? That he was to be sacrificed by her people to stop the catastrophy that engulfed the town? "Like a baby duckling that gǿt intǿ a fisheгman's net, yǿu tгy, and tгy, and tug, and ǿnly plunge yǿuгself deepeг and deepeг, and yǿu dгǿwn, dгagging ǿtheгs with yǿu. And yǿu hǿld yǿuгself tǿ such a high гegaгd as the ǿnly pǿssible tгuth, that yǿu aгen't even able tǿ lǿǿk dǿwn at peǿple at yǿuг feet.", it was a weird sentence, but it made weird amount of sense. She gestured down, and with the flick of her wrist, Noah noticed something shiny on the floor. It was a key. It lay right under the lock on the door - it must have fallen out when someone tried to unlock it from the other side. Maybe Murad was still alive, and he tried to get in, and this is why Noah was awoken? He banged at the door, maybe said something, but the young man here was too sleepy and groggy to make it out, and took it for the sounds of cattle? God knows there was a lot of cattle in this town... It wasn't a force that held the door, there was no bull, Noah was just... sleepy. Although how did the woman get here? Whether he was locked here with her, or she locked herself here with him - both prospects were equally terrifying.
Noticing the attention to the key, the woman sighed once more. "Yǿu shǿuld gǿ dǿwn nǿw. Faгewell, pгǿfessǿг Tanneг. Yǿu weгe a gǿǿd man, but yǿu chǿse tǿ stitch yǿuг eyes shut. Gǿ dǿwn. Yǿu dǿn't want tǿ keep heг waiting. Гestless death will take ten times mǿгe lives as she waits."
"Yǿu have chǿsen the wгǿng enemy. Yǿu cannǿt defeat death - ǿnly pǿstpǿne the inevitable. Make it гestless. Force it take moгe lives than she needed to" It sounded like some local beliefs the tribes here had. Many cultures to sooth themselves came up with stories about afterlife, justice in death and destruction. That it won't take more than it intended to take. This is how they ended up with bloody sacrifices - feeding their dark gods with souls so they won't take lives. Was this what she tried to tell him? That he was to be sacrificed by her people to stop the catastrophy that engulfed the town? "Like a baby duckling that gǿt intǿ a fisheгman's net, yǿu tгy, and tгy, and tug, and ǿnly plunge yǿuгself deepeг and deepeг, and yǿu dгǿwn, dгagging ǿtheгs with yǿu. And yǿu hǿld yǿuгself tǿ such a high гegaгd as the ǿnly pǿssible tгuth, that yǿu aгen't even able tǿ lǿǿk dǿwn at peǿple at yǿuг feet.", it was a weird sentence, but it made weird amount of sense. She gestured down, and with the flick of her wrist, Noah noticed something shiny on the floor. It was a key. It lay right under the lock on the door - it must have fallen out when someone tried to unlock it from the other side. Maybe Murad was still alive, and he tried to get in, and this is why Noah was awoken? He banged at the door, maybe said something, but the young man here was too sleepy and groggy to make it out, and took it for the sounds of cattle? God knows there was a lot of cattle in this town... It wasn't a force that held the door, there was no bull, Noah was just... sleepy. Although how did the woman get here? Whether he was locked here with her, or she locked herself here with him - both prospects were equally terrifying.
Noticing the attention to the key, the woman sighed once more. "Yǿu shǿuld gǿ dǿwn nǿw. Faгewell, pгǿfessǿг Tanneг. Yǿu weгe a gǿǿd man, but yǿu chǿse tǿ stitch yǿuг eyes shut. Gǿ dǿwn. Yǿu dǿn't want tǿ keep heг waiting. Гestless death will take ten times mǿгe lives as she waits."
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Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
The fact that he couldn't quite recall how he knew her still grated at him. That initial greeting, speaking of coming to terms with something, left him grasping at straws. Unimportant as the curiosity was, it still stuck with him, his intrigue towards who she was and, indeed, who she was to him, clinging at the edges of his thoughts even as she spoke. The answer that came through his mind to her first query was bitter in tone, and the one he uttered was even and detached: "Because I haven't yet found a way." Yet.
Her justification for his causing death fell on deaf ears. Local superstition was just that, superstition, and had little place in matters of reality unless there was evidence towards its existence. He grabbed the key, wasting no time in shoving it to the lock and turning it before wresting it open. He spoke even as he stepped through the threshold. "Farewell," he stated, because it seemed the only thing he could say, and leaving her with nothing felt wrong.
If his "citadel" was the only place where there was survival, so be it. He had a job to do--more than one, now. He'd initially come with the sole intention of discovering immortality for the man he loved; now his work encompassed a more philanthropic aspect, that of wanting to help. To save lives, to preserve what already existed and keep it from disappearing. That was where his care for the Immortem Project came from, too, past Carter's obsession with the matters--he'd seen enough death. More than enough, and by the time he met his own demise, he wanted to have started on taking that away from the world. To leave it pristine, like the world that so many religions said came before, when there was no illness and deceit and mortality until the gods were disobeyed, then it all came clattering down.
This spoken, he shoved through the door, with every intention of finding Murad and sorting whatever this chaos was out. The thought of delivering the news of his sister's passing left a sour taste on the back of Noah's tongue, but it was what it was. People were dying. She'd done her best to save them, and he would've done his utmost to save her, had he the chance. If he could, he would pull her apart to determine why she'd passed, darkly half-hoping it was from emaciation and not something more mysterious and unpreventable. But that was for later: the dead were unsalvageable for now, and the living were not.
Her justification for his causing death fell on deaf ears. Local superstition was just that, superstition, and had little place in matters of reality unless there was evidence towards its existence. He grabbed the key, wasting no time in shoving it to the lock and turning it before wresting it open. He spoke even as he stepped through the threshold. "Farewell," he stated, because it seemed the only thing he could say, and leaving her with nothing felt wrong.
If his "citadel" was the only place where there was survival, so be it. He had a job to do--more than one, now. He'd initially come with the sole intention of discovering immortality for the man he loved; now his work encompassed a more philanthropic aspect, that of wanting to help. To save lives, to preserve what already existed and keep it from disappearing. That was where his care for the Immortem Project came from, too, past Carter's obsession with the matters--he'd seen enough death. More than enough, and by the time he met his own demise, he wanted to have started on taking that away from the world. To leave it pristine, like the world that so many religions said came before, when there was no illness and deceit and mortality until the gods were disobeyed, then it all came clattering down.
This spoken, he shoved through the door, with every intention of finding Murad and sorting whatever this chaos was out. The thought of delivering the news of his sister's passing left a sour taste on the back of Noah's tongue, but it was what it was. People were dying. She'd done her best to save them, and he would've done his utmost to save her, had he the chance. If he could, he would pull her apart to determine why she'd passed, darkly half-hoping it was from emaciation and not something more mysterious and unpreventable. But that was for later: the dead were unsalvageable for now, and the living were not.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
It didn't take long to find the man. Behind the door, Noah found a stairwell, that twisted around, leading to the second floor. As far as he could tell, the next stairwell should be mirroring this one, located on the other side of the house. He rolled down the stairs to another door - the stairwell was its own room that could be locked if someone deemed so necessary. This one swung with ease, and as soon as he stepped outside into a well-lit corridor - a bliss after the dark stairs - he crashed into Murad. It was a much taller, but much skinnier man than him, obviously taking some less physical and more intellectual position in town - an actor maybe? An accountant? - and losing weight because of the lack of provisions they've been encountering lately. Most of the food was infected with something from the other side of the river, and had to be burned - one of the reasons of soot on the windows in town, second being arsonists inspired by the pyres of burning food, clothes, and animals. This house was unlucky enough to be right near the grocery store, and suffered the most, and there was no time to clean up when people were dying.
Murad looked absolutely exhausted. Barely even alive. His paleness was highlighted by black scruffy hair; eyes red, swollen, and puffy, hands shaking. He was all shaking, as the matter of fact, like in the frost, even though it was warm outside - and not just because of the burning pyres. He tried to force a smile seeing Noah, but it looked pitiful and not genuine at all. "I thought I heard you walking.", he forced out of his lungs. His dark lips, like that of a drowned man, barely moved as he spoke. "I've carried the last ones in. To the..." he tried to remember the word, but couldn't, eyes blurred and hazy, his mind trying desperately to concentrate on what he had to say. Instead, he just pointed a skinny, shaky finger towards one of the doors. "...room.", he just concluded. There was a big door with a chalk writing on it. They themselves made up this small system: marking the rooms and houses with people in them by writing 'There are people here' on them, or placing a big cross on those that needed cleaning up by the morticians. Something they took from the early history of plagues.
The man paused, and bit on his lip. Skin broke, allowing for a thin stream of blood to run down his chin, and Murad wiped it in a mechanical fashion. He seemed to do that a lot lately. "I'm sorry doctor, I can't anymore.", his tone was apologetic and sincere. "If I make another run, I'll collapse. Can't think straight. Took me an hour to remember where this house even was. I need a breather. "
Murad looked absolutely exhausted. Barely even alive. His paleness was highlighted by black scruffy hair; eyes red, swollen, and puffy, hands shaking. He was all shaking, as the matter of fact, like in the frost, even though it was warm outside - and not just because of the burning pyres. He tried to force a smile seeing Noah, but it looked pitiful and not genuine at all. "I thought I heard you walking.", he forced out of his lungs. His dark lips, like that of a drowned man, barely moved as he spoke. "I've carried the last ones in. To the..." he tried to remember the word, but couldn't, eyes blurred and hazy, his mind trying desperately to concentrate on what he had to say. Instead, he just pointed a skinny, shaky finger towards one of the doors. "...room.", he just concluded. There was a big door with a chalk writing on it. They themselves made up this small system: marking the rooms and houses with people in them by writing 'There are people here' on them, or placing a big cross on those that needed cleaning up by the morticians. Something they took from the early history of plagues.
The man paused, and bit on his lip. Skin broke, allowing for a thin stream of blood to run down his chin, and Murad wiped it in a mechanical fashion. He seemed to do that a lot lately. "I'm sorry doctor, I can't anymore.", his tone was apologetic and sincere. "If I make another run, I'll collapse. Can't think straight. Took me an hour to remember where this house even was. I need a breather. "
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Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
Murad.
Relief flowed through him instantly upon recognizing the figure, tainted by numb dread when he thought of Norah again. The last thing the man before him needed was the death of someone so close--disease, however, was indiscriminate, caring little for the hosts that it destroyed. He shook his head to Murad; it wasn't on him that his body had limits. "Yes, of course. It's not your fault. Go rest, just--" He hesitated, gaze flickering back up the stairway as he internally cursed himself for not closing the door between his office and the room where he'd found her body. "Don't go upstairs. If you must, speak to me before you do, but if there is anywhere else to rest, use it. Understand?"
Telling him about her demise now would only exhaust him further. There was nothing either could do for her and, thus, he considered it the best option to deliver the news when Murad had half a brain to work on. Right now, it was too likely to be destructive. People could do crazy things in desperate times and he had no intention of driving his only assistant to any such insanity if he had a proper say in the matter. Unless Murad had some objection, he'd go straight to the ill to do his work. Collect data on the symptoms and deaths, if nothing else. He'd done his best to keep a log of all the patients--cold as it was, his notebook had numbers instead of names, rough tables hastily drawn out and tally marks blotted in so that he could keep track of patterns. He prioritized this almost as much as he did the saving of individual lives: ultimately, statistics such as that could make the difference between a population's survival or lack thereof. Of course he'd been unable to keep track of every individual all the way through, but there was only so much a single man was capable of, even when he worked himself to the marrow of his bones.
Relief flowed through him instantly upon recognizing the figure, tainted by numb dread when he thought of Norah again. The last thing the man before him needed was the death of someone so close--disease, however, was indiscriminate, caring little for the hosts that it destroyed. He shook his head to Murad; it wasn't on him that his body had limits. "Yes, of course. It's not your fault. Go rest, just--" He hesitated, gaze flickering back up the stairway as he internally cursed himself for not closing the door between his office and the room where he'd found her body. "Don't go upstairs. If you must, speak to me before you do, but if there is anywhere else to rest, use it. Understand?"
Telling him about her demise now would only exhaust him further. There was nothing either could do for her and, thus, he considered it the best option to deliver the news when Murad had half a brain to work on. Right now, it was too likely to be destructive. People could do crazy things in desperate times and he had no intention of driving his only assistant to any such insanity if he had a proper say in the matter. Unless Murad had some objection, he'd go straight to the ill to do his work. Collect data on the symptoms and deaths, if nothing else. He'd done his best to keep a log of all the patients--cold as it was, his notebook had numbers instead of names, rough tables hastily drawn out and tally marks blotted in so that he could keep track of patterns. He prioritized this almost as much as he did the saving of individual lives: ultimately, statistics such as that could make the difference between a population's survival or lack thereof. Of course he'd been unable to keep track of every individual all the way through, but there was only so much a single man was capable of, even when he worked himself to the marrow of his bones.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
The man nodded slowly, in deep thought, not even eyeing the stairs. "Yes, I know those are your rooms. I won't be able to climb up anyway, so I'll take the cot..." Something switched in him, as he looked up, suddenly with a mix of curiosity and anger. "Just one more thing, doc." He coughed, cleaning his sore throat, as he walked to one of the many cots they've collected for this house to place the sick and the wounded. Mostly the sick. It squeaked pitifully as he leaned over it... no, almost fell on top of it. "You wager there's still hope for us?" It was a loaded question. The city was dead. Those few that survived - if they survived - would hardly be able to rebuild. Where the sickness didn't reap the living, marauders and arsonists ran free, morticians dressed in long flowing robes they found in the theatre robbing those they had to bury, spreading disease and filth they had to get rid of, young people swinging around blades, finally finding an outlet for their adolescent aggression - all soon to be engulfed by chaos they themselves have created. Yesterday there was still one district of the town standing - a small island on the river, where his hosts, and the object of his research lived - the easiest place to quarantine due to the only way in being through the bridges. It wasn't very small, but didn't dost enough people, mostly consisting of wide paved squares and large eerie buildings. How many people were left there? one, maybe two hundred? Not enough to rebuild at all.
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Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
Hope was a force that Noah seemed to be in constant conflict with. Hope of survival, hope of escape, hope of happiness, hope of peace. Hope was what man turned to when there was nothing else. Hope was the faith of the nonbelievers, and even then it could run thin. Yet, in the long hours spent crouched behind cover as gunshots turned the once-serene nocturne into a percussive din of hollow booms and resounding bangs; through the countless patients he'd lost and soldiers he'd never been able to save; the months and years of his heart and mind funneled into the sole goal of immortality, Carter's goal, Noah had come to a single conclusion: even when there was no hope, it was best to believe in it, for the mere thought that one could succeed was often the last barrier between survival and death.
His teeth dug into the flesh of his lower lip, eyes turning towards the chalk-ridden door. "I think that every plague has its survivors and that no disease is truly incurable. Science is all-powerful, Murad; there is a way, and if there's hope..."
Humans could survive the most incredible things. Life could. It was, at its basest, built to make it to the next generation, from single-celled organisms propagating through mitosis to behemoth megafauna of ice ages since past. They had a chance, and Noah did believe that. What he didn't say was how slim it seemed in his mind. A fraction of a percent, even, as if they were stranded in an abyssal pit clinging onto a single thread of gossamer to pull them out. Inevitably, the thought drew his mind to what he still had to live for, wondering if Carter thought of him. Believed in him. Worried for him. He sent a letter out with each train he, sending for what supplies could be received through the mail and money to send correspondence back, sending samples and copies of notes and research alongside the more personal writings. He hadn't heard back yet--hadn't had the time to--but the thought of it drew him up. Carter had supplies Noah didn't--labs, microscopes, assistance--and there was the chance that his response would come with something more substantial than a thin length of spider-silk.
With this uttered, he turned to go into the room with the patients, thoughts lingering on the daunting silence. Death hung on every molecule of this place, permeating the air with its vile stench, but all he could do was what he was doing: record, treat, test, repeat.
His teeth dug into the flesh of his lower lip, eyes turning towards the chalk-ridden door. "I think that every plague has its survivors and that no disease is truly incurable. Science is all-powerful, Murad; there is a way, and if there's hope..."
Humans could survive the most incredible things. Life could. It was, at its basest, built to make it to the next generation, from single-celled organisms propagating through mitosis to behemoth megafauna of ice ages since past. They had a chance, and Noah did believe that. What he didn't say was how slim it seemed in his mind. A fraction of a percent, even, as if they were stranded in an abyssal pit clinging onto a single thread of gossamer to pull them out. Inevitably, the thought drew his mind to what he still had to live for, wondering if Carter thought of him. Believed in him. Worried for him. He sent a letter out with each train he, sending for what supplies could be received through the mail and money to send correspondence back, sending samples and copies of notes and research alongside the more personal writings. He hadn't heard back yet--hadn't had the time to--but the thought of it drew him up. Carter had supplies Noah didn't--labs, microscopes, assistance--and there was the chance that his response would come with something more substantial than a thin length of spider-silk.
With this uttered, he turned to go into the room with the patients, thoughts lingering on the daunting silence. Death hung on every molecule of this place, permeating the air with its vile stench, but all he could do was what he was doing: record, treat, test, repeat.
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kevintheradioguy
Salt
indeed, the silence was unnerving. And it became even more so after the exhausted man lay on the cot - one of many they managed to find or construct using local handymen - and with a final squeak everything went dead-silent. Death was awaiting him a floor below, as the barbaric woman said, and in this lack of anything but the distant roars of flames, surrounded by death-smelling walls of a stone labyrinth, it was easy to believe that something mystical awaited him one stairwell below... even though it was probably someone from her tribe, holding a dagger in the dark to make a bloody sacrifice from the outlander that dared to shake their peace up.
The door to the room was unlocked, but something was terribly wrong there. Noah couldn't remember there being a large enough room to host so many people... and a strange, almost mystical cold emanated from behind it, metal handle almost burning his hand with immense cold. It opened with a silent squeak of recently oiled hinges, and... And Noah became blinded for a second at a sickly, sweet odour of dried blood and rotting fruit hit his nostrils, making his vision blur, the image in front of him turning into a large grey-and-white smudge. And then, when he managed to see, he realised he was right all along. It was a small side room - maybe a small warehouse or a pantry, with too many people being shoved inside. Too many for such a space. These weren't the conditions for the patients - no place to lie down even. And it seems that among these survivors there was at least one sick.
The bodies of at least two dozen people lay there in a heap, like a mound of useless puppets, faces contorted in deathly masks, skin pale, rough, like sandpaper, cracked and bloody - a signature of a highly contagious disease roaring through town. This wasn't right. He wouldn't have given an order to cramp this much people in such a small space. Was it him who in his exhausted haze mismarked the door? Was it Murad who did that? Cramped in a small space, like cattle, the old quickly fell to disease, and the young - to the wounds and fever. There was no one left. All these yesterday's survivors - dead. Perhaps, the odd woman was right, and he did drag death along after himself.
The door to the room was unlocked, but something was terribly wrong there. Noah couldn't remember there being a large enough room to host so many people... and a strange, almost mystical cold emanated from behind it, metal handle almost burning his hand with immense cold. It opened with a silent squeak of recently oiled hinges, and... And Noah became blinded for a second at a sickly, sweet odour of dried blood and rotting fruit hit his nostrils, making his vision blur, the image in front of him turning into a large grey-and-white smudge. And then, when he managed to see, he realised he was right all along. It was a small side room - maybe a small warehouse or a pantry, with too many people being shoved inside. Too many for such a space. These weren't the conditions for the patients - no place to lie down even. And it seems that among these survivors there was at least one sick.
The bodies of at least two dozen people lay there in a heap, like a mound of useless puppets, faces contorted in deathly masks, skin pale, rough, like sandpaper, cracked and bloody - a signature of a highly contagious disease roaring through town. This wasn't right. He wouldn't have given an order to cramp this much people in such a small space. Was it him who in his exhausted haze mismarked the door? Was it Murad who did that? Cramped in a small space, like cattle, the old quickly fell to disease, and the young - to the wounds and fever. There was no one left. All these yesterday's survivors - dead. Perhaps, the odd woman was right, and he did drag death along after himself.
Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
Sour bile burned his tongue, although whether it was from the visceral need to expel the the foul taste carried through the air or the disgust and horror at the fact his ineptitude might've been the cause was unbeknownst to Noah. All he could comprehend in the moment was the gut-wrenching repulsion; certainly, he'd seen bodies, but not like what this plague brought in. Not dozens stacked atop each other in rotting mounds, swollen and bloated and nothing but a terrible grey pallor. It was almost enough to turn him back to the god he'd forsaken, if only for momentary respite for the nightmarish reality thrust before him.
The man gasped, reeling back and slamming the door shut again. Could he have done this? The survivors...Even if it'd been Murad to mark the door incorrectly, he was Noah's assistant, not the other way around. He was the doctor, the soldier, the other man was a nurse, an extra pair of hands to try to fix this. He should've been more present and realized what such delirium could lead to. He stood for only a moment before taking action, wiping away the chalk so that no one would open that in the belief it was safe, the jerking motion hasty in his distress. What now? He was a doctor with no patients, in a dying city. Norah's body was still upstairs. What had she been doing up there, anyways?
Silence didn't mean that he was well and truly alone, however. No; even in the rooms with the dead, like this one, he might find one of the dying. Pressing the thoughts of what he'd just seen from his mind to determine that it was best dealt with later, Noah went to the next door, fully intending to search the entire floor before going back upstairs and finishing the unseen rooms up there. Once this was done, he could come back down, assuming he found no one, and hunt through the ground floor. After that...He'd figure it out once he got there.
The man gasped, reeling back and slamming the door shut again. Could he have done this? The survivors...Even if it'd been Murad to mark the door incorrectly, he was Noah's assistant, not the other way around. He was the doctor, the soldier, the other man was a nurse, an extra pair of hands to try to fix this. He should've been more present and realized what such delirium could lead to. He stood for only a moment before taking action, wiping away the chalk so that no one would open that in the belief it was safe, the jerking motion hasty in his distress. What now? He was a doctor with no patients, in a dying city. Norah's body was still upstairs. What had she been doing up there, anyways?
Silence didn't mean that he was well and truly alone, however. No; even in the rooms with the dead, like this one, he might find one of the dying. Pressing the thoughts of what he'd just seen from his mind to determine that it was best dealt with later, Noah went to the next door, fully intending to search the entire floor before going back upstairs and finishing the unseen rooms up there. Once this was done, he could come back down, assuming he found no one, and hunt through the ground floor. After that...He'd figure it out once he got there.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
Almost as soon as he turned around, there was a loud gasp, as a woman darted back from him, terrified of the expression. Of all the people, it was Norah. Still pale, and cold, and stiff, and skeletal, but this was undoubtedly her. Alive. She looked like death itself, and by the look on her face it was obvious that he looked the absolutely same. Did he misjudge her state up there? And if he did, was he fit in this condition of his to take any patients? "You are alive.", she gurgled. There was hope in her voice, but not the type one would expect: this was almost as if she hoped he wouldn't be.
Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
How long had he been awake, if he was seeing things such as this? Her word were swallowed by stunned silence: rigor mortis had set in on her body, she'd been hours dead. Hours, at least, and certainly he hadn't immediately identified a cause of death, nor had he gone through the procedures to declare her medically dead, but even so--that hadn't been a matter of whether or not she'd been alive, it was how she died. But she couldn't have been deceased: quite obviously, she was standing before him, speaking. Death, Noah realized, was a complex thing, and now and again there would be the story of the corpse who took a breath anew.
The surprise and bafflement nearly made her tone escape his notice. It might've, had he not become so accustomed to paying attention to such things so young, and the look on his face instantly shifted from shock to wary confusion. "Yes," he agreed. An awkward beat was left at that, then he reached out towards her neck, intending to press his fingers to her neck and catch a pulse, an urge that came to him primarily through reflex, as if he had to affirm to himself that this wasn't another waking dream. "What happened up there, Miss Norah? Last I saw, you were...seemingly out of sorts." Out of sorts, he said, as if he hadn't written her off as a corpse. Perhaps, he thought again, the strange woman upstairs had been right in that he made things worse here. If he could allow two dozen bodies to pile up in a closet, ones that had been patients the night before, and mistake one of the two people aiding him for passed, how could he possibly believe he'd any capability of doing good here?
The surprise and bafflement nearly made her tone escape his notice. It might've, had he not become so accustomed to paying attention to such things so young, and the look on his face instantly shifted from shock to wary confusion. "Yes," he agreed. An awkward beat was left at that, then he reached out towards her neck, intending to press his fingers to her neck and catch a pulse, an urge that came to him primarily through reflex, as if he had to affirm to himself that this wasn't another waking dream. "What happened up there, Miss Norah? Last I saw, you were...seemingly out of sorts." Out of sorts, he said, as if he hadn't written her off as a corpse. Perhaps, he thought again, the strange woman upstairs had been right in that he made things worse here. If he could allow two dozen bodies to pile up in a closet, ones that had been patients the night before, and mistake one of the two people aiding him for passed, how could he possibly believe he'd any capability of doing good here?
kevintheradioguy
Salt
The young woman in front of him winced, as if she was in pain. "I wish you weren't.", she squeezed out so quietly, so barely audible, that it felt like lip reading. "I came up there, to ask what to do next, and there you were, stiff as a corpse, sitting in that coffin of a room. I thought you left us." Her voice wasn't loud, though it oozed with accusation, with disgust even. She was at her breaking point, and Noah was almost seeing there in her dark eyes her soul snapping - slowly - with splinters flying around, needling at him. She thought everything that was happening was his fault. Not out of malice - out of desperation. "The great professor Tanner, coming here to us rednecks, to 'save' us, and what did you do? Nothing! And we believed you! We trusted you!", there were tears in her voice, but not her eyes - she seemed not having a sip of water in says, as she stepped towards him , pointing her narrow, dirty finger with broken nails like hardy's claws, into Noah's chest. "The whole town hung to your every word! You were treated like a prophet! Like a leader. A leader! All of our great families - everyone trusted you, and you took our town, and made a god damn arena out of it for your personal duel with death, instead of taking care of people who put their trust in you!", there was no doubt that if she could, she'd be screaming. Crying. Punching. Clawing at his eyes. Perhaps, she would. "And it all slipped through your fingers. You were up there, doing god knows what, while the disease infiltrated the Bridge Square, and now... now there's no place left untouched! But you were too important to notice! Like every other city-born teddy-boy, you were walking with your head high up through the main streets, while it creeped closer through the back alleys behind your back, and you what? - thought you were to good to be even looking into the gutter it came from?
We're reaching the end of our time, and I am thinking... I am thinking that it all started when you first stepped into our town! Is that it? Did you bring it here to prove something to whatever city boys to serve? Was this just a big experiment to you!?" She looked around quickly, like a mouse looking for a place to hide, but Norah obviously wasn't about to. Her posture, her expression were all too familiar to Noah - she was looking for a weapon. She blamed him for the epidemic, and now, broken, saw no other way to get her frustration and despair out than by vengeance - not to set things just, but to make herself feel better. Her eyes soon found what she was looking for, as she darted to a glass bottle of old, murky water standing on an old crate - the most heavy thing - easily three litres in it - in he reaching distance.
We're reaching the end of our time, and I am thinking... I am thinking that it all started when you first stepped into our town! Is that it? Did you bring it here to prove something to whatever city boys to serve? Was this just a big experiment to you!?" She looked around quickly, like a mouse looking for a place to hide, but Norah obviously wasn't about to. Her posture, her expression were all too familiar to Noah - she was looking for a weapon. She blamed him for the epidemic, and now, broken, saw no other way to get her frustration and despair out than by vengeance - not to set things just, but to make herself feel better. Her eyes soon found what she was looking for, as she darted to a glass bottle of old, murky water standing on an old crate - the most heavy thing - easily three litres in it - in he reaching distance.
Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
Noah's recollections were muddled and dim, discolored and opaque, thickly oozing through his thoughts in disjointed globules he scrambled to make sense of. Now, as her voice grew high and thin with the distress of a wounded creature scrabbling at fading survival, the reason for his presence upstairs was left unknown to him. As far as he could remember, he'd gone up for...something. Something important, surely, and the next thing he'd known was the moaning and scraping and his own voice tormenting him. Her mistake of noting him dead must've been the same as his, skewed perceptions in a blurred reality. He yearned to be able to tell her that he had a certain solution, that he could save her or them, that he well and truly had done naught but good, yet a pace behind him was death of his own doing.
No--that didn't matter. These words were baseless, illogical rationalization, a byproduct of a broken mind trying to contend with harsh and brutal reality, to find meaning in the meaningless by drawing needless correlations and finding blame--the thought of which was abruptly seized by her attention turning to the bottle. Norah was smaller than him, but anything that heavy could do damage; she was crazed by terror and shattered instinct; held the intention of doing harm.
Noah lunged towards her, launching his hand forward to seize her wrist and prevent her from getting the bottle. Weaponless, she could do nothing to him, and he couldn't hurt Norah. Not a woman he knew, not Murad's sister, not now.
No--that didn't matter. These words were baseless, illogical rationalization, a byproduct of a broken mind trying to contend with harsh and brutal reality, to find meaning in the meaningless by drawing needless correlations and finding blame--the thought of which was abruptly seized by her attention turning to the bottle. Norah was smaller than him, but anything that heavy could do damage; she was crazed by terror and shattered instinct; held the intention of doing harm.
Noah lunged towards her, launching his hand forward to seize her wrist and prevent her from getting the bottle. Weaponless, she could do nothing to him, and he couldn't hurt Norah. Not a woman he knew, not Murad's sister, not now.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
They both were exhausted - possibly equally so. But the young woman in town where tradition ruled families was never going to be as well-trained in combat as he was after seeing some action during his military days. Norah was swift, but he was swifter - his fingers clutched her wrist few inches before she managed to grab the bottle, but that didn't exactly stop her. She knew she wouldn't be able to defeat a much larger man with war behind his back - that is why she reached for something heavy to swing around - but at this time she wasn't thinking straight, filled with despair and heated of a wounded animal that knew it was going to die. Instead, she twisted her arm, facing Noah once more, and swung for a slap, knowing the man held a bag with quite fragile equipment - innocent enough all things considered - before Noah could see that she was actually going to claw at him - her nails long and crooked after days of mistreatment, dirt and blood covering them, and most certainly - whatever infection was killing the people. As far as Noah could tell, this infection, asides for being prone to transmitting through food, water, and air, was jumping hosts most quickly through blood, and if ht didn't carry the terrifying disease that dried people up and burned them to a crisp - he would surely get it this way.
Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
The last thing Noah wanted to do was hurt Norah, but in the moment of adrenaline flooding through him in a primal surge of energy, his survival took precedence. He ducked with the intention of evading the blow, then snaking his foot out to kick her legs out from under her. If he could get her on the ground and slow her down long enough to get control of the situation, then maybe he had a chance of talking her down--ensuring that neither of them died in the process was his first priority, however.
"Norah, I'm not a god, I can't stop a plague in its tracks no matter my intentions and efforts!" he plied, although he was certain it was a futile effort. "Listen to yourself!"
"Norah, I'm not a god, I can't stop a plague in its tracks no matter my intentions and efforts!" he plied, although he was certain it was a futile effort. "Listen to yourself!"
kevintheradioguy
Salt
The exhausted young woman was clearly no match for the man. She was so weakened by work, lack of sleep, food, and clean water, that for a moment it felt like he broke her bones while attempting to kick her legs out of her - so easily they bent, and she fell down, not even trying to grab at anything, as if embracing the fall, hoping it'll be fatal. Her body crumbled down into a pile, back hitting the crate she tried to drab the bottle from, said bottle falling down on the floor with a dull thud, and rolling in a wide arch over the floor, further into the room. Old wood cracked under her weight - however small it was, and she seemed to hit her head as her eyes tried and failed to focus while she lay pinned to the floor. "You brought it here.", Norah hissed, her voice dying in her throat. Loud, piercing clacking was heard behind, as the bottle finally reached the stairs and rolled down them, thick glass failing to break as it was reaching the first floor step after step in a loud allegro. "You wanted to fight death, and she came. I hope you get it, and rot with us.". The light in her eyes rapidly disappeared. Whether she was fainting from the fall, or she fell to the same sickness was hard to tell with how pale and gaunt she was.
Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
He kept his hold on her wrist, reaching out to try and slow her fall the best he could, but there was only so much he could do. Her raspy words dripped into his ears but their venom felt distant: she was speaking nonsense, and in these times, he couldn't blame her for breaking. Her ramblings were just that--depraved madness that he could only pray would be temporary. Sentimentality aside, he had precious few hands helping him, and if she left, what would that say for Murad? He remained motionless even through the crash, numbed by exhaustion and adrenaline, and it was only once she lost consciousness that he brought himself back to her.
God, he hoped Carter would have something in his response. Some new information. Some new hope. Noah let out a strained sigh, the only outward expression of his exhaustion and sorrow, then reached forward to turn her head and check for any blood or signs of injury. If there were none, he'd lift her up and bring her upstairs to lock her in one of the bedrooms for now. If she woke up in a similar fit, he didn't trust her not to do harm--to him, Murad, or the patients, when she was so obviously in a state of insanity. After that...he'd just have to check on her and try to talk to her whenever she awoke again. Get her to see reason, or Murad to, and between then and now, it'd be back to finding whoever else was alive here.
God, he hoped Carter would have something in his response. Some new information. Some new hope. Noah let out a strained sigh, the only outward expression of his exhaustion and sorrow, then reached forward to turn her head and check for any blood or signs of injury. If there were none, he'd lift her up and bring her upstairs to lock her in one of the bedrooms for now. If she woke up in a similar fit, he didn't trust her not to do harm--to him, Murad, or the patients, when she was so obviously in a state of insanity. After that...he'd just have to check on her and try to talk to her whenever she awoke again. Get her to see reason, or Murad to, and between then and now, it'd be back to finding whoever else was alive here.
kevintheradioguy
Salt
The woman, indeed, injured herself falling. The wood of the crate was old, of course, and crumbling, but the edges were sharp. There was a deep wound on the back of her head, which in other times Noah wouldn't call serious, but now, in what condition she, this house, and the town overall was, who knows? At times, even the slightest injury was enough to finish a human being's life. These circumstances weren't usual - Noah couldn't tell if it'd be a serious trauma for her, or something she'd be over with in a few days... if they even had a few days. The infection spread like rapid fire, and if the last town district was indeed overtaken by it, there was no hope for the town. Neither the country itself. If it gets out of here one way or another - through the barbaric nomads, or with trains that weren't seen for more than a week by now, or even the flow of the river, this would be the end for millions of lives before they find a cure. Even if they can find a cure. Noah hasn't been able to in all this time to move forward - just run around town like a headless chicken, treating symptoms, organising help, but there was truth in Norah's words: he really did nothing to treat the sickens itself. Fever - yes, delusions - yes. Bu not the thing that brought it onto the human body.
Featherstone
Fleet-fingered Father of Falcons
Fuck. He'd hurt her. God damn him and his stupidity. His reflexive shortsightedness. His delusional exhaustion. He slid his bag onto the ground next to him, withdrawing a sparingly thin square of gauze and pressing it against the injury to stem the bleeding. It was through a force of sheer will that he prevented his hands from shaking--will, and practice, for a doctor's grip had to be steady in the most tense of situations lest a wavering grasp cause more harm than good. He gently raised his other hand to still her head while he knelt there. He hoped he could avoid stitches but it was hard to know until he could slow the blood enough to really see it. If he was lucky, bandages would do, but luck hadn't been with him until now and he somehow doubted it would suddenly appear.
