Sitting Around Dying

It's a miserable day out, the sun long-hidden behind gray storm clouds, and a heavy wind blowing thick sheets of rain. Normally, the lower markets would be awash with people, but on days like today? Only a few places are open. Restaurants. Taverns.

And apothecaries.

Malik is just heading out from one of these, tucking a small bag of herbs under his cloak as he heads back out into the furious storm. There's not as much grace in his movements today, a stiffness and lack of speed evident for the people that know him. Occasionally, he lets out a harsh cough, covering his hand with his mouth as he moves back toward Goblintown.

But he's not moving very fast. At all, really. He stops along the way, pulling back his hood and turning his face up to the chilling rain, letting the cold water rush over his pale skin as he leans against a wall, trying to catch his breath and find some small relief from the burning in his blood.

There are a few people in the streets today, but not many. One, wrapped under a long midnight-blue traveler's cloak meant for the weather, strides through the heavy rain as if relatively unbothered by it. The only thing that gives away otherwise is a heavy, wet cough that sounds like a nasty chest cold. The figure, too, is headed for Goblintown, but as it moves closer, it speaks, in a familiar voice with a thick Myrrish accent. "Malik."

The expression on Seldan's face is unlike anything Malik has ever seen. By comparison, all of Malik's experience with the man is completely relaxed next to the serious, focused and driven expression he wears now. He, too, is even paler than usual beneath the hood, but something is on his mind, something serious.

Malik pushes off from the wall just in time to hear Seldan call his name. He turns, looking for the source of the voice, giving the paladin a smile that reaches his eyes, despite his discomfort. "Couldn't stay away, huh?" he offers, in that melodic accent of his. He reaches out, fingertips idly brushing away a wet lock of hair from Seldan's face. "You look like the Abyss," he offers, tone suggesting he is clearly aware of his own state. He lets his hand fall, just watching the man for a second, expression a bit sad. "Come on," he tells him, nodding back toward the inn that he lives in. "I'll show you another Tsuran secret. It'll help."

Getting out of the rain seems like a good idea. Seldan doesn't feel particularly good himself, but he surveys Malik's pallor with concern- if anything, he looks even more focused as he gets a good look at the other man's state. He just nods, following Malik up the stairs without a word until they get back into the inn room. A couple of times, Seldan pauses to cough, and once to wipe his lips into a black-stained cloth, but he discreetly balls it up and tucks it away.

Once they are in out of the rain, Seldan remains standing, instead of seating himself, only pulling off his hood and then the oiled cloak. "It will only help so much," he tells Malik.

Malik removes his cloak, but then also his boots and shirt, closing his eyes for a moment and enjoying the cool breeze blowing in from the landing. THe view isn't as good today, in the foggy rain, but it seems to please him nonetheless. His skin is pale, with red splotches already appearing, and a similarly black-stained rag next to the bed.

Taking that pouch, he moves over to the nightstand, putting two small pinches of herbs into those same glasses they used the other day, adding water and heating it with a simple spell. He turns to Seldan, offering him a cup. "It's not a cure," he agrees. "But it helps. A few herbs, infused with extract of poppy, and a single nightshade berry. In small doses, it relieves discomfort," he explains. "Larger doses bring euphoria. Too much --" Well, Seldan probably knows nightshade well enough.

Seldan appears to be marginally better off than Malik - he does not appear particularly fevered, or if he is, it's low-grade. He does take the cup in both hands, sipping carefully with a nod of understanding, though he neither seats himself nor strips. In fact, he wears a second cloak under the first, also removed, and while he wears heavier clothing than has been his wont, it is of similar styling. He even still wears the sword.

He does seem to understand the strength of what he has been offered, and is taking it carefully. When both have had a few sips, and Malik appears to be done, he lowers it. "Malik, do you trust me?" The question is simple, open, and deadly serious.

Malik watches Seldan, that smile starting to fade a bit. But it still remains, a ghost of it there, even as worry works its way into his eyes. "Most people I have in this room aren't wearing half of what you do," he starts. "And none of them typically look like they're dressed for war." He doesn't sip his own tea, so much as down the entire glass in one go, setting the empty cup off to the side. Slowly, though, as he's clearly considering Seldan's question.

Looking back up to the paladin, he gives the man a nod. "You're the only person I trust in this city," he tells him. "But I think you already knew that." There's a moment where he looks almost sad, but straightens up a bit. "Are you here on temple business, then?" he asks, nodding to the sword. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Yes, I am, and no, you have not." Finally, Seldan takes a seat, but it's on the edge of the bed, not in one of the down chairs, and he moves his swordbelt gently out of the way. "I am here to replace your missing memories, to explain what ails us both, and to ask your help." What on earth is he talking about?

Malik, for his part, looks visibly relieved, the tension leaving him all at once with a small shudder. He closes his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but turns to move to sit on the edge of the bed as well. But he starts decidedly out of order. "Yes. I'll help you. Of course I will." Direct and to the point, not even waiting to hear the explanation, as if it wouldn't matter. "But what do you mean?" He seems a bit confused at that. "I may have had a bit to drink, but I remember the other night well enough. We drank, we slept. It got cold. Now we're sick." It seems perfectly plausible, even if there's a part of his voice that says he doesn't believe it.

Quickly, Seldan shakes his head, then turns his head and coughs again. It sounds for all the world like a nasty chest cold. Maybe that is why he is remaining dressed - perhaps he caught a serious chill. "No, Malik. There is much more, that you would not know. You have missing memories, memories that you gave to Eclavdran's servant in return for the information that I now hold. If you would have proof of this ...." From a belt pouch, Seldan pulls a plain, carved wooden ring. "You told me that you chose this item to give to me because I reminded you of Andrej." He offers the ring in a flat palm.

Malik looks concerned at Seldan's cough. He moves like he's going to try to help, but then Seldan is speaking again, about things Malik has no memory of. Questions are clearly forming, there, and the man looks dubious, like Seldan might be hallucinating something. "Maybe that tea was a bit --"

But then, Seldan shows him the ring, and all of that disappears. Malik is caught completely off guard, taking in a sharp breath as he looks like he was given a hard slap. He reaches out to take the ring, more red coming to his face than what even the fever can account for, the tables clearly turned. "What --," he starts, swallowing hard. "Did I say anything else?"

"No. Only that." Although there is compassion in his bearing, Seldan is completely focused, and seems to be utterly ignoring his own state, even if he is not ignoring Malik's. Once Malik has taken the ring back, he pushes that wet lock of hair from his eyes, then takes another long, careful sip of the tea, making a face.

"You should lie down. If you will, hold that as proof that I speak to you the truth, without omission and without embellishment. Here." He stands and, setting the teacup aside, takes a clean rag from his belt pouch and wraps it in his sodden cloak hanging by the door, then brings the wetted rag over to lay either against the back of his neck or his forehead.

Malik just plays with the ring a moment, running his fingers over the wood, then sets it on the nightstand. He's distracted enough that he doesn't even see what Seldan is doing until the man is back, pressing that cloth to his head. He jumps a bit, but doesn't seem to object, just closing his eyes and enjoying the coolness of the water, more of the tension melting away. "Alright," he says, voice barely a whisper. "Tell me everything. And then tell me what you need me to do."

The explanation of the trip to the Plane of Fire takes some time, but nothing is left out, including why he remembers nothing, what they learned. Seldan has to pause to cough a few times during the explanation, but ends with, "Both you and I have contracted the plague that ravages Alexandria. Eluna's blessings shield me from ordinary maladies, but this is one born of evil magic, very possibly from one of the Lords of Hell themselves." He sighs deeply, and looks down, clearly embarrassed. "I have been a fool. I have known of this plague for some time, and tried to aid where I could, but ... I did not understand its true danger, or its true source. Now that I do, I am sworn to fight it with all that I can give. Ill or not, I will do that, and without reservation, for as long as I have the strength to stand. I have learned things that in the right hands will aid us, and I need to seek out the sith-makar."

Malik listens attentively. He has no reason to not believe the man's story, after all. "Sounds like I got screwed," he chuckles. "But also sounds exactly like something I would agree to." He stands up off the bed, slowly, taking as deep a breath as possible as he goes to pick out another shirt, this one white and loose. And importantly, not wet. "You aren't the only one that's been ignoring the obvious," he tells Seldan in return, working on getting dressed. More solemnly, he asks, "How long do you think we have?"

Seldan has to quell a coughing fit before he can answer, and has to reach for the black-stained rag again. At least he is trying to be discreet about it rather than gross, because that black stuff is frighteningly nasty. When he is done, and has steadied himself with another swig of the now-cooled tea, he looks up and answers. "If I can persuade the sith-makar to aid us, as long as necessary." His tone says that that is not a certainty. "If not, it depends. "If we act quickly, may it be long enough." He watches Malik as the man moves, critically. "I had thought to seek out the wizard Mikilos Mithralla. He himself was affected, and is committed to helping us. It was he who spoke to me of the white tower, and now that I have learned more, I must share what we have learned. Do you feel well enough to come with me?"

Malik listens to the man, a somber expression on his face as he takes it all in. It's not every day that you learn that you're dying, after all. Especially of something that promises to be horrific, if the black phlegm is anything to judge by. He takes a moment to finish the laces at the top of the shirt, leaving them loose -- he's probably still burning up -- but turns, putting on the best smile that he can manage. "What, you think I'm going to sit around on my ass dying while the only friend I have in this gods-forsaken city needs help?" He shakes his head. "Besides. You'd get into too much trouble without me." He flashes the paladin an easy wink, reaching for his bow, though it looks like it takes some effort. Still, the man isn't going to be dissuaded. "If a holy man can manage, then so can I."

For the first time since Seldan walked in, he cracks a smile, and even chuckles, but it's gone quickly enough. "I think myself less badly off than you," he remarks. "And there are many others worse still. For all of their sakes as well as ours, I must act." He stands as well, more slowly than usual, and walks over to his inner and wet outer cloak. "You are to tell me if you cannot continue."

Malik leans against the bow, looking playful and cocky even through the fever he's running. "Just wait," he tells the man. "I'll end up carrying you by the time we're done." Which looks incredibly unlikely, and he doesn't sound as if he's trying to convince Seldan, so much as convince himself. But there's determination on his face, and illness or no, he looks like he's about to go on, no matter what. "You'll know when I can't go on anymore," he tells Seldan. "The breathing sounds will stop."

"If you are feeling well enough to be smart, then you are well enough." Seldan slings his cloaks around him and pulls up the hood, preparing to duck back out into the rain.