Disarmed, But Not Discouraged

The newly infected go off to seek expert advice from Mikilos, who already knows what they have to report -- and gives the spellcasters some disturbing news in return.

Mikilos has set a small lab into the rock of the mountain. Not too hard when you're a wizard who can shape stone, and have a mountain handy. It's little more than a large round room, curved at the bottom to hold a pool of soapy water. Water that currently sits in a large tub off to the side, wating for a horrible ooze to be used on. There's also several shelves, mostly bare, and a wizard sitting on a chair, door open, trying to think of something productive to try.

Victor stands as far away from Mikilos as he can be without leaving the actual room. He doesn't breathe but an out-of-place rasp to his voice indicates something might be wrong with his internals. "I am no longer comfortable traveling the streets," he notes.

It took some pointed inquiries and a lot of walking to locate said wizard, and by the time Seldan manages to make it this far, he's in pretty rough shape. Soaking wet and paler than usual, he steps inside, looking around, and lowers his hood. "Peace to you and yours, Mikilos Mithralla," he greets. Something in his breathing doesn't sound right - and in a hideously familiar way - but he seems undeterred for the moment. "Have you a few minutes?"

Mikilos frowns, glancing to Victor, and sighs. "Understandable. I don't think you're dangeorus to others. The ooze would only activate if a spell gets cast on you. possible, but unlikely. But, there have been mobs of scared people doing stupid things." Glancing at the arrival, he frowns again, and nods, waving. "Yes, come in. We're not doing anything just at the moment. What brings you by?" Though from the tone he has a pretty good guess.

Verna may have heard of said lab, or received referral to his current location by way of the shop. Judging by her entrance behind a hovering tome, her needs may be far less urgent than others.

Malik enters not far behind him, looking even worse for the wear, if possible. His steps are heavy, and his face is pale. He would probably be drenched even if it weren't for the pouring rains outside. But he carries himself with a steely reserve, even though it clearly takes effort. His own breathing is labored, and there's the faintest hint of a rattle in his chest, but he braces himself against the wall, watching the man and the golem. "It looks like we're in good company," he says.

Seldan nods mutely at Malik, his entire bearing serious. "We have some information that may aid you, regarding the plague," he begins carefully, then pauses a moment for a wet-sounding, nasty cough. A paladin should -never- sound like that. "But that information comes at a cost. I would hear what you know of it, as well. You speak of the ooze ... it activates if a spell is cast upon you?" He, too, leans against the wall, although more subtly.

"If a spell is cast near it, possibly," Victor corrects. "It is not even required to cast it upon the afflicted. Although that certainly will trigger a...response," he finally settles on the word as he casts a glance at Mikilos.

The conversation topic is easily enough to lift Verna's attention, and hood, from her reading. "The plague, or its conveyance, is reactive?" That is the most concerning information she has received on the curse to date, though the typical effects of said plague have kept her occupied and away from research on the cause far more than she prefers.

That gets Malik's attention, too. He raises an eyebrow at that, turning the information over in his head in that way that wizards do, though he doesn't speak up at the moment, listening to see if more information is forthcoming. He glances over to his companion, though, a little smile forming at something the man said, looking pleased.

Mikilos nods, and sighs, considering a few moments to gather his thoughts. "The Plague is more a magical possession by a black ooze which typically nests in the lungs, though it's proven to infect those without lungs." He gestures to the golem. "The ooze feeds on magic, reacting strongly in the presence of spells, typically forcing the victim to cough up a part of itself to try and infect others. Outside the body, the ooze does poorly in soapy water, or blunt weapons, but continues to feed on magical effects, and will try and graple victims to crawl inside. It seems to favor spellcasters. Those who die of the plague become haunting ghosts. We're fairly certain the Mistress of the White Tower infected the local water ways to start the Plague. I've managed to find a tonic to helps ease symptoms, and slow the infection, but is not a proper cure. Anti-magic fields cause the ooze to become dormant, but it resumes activity upon leaving the field. I am aware of four ways to end infection. The first is death, not ideal. The second is an Inquisitor spell to banish demons. It onlt sometimes works, but always causes an ooze to be violently coughed up, and is very stressful on the target, potentially killing them. Those kidnapped by the Mistress who were infected have been returned cured. Method unknown. And there is a single case where an ooze reactive violently to ritual magic linking to the White Tower, and left the infected's body entirely, curing them. It is my theory the Mistress is using the ooze to colelct energy, harvesting it from victims to be gathered somehow.... and there may be a couple more things but i believe that covers most of it."

Seldan listens intently to all of that, folding his arms across his chest, with only the occasional look over at Malik. "The White Tower does not belong to the Mistress," he says in a Myrrish accent made thicker by the rattling in his chest. "I and my companions," he nods to Malik, "found ourselves in the White Tower, on the Plane of Fire. There is but one, and a wizard named Zehier claims it. His recording was cooperative and helpful, and was most displeased to learn of an ooze in his tower." He pauses a moment, then resumes. "He says that if we can find the real Zehier, he can do more to aid us. He also spoke of the snowflake scars those people, such as Erendriel, bore ..."

"Fascinating..." Verna considers and processes the wealth of information. "Are there any indications that it prefers any one form of magic, or aligned user, over another? I have so far remained unaffected by this sickness, to my knowledge, despite reasonable expectation of exposure."

Malik listens for a moment, taking in what Mikilos is saying. He's quiet a second, but then, a small chuckle escapes him. Followed by another, slightly longer, and then eventually into a laugh that's cut entirely too short by the cough that follows, causing him to buckle slightly against the wall as he tries to spare the others from the nastier effects of such fits. "You heard the man," he tells Seldan, his own accent musican and decidely foreign, even through the slight wheeze. "Even monsters find us irresistable." Leave it to Malik to make a joke even in the face of such serious matters. But he nods to Seldan's mention of the snowflake scars. "Turns out, he remembers seeing something like that before, a long time ago in a village to the north. Upside is, everyone that had one showed no signs of plague. Downside," he continues, "is that they were all butchered like cattle. Or so I'm lead to believe from a reliable source." He offers a little shrug, there. "But it seems a good place to start, yes?"

Mikilos rolls up his sleeve, where a palm sized snowflake has been carved into the flesh of his arm. "The Mistress uses the scars to mark her 'toys', along the lines of an Arcane Mark." He considers a moment. "I really should get around to finding a way to get rid of it, as I'm pretty sure she uses them to scry on people. Anyway, yes an no, the Tower was made by Zehier. The Tower moves though both time and space. At some point, Zehier loses control of the Tower, and the Mistress takes over. I'm not sure if she kills Zehier, or just happens across it. But does act as ruler for at least a time, with a powerful vampire lacky, Kol Demontry." He glances to Verna, and shrugs. "I've not witnessed any specific preferance, but not something to be safely tested." He nods to Malik. "Might tell us more about The Mistress. We don't even have a proper name, or know for certain she exists. Almost everything comes from Kol talking about his Mistress." he elf rises, and heads to one of the shelves, fussing with a couple bottles before handing a vial to Malik and Seldan each. "Tonic. Tastes like viniger and and salt water, uses some fairly rare plants, but will ease symptoms for a while, keep the coughing minimized."

Victor watches and listens. Finally sensing there may not be a lull in the conversation he interjects, "I was surprised to learn that divine spellcasters have no greater luck than arcane in dealing with the ooze. Neither for that matter do Artificers. I witnessed the ooze reacting to the attacks of a deathray, just as it would a lightning bolt cast by a wizard."

Seldan nods, as if this fit his guesses as well. He takes the vial, considers it, then cracks the seal and slams it quickly. The face he makes at the taste is almost comical, but he sets it aside quickly enough. "If it grants more time, then I am grateful," he says carefully. "Have you spoken with the sith-makar at all, regarding this?"

Malik listens to the explanations, the smile fading a bit as a new, stranger expression comes over him. But whatever's on his mind, he keeps it in check for now, having already said his peace on the matter. Taking the bottle, he downs the concoction, making a very similar face to Seldan as he turns to the man, saying, "I think I liked mine better." He sets the bottle to the side, the latest expression looking like it takes an act of will to keep the liquid down.

"Arcane, divine, and artifice may vary widely in appearance or application," Verna notes, "but at their core they are all the same: the manipulation of mana. The healers at the temples may also alleviate some of the symptoms, as they are able, but they are quite occupied, as you might imagine."

Mikilos nods to Victor. "Clever, if devious, that healing magics just make things worse." Turning to Seldan, he continues. "Some. When was working on the tonic, had several infected being kept in the Society Dungeon, where there's a constant Anti-magic field in effect. Several Sith-makar act as guards to watch over the well-being of those who are victims, not prisoners." He nods to Verna. "The Soilder's Defense has cared for a great many victims, but have been unble to do much more than offer comfort in times of pain. Proper cures have been rare." He glaces to Victor. "I do have one untested idea, dangerous even without the plague. Turning to stone. The reverse spell occasionally proves too much of a stress, and kills those pretified."

Seldan's color has also improved some within a few minutes of drinking the tonic, but he remains leaning against the stone wall, cloaks still dripping wetly on the stone. "And any use of spells by the afflicted will activate this ooze, will it not? What does it do when activated?"

Victor watches Mikilos for a moment. Then he finally nods. "I understand. Perhaps if I take precautions I can avoid such an outcome. But it does seem an interesting hypothesis."

Malik just watches the exchange, though his attention shifts to Verna, considering what the woman says. "All the same..." Something there seems to click with him, that pensive look growing deeper. He glances away, finding an interesting spot on the wall where he can gather his thoughts as the others talk theory, chewing on something.

Mikilos sighs, frowning at the memory. "Claws the inside of your lungs and scrabbles it's way out the mouth and nose. Except less plesant than I'm makeing it sound. The cure was unplesant, but the sickness is awful, double so for a caster." Puking up an ooze for every little spell? The wizard was miserible.

From the face Seldan makes, it is a good thing he had not yet attempted spells. "I will remember." That is going to become a problem quickly. He shuts up and listens, thinking hard.

Malik looks over and sees Seldan flagging a bit, shaking his head. "Come on," he tells the man. "You can be on a mission later. RIght now, you need some sleep." He takes hold of the man's arm, gently, but the look on his face says that he's not taking 'no' for an answer on this one. "You're no good if you can barely hold yourself up, much less a sword."