open | love in the time of grippe

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Alexandrie Nightingale and anyone who wants to be cosseted
WHAT: She's here to visit you, illness-ridden friends.
WHEN: Grippe Season
WHERE: Quarantine Central (and also at home because someone's dodging being dragged in there.)
NOTES: will match prose or brackets ♥

It's absolutely wretched here, but Alexandrie is making rounds of the sickbeds anyway dressed in simple expendable skirts (she's not burning anything nice thankyouverymuch), her hair woven into a casual halo of braids. For whatever reason—Maferath's own luck, perhaps—despite her visits to help care for those affected by the outbreak, she hasn't taken ill herself and doesn't look like to.

And so here she is, murmuring some sort of sympathetic nothing, resting the back of her bare hand on a forehead or a cheek and replacing the towels that help to lower fever with cooler ones.

Comments

[coquettish_trees]

"Balance hardly stays still long enough to wait for measure," she replies idly, picking one wave to watch. Another, after it crashes. The lone cloud flying swiftly across the sky. Back to Leander, then, to take an inventory of his seeming. (The nails are not unnoticed. Lips, too. One more moment, and she'll encourage him back inside to bed.)

[sarcophage]

"No, it doesn't."

Quiet, for a moment, breathing with a conscious steadiness. The wind moves his hair. "I wish it would. Or that I could take the scale in my hands, and... wrench it into some state that better suits me," he coughs twice, clears his throat. Doesn't spit, for the Lady's benefit, though he wants to. "Some deformation. At least then it would be mine."