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

Whose dodging? What. Slander.

[hwaaaitsme]

The South was miserable, utterly dreadful, and Loki exclaimed this at every possible opportunity to every one of the staff and to his Valet. He was aching, pained, freezing cold, and sweating in a truly ungainly fashion. There was no way to appear disaffected without the use of illusion and the use of illusion tired him faster enough that he degenerated from miserable to disgusting and miserable.

It was a poor trade but, more than once, he had made it.

He couldn't have the staff spreading rumors and, moreover, he absolutely refused to be shuffled away with the common rabble as they engaged in all their hideous illness.

He was different, after all, better than most people. Stronger.

But Gods be damned the South was terrible. He never caught this ridiculous Grippe nonsense where it was livable and warm.

A maid delivered tea to his room, something expensive and garish that he had requested to perk up his mood, and he dismissed her once it was done. The moment she left he considered dismissing his illusion--but, no. After tea.

"Oh what is the point if I can't even taste it?" He asked, voice normal only because he had spelled it that way. Beneath the facade he could hardly breathe and, thus, hardly taste.

[sarcophage]

"Ugh, you're startlingly lovely." An utter non sequitur, croaked, nearly voiceless in the middle for the raise in pitch. "As usual."

By now Leander has been monopolizing Alexandrie's attention for some time, or at least would like to think he is. Realistically, it's more likely she has no other urgent obligations within the warehouse sick bay, but—

No, there's no room here for plausible alternatives. Being allowed to feel more important is vital medicine, which he will take, if only to pass the time until he decides once and for all whether or not expiring in this fashion—tragically wasting away, sweating himself to death with stoic dignity—will inflict more or less pain than something more overtly dramatic.

(Should the former come to pass, the latter will almost certainly take place. Even now they congregate, waiting out his weakness—not buzzards, but spirits.)

"The least you could do is sweat a bit. You're making me look dreadful by proximity."

hello i'm here to be cosseted

[sulahnan]

It's not been long enough since moving into this meant-to-be-shared room for much of anyone to know that it's Athessa's room, which is to say: how the heck does Lexie know where to find this poor grippe-stricken elf?

That's what Athessa would be wondering if her brain wasn't being melted by fever, but for the moment she's blinking blearily awake at the cool touch upon her face, the only part of herself exposed since the rest is firmly and thoroughly bundled in her bedspread.

"Is it daytime?"