More Than Just a Cold

Wolfsbane's Row - 


 * ''Named for the (near) legendary (interpretation) of a Ranger known as "Wolfsbane", Wolfsbane's Row maintains the Human population of Crown's Refuge within a compact, yet neatly arranged, lattice of town houses, cottages, homesteads, and manors.


 * ''Centered around a central square in which a white marble statue holds court, Wolfsbane's Row harbors a typically human feel to it. Streets and alleys weave between the various shapes and sizes of building, be they timber-framed or stone, while glass windows and wooden doors add the touches of familiarity to what remains a crowded yet surprisingly well arranged central residential area. Indeed, Wolfsbane's Row seems as if it could almost have been plucked from one of Fastheld's more affluent townships, yet that is quite clearly not the case.


 * ''Unlike the townships and cities of Fastheld, however, the north-eastern quarter of Crown's Refuge harbors too much *order* to it for it to have been a natural construction that evolved over time. There is no sign of the chaotic additions or renewal projects that symbolize a region that started off small and grew to something much larger, no variations in style or architecture that suggest that a hundred different people carved out their own niche as the settlement flourished. This is a residential area that was simply constructed in one attempt, complete with running water channeled from the river beyond the city.


 * ''Though not the only quarter of Crown's Refuge that people live it, it remains the largest and most dedicated region for that purpose within the freehold. Neatly arranged, well maintained, and unobjectionably clean, the residential area known as Wolfsbane's Row is a curious place to live that is both familiar and yet unfamiliar indeed. Larger streets eventually lead through the lattice of alleys and trails towards the south and west, leading to and from their respective pathways.

Taran is near the Songbird's Nest, though whether arriving or departing is difficult to say; he seems thoughtful this evening, but in good spirits.

Looking more like herself than Random Pub Girl X, Zia appears from the south. Fresh mud speckles her boots and the hem of that ever-present cloak, and a faint tiredness tugs at her step, suggesting she's done a lot of walking today. And yet she sings anyway, the lyrics blown away by the hard wind and dampened in the rain. Her hood has been drawn halfway up against the rain, but it's steadily falling back now.

Taran turns his head at the sound of song in such a storm, and smiles in the dark. Keeping his cloak close about him, he follows the singing.

Head down and half drowned, Zia's typically sharp senses manage to miss Taran. Maybe something else is dampening them, too. Still singing, keeping that meandering pace, she wanders in no particular hurry towards the welcome blue-green-yellow glow of the Southern Cross.

Ah, well, a tavern's as good a place as many to say hello, particularly in such weather. Taran follows her in, whistling.

Main Hall - 


 * ''The Southern Cross is what one might describe as a 'traditional' tavern within Crown's Refuge. Though constructed via magical means like most of the freehold, it seems clear that the architect of this inn must have been a former Imperial of Fastheld, for much of the establishment's personality can be clearly traced back to the idea of such buildings being filled with subdued lighting and as many shadowy areas as possible from which one can brood within.


 * ''The building itself is "L" shaped, with the main polished-oak bar being in the corner in which horizontal and vertical meet, pushed up against the back wall so that the Innkeeper can keep watch over all of his establishment. Circular tables and high-backed wooden chairs fill the floor space while "U" shaped booths line the walls beneath stained-glass windows and a myriad of

trophies and ornamentation.


 * ''It is a tavern that has been clearly designed for the Wildlanders of Crown's Refuge, and whatever visiting Imperials may be in the freehold at any given time, having little in the way of consideration for the Syladris but not excluding them from the premises should they wish to try and navigate the floor. The lighting remains dull and subtle - be it day or night - with candles that burn a dark blue flame providing the only means of light other than that which manages to stream through the stained glass windows.


 * ''Stairs at the top of the "|" of the inn lead upstairs to the second level, while a trapdoor near the well-stocked bar leads into a basement below, as well as an alchemy lab, oddly enough. The door leading back out into Wolfsbane's row remains at the '-' end of the "L".

Zia pauses inside the door, quieting as she peels off her soaked cloak. She's noticed the whistling by now, and turns to grin at Taran as he follows her in. "Evening. One wonders why I need a rune when you turn up anyway whenever I start singing."

"Sometimes I am farther than the sound of your voice?" offers Taran, sliding out of his leather cloak. "Who else would sing in the rain? ...Well. If not me, that is."

Zia smiles. "You can have an uncanny knack for it, anyway. Probably someone else just as crazy. I hope we're not the only ones."

"So far, it would seem so," says Taran, heading to a table. "But it seems a tolerated madness, at least."

Zia grimaces, rubbing her arms and shivering as she follows along. "I think I find that depressing."

"And yet you wonder that I am often moody," says Taran lightly. "What has you out and about in the autumn rains?"

"Ai, I don't wonder," Zia teases. "You think too much." (Pot: Meet kettle.) "Gossip does. This makes my fourth tavern today--thank the Light I don't drink."

"Tea, I find, warms wonderfully," Taran notes. "And spiced cider is in season at the moment as well."

Zia nods. "Aye... aye it is." She eyes the bar contemplatively. "You know, I hate to admit it, but it's nice to be back."

Taran smiles. "I like the Dragon better, but...I agree. So...where have you been?"

Zia shakes her head slightly. "I mean... back to doing what I do." She leans back, holding her hands up before her to tick down fingers as she thinks. "Hunter's Horn, Bramblestone, Hedgehem. I'll go back to the Dragon's Hoard in Light's Reach tomorrow, maybe, to make sure the barkeep's spreading the word like he should be. Lightholder ought to be covered by now."

Taran smiles. "I'm hoping to talk with Tshepsi sometime soon. And perhaps Rowena afterward. I understand their fear, but...the boy we found was near dead. We cannot afford to neglect any clue that offers."

Zia nods. "Sandrim mentioned some trouble, aye. What's going on, exactly?"

"That would be the trouble," Taran sighs. "No one really knows. Based on what circumstantial evidence offers, I think we may be dealing with a druid necromancer of some sort. But I have encountered so many flatly bizarre things in the wildlands, that I will readily concede it may be something entirely new to me. Whatever it is, it took several of the city's children...and we have recovered only one."

Zia sighs. "You know I'd help... but I think infiltrating layer upon layer of Church defense is about as much as I can handle right now."

Taran nods. "I know," he says simply. "We do what we can, as we can, and trust that others will do the same. That is all anyone can do."

"That said... let me know if you need me?" Zia looks a little doubtful. "I have no rune to give you, and I don't know what I can do, but I will do what I can, if I'm needed."

Taran smiles. "All I would ask is convincing Rowena to let anyone that wishes study that vault. Wisdom comes from strange places at times - there is no way to know who might have the secret of its unraveling."

A smile that Zia returns. "I will try," she says. "But I can't promise you anything. Duchesses are harder than most anyone else."

Taran nods. "I will go myself, once I have spoken to Tshepsi," he says. "But as I was in part acting in Tshepsi's defense, I wish to see her first."

"In Tshepsi's defense?" Zia asks, frowning slightly. "The vault put her in danger?"

Taran spreads his hands. "She is a good guardian and guide for Crown's Refuge, but she knows little of human politics," he says. "It has at times cost the city dearly. I did not want to give Thayndor the opportunity to deceive her again."

Zia nods, rubbing at her temple. "Aye. And the Light knows that if there's something Thayndor can do, it's deceive."

Taran nods. "I apparently anticipated more than I thought...if Tshepsi was insisting the vault be removed, it would have been a perfect chance for him to offer to take it. And...I do not think that would have helped any of the children."

"No. It would have helped his curiosity and possibly his pocketbook, but not the children," Zia agrees. "It is safe where it is, whether that's too safe or not."

Taran nods. "Such is my guess, yes. I suppose I should have expected Rowena's terror. I am grown too used to the strangeness of the wilds, perhaps. If it is not trying to kill me, I tend not to worry much about it."

"Terror?" Zia muses. "What do you suppose is the easiest way to make her feel safe? Other than surround the vault with a dozen guards day and night."

"She already set a constant guard on it," says Taran dryly. "And I wish I knew...it is metal. It does not seem too likely to get up and cause trouble."

Zia nods, blowing a breath. "It might be a starting point, at least."

Taran nods. "Perhaps if I find out what frighted Tshepsi, I can use that knowledge to reassure Rowena...but it seems unlikely they would sense the same thing about the vault, whatever that thing might be."

"Maybe," Zia says. "Even if they don't sense the same thing, understanding what Tshepsi sees can't hurt."

Taran nods. "She has reasons for everything she does...it is just that sometimes her reasoning is a bit strange."

"Even so, she *is* the Archmage. That must hold some sway with Rowena, whatever the reasoning behind it is," Zia points out.

Taran mmms. "Sometimes I wonder," he sighs. "They accept Tshepsi as a ruler here...partially because she is Archmage, I think, and partly because the city would hardly accept Kingdom rule otherwise...but I have often had cause to wonder if they have any true respect for her at all."

"Light I hope they do," Zia says quietly. "No ruler can lead for long if they don't have some kind of respect from their people."

"Tshepsi has the respect of the Wildlanders, and the Syladris," says Taran quietly. "They are her people. Fastheld? I really do not know. The Refuge was made part of Fastheld, but the bond remains untested."

"Let it stay so," Zia says. "I can't help but think it can't hold terribly strong--not peacefully--if put to a real test."

Taran nods. "The Wildlanders would not take well to a show of force. Many have tried to take over the city - it's averaged a siege a year since its inception I think. At the moment...I leave it be, as a question. There are more urgent matters to consider."

"For the time," Zia agrees, nodding. "And it's not exactly a pretty thing to contemplate."

"It wasn't a pretty thing to contemplate when I was Archon, either," says Taran tiredly. "More than once, the ...unsubtle hint: do what we want, or we will take the city by force. Every gift had strings attached...Fastheld wanted this city, and in the end, it got it."

"In one sense." Zia leans across the table to land a light thwap on Taran's upper arm. "Didn't I say you think too much?" She casts a thoughtful look to the bar. "That cider is starting to sound really good. Would you like some?"

Taran smiles. "Yes. Yes, I would. It is a poor night to be dwelling on past mistakes."

"Exactly." Zia grins, and lifts a hand in the air to flag down a server and place an order for each of them. Coins glimmer as they change hands--she'll probably see more than one of those again before all is said and done. "So," she says as the server wanders off after the ciders. "What were you doing standing out in the rain on a night like this?"

"Making sure just enough of all the rain got into my greenhouse," Taran grins. "Griedan doesn't know a thing about plants, and Adri's busy with the baby."

Zia laughs, accepting the ciders as they appear and sliding one to Taran. "You were supervising the rain. Did it find its way to earth all right, then?"

Taran grins. "Well, it is unfortunately a short step from 'just enough' to 'Adri, where do you keep the mops, I can't find them'," he says lightly.

"In which case, looking at how long you've been in here chatting with me, you'll probably have a veritable flood when you go back." Zia takes a long swallow of the cider, closing her eyes to enjoy the spiced warmth as it finds its way down her throat.

Taran shakes his head. "I found you as I was leaving. But that is what I was doing in this part of the city."

Zia sets her mug down suddenly, stifling a cough with her hand and rising to her feet. "I'll be... right back," she manages, and just that quickly, she turns and heads for the door.

Taran frowns. "What is it?" he asks, rising. And yes, he will follow.

Zia doesn't answer, either not hearing or flat out trying to avoid Taran's pursuit. Not that she's being particularly stealthy--more than one pair of eyes follows her as she slips out through the doorway, into the rain and around the side of the building.

Taran is not about to let her get away so easily, though, and is more than willing to follow her out into the rain - though he does grab his cloak on the way.

Zia barely clears the corner by the time a violent coughing fit seizes her--deep, painful chest coughs that make her limbs shake and her eyes water. She puts out a hand to steady herself against the wall, focusing attention on trying to calm the fit and failing miserably.

Taran grabs her in alarm. "Zia! No - that's it. Inside. *Now*. Don't think I won't tie you hand and foot if I need!"

Zia's in the middle of a violent coughing fit, having actually fled the tavern in a thwarted attempt to hide it. As such, she's not really in a position to do much more than make some weak grumble of protest between hacks, forget putting up enough of a struggle to require being tied hand and foot.

Sandrim strolls into the tavern, yawning widely... before he pauses and looks at the scene before him. "Are you alright?"

Taran does his best to haul her back into the warmth of the tavern. "You have a room here? Room is good - " he pauses as Sandrim arrives. "No, she is not, and I need to get her into the light and warm to give her the examination she's been ducking for a good while now."

The coughs subside enough for Zia to sneak a couple of words in edgewise around them, grimacing at the pain in her chest. "I'm fine... Really." She smiles weakly. "It'll... pass."

Sandrim raises an eyebrow at Zia. "Really, don't make me laugh," he says. "What does she have?"

"Exactly what I want to haul her into the light and warm to find out," says Taran firmly. "A hand, please? If it's contagious you and I are likely to get it soon anyway, just from being near her. As well as half the population of Fastheld, the way she's been going about taverns."

"A bad *cold*," Zia insists, allowing herself to be led mostly because she doesn't have much of a choice.

Sandrim gives Zia a wry look. "Of course," he says. "Okay, let's get on up there." He goes over to Zia's other side, to coax her up the stairs.

Taran nods. "If it's a cold, you won't mind indulging a paranoiac healer to find that out," he agrees. "And no more making it worse by running out into thunderstorms without your cloak."

"I knew you'd only worry if you saw..." Zia murmurs helplessly, grasping the railing to help pull herself up the steps.

Sandrim sighs and shakes his head. "Of course," he says as he follows up the stairs. "Honestly, just should have let him."

Taran gives Zia an almost angry look. "I am not a lovestruck child who cannot bear his lady suffer any hurt," he says, nearly a growl. "But when there is sickness all over Freehaven, and you are *doubled over* with coughing - often enough to know to run away just to *hide* it - then *yes*, the fool of a healer wants to be certain it is just a cold. Indulge me, will you?"

Second Floor - 


 * ''The second floor of the Southern Cross is a fairly conventional affair consisting of a wide wooden landing that leads into one of the various private rooms that the tavern offers to people that wish to live in a somewhat unconventional home rather than a town house.


 * ''Clear-glass windows rest at either end of the hallway, overlooking the street below, while the occasional explosion or haunting musical chime can sometimes be heard from behind the often locked and triple-reinforced door of the Tavern's owner, one Garrett Hawklight, a somewhat eccentric mage.

"I go to Northreach in a *week*," Zia snaps back, with a vehemence that almost re-triggers the fit. "I haven't got the *time* to catch whatever they've got in Freehaven--and if I've got it and it doesn't kill me, it could very well save my life in there." Cough. Coughcoughcough. Releasing the banister as they reach the top, she lifts a hand to point to her door.

And Sandrim heads that way. "Pity that diseases don't work by our schedules," he says cheerfully.

"Remarkable how little sickness cares for that," says Taran calmly, watching her progress carefully. "If you do not make the time it will simply take it from you. And I am not about to add another regret to my rather large pile over this."

"I am *not* going to be another one of your regrets," Zia says firmly, gathering her strength back as she starts towards the indicated door. "Colds can get bad, too."

Sandrim reaches out to push the door open. "Then let's get you in. After the two of you."

Taran nods, perhaps to both of them. "Then we see to it that regrets are avoided all around. To bed with you."

Ziavri's Room - 


 * ''It's an empty sort of room, this one. Not really large - no, closer to downright small, but still with that vague sense of too much space, not enough stuff. Well-swept, well-cleaned, the lack of clutter only emphasizes how little it feels like anyone actually lives here. Actually, there's very little to separate it from the inn's guest rooms, as if no one ever cared enough to personalize it.


 * ''The bed stands in the corner, just as it always has from the day the innkeeper moved it in and started renting it out to whoever had the money. Normally, the sheets are kept neatly folded across the straw mattress, as pristine and unrumpled as if they'd never been slept in at all. There's three windows - small, round ones, aligned in a neat row across the outward-facing wall. Around the edges they bear the blue-and-green stains of the ones below in the inn proper, and the faint outline of some sort of leafy design, but in the center the stains fade to clear glass - clean, like nearly everything else in the room. Each window has a single brass hinge on one side, and a matching latch on the other to let it swing open and let in the air. Outside, tree limbs swoop low towards the building, leaves and branches scraping the walls outside in windy weather, and the steeply-slanted roof of the inn keeps off rain.


 * ''A lone wooden chest stands at the foot of the bed, latched shut and looking orderly. Near the windows stands a writing desk, plain and unadorned, looking a little worn about the edges. With that comes a single, uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, and a bedraggled looking potted plant sits atop it in the place where the sunlight pools from the windows. It looks to be the only thing lending any personality at all to the place.


 * ''There's exactly one door, matching all the other doors to the inn and leading back out into the hallway and the upstairs of the inn.

Biting her tongue, Zia is shepherded into her sparse little room and takes a seat on the bed. Her hands lace in her lap, and she's not actively struggling or an apparent flight risk.

Sandrim takes up a sort of guard position by the door anyways, dragging a chest toward it. "Think it's... That?"

Taran shakes his head. "I don't think anything just at present," he says. "Rather gets in the way of an accurate diagnosis, and I am hardly going to tie her to the bed over a cold." He sets about building up a fire, though - hot and bright. "Steaming water will help the cough in any event, at the very least."

Zia sighs, eyeing them both--particularly Sandrim, with his need to bar the door. "There's a window, too?" she suggests, still irritated but recovering a modicum of forced mirth.

Sandrim grins. "Can I help with an preparations?"

Taran thaws enough to laugh a bit at that. "Hot water," he says. "Steaming hot. I won't know what to add to it until we're done, but steam in the room will help." He turns back to Zia. "You knew I would worry. I would have appreciated honesty before now." Shedding his cloak again, he sets his pack down by the bed and moves to examine her, if she'll allow - checking the temperature of her skin, strength of her pulse.

"I go to Northreach in a week, and Isa needs my help," Zia repeats, letting Taran inspect her. "If I do have something, I can't be held back, bedridden." She smiles faintly. "'sides, maybe the Church'll catch it." Her skin is warm with the heat of a low-grade fever, but her pulse is strong, if a little quick.

"And maybe you'll just cough to death outside," Sandrim remarks, before nodding to Taran and scampering away for the water.

Taran nods. "Even if just a cold, with the wet and the chill outside, it can become worse," he says quietly. "The phrase 'you'll catch your death of cold' is not, unfortunately, an old wive's tale. Now...breathe slowly and deeply, as regularly as you can...and try not to hide. I will not be trying to hear your thoughts. I just want to sense...pain, discomfort. It will save time and perhaps humiliation."

"It was closer than coming up here," Zia says meekly, breathing as instructed. At the top of the first inhale, the breath rattles in her lungs and she shudders, bends, and flings an arm across her mouth as it dissolves into another bout of painful chest-coughs.

Sandrim comes up a little later, struggling with a tub full of hot water. "Mmf. Water is too heavy."

Taran closes his eyes, leaving his fingers over Zia's pulse as he goes very quiet, very still for several moments. "...It is not a cold," he says quietly, almost distantly. "Breathing...it sits in the chest..." he opens his eyes, frowning. "Steam is a good start. Thank you very much, Sandrim. Steam is a good start. Breathe steam..." but he's frowning, puzzled. Withdrawing his hand, he sits by his pack, drawing out his kit. "I could feel it, in the lungs...what *do* I have for that..." he starts opening up the kit, riffling through the contents.

Zia stiffens slightly as the announcement is made. "Not a cold," she repeats--dully, not terribly surprised. "No idea what it *is*, though?"

Sandrim frowns thoughtfully. "If you need steam," he says thoughtfully. "There /are/ the baths."

Taran nods. "A thought, certainly," he says, sorting through a collection of small thick glass vials. "The lungs...there is ...matter, weight, in the lungs. This makes it difficult to breathe and induces the coughing. It needs to be loosened, coughed out..." One bottle, and then another, and another, taken from the kit and set on the floor. "You need to rest a while, Zia, as horribly dull as that sounds, and counterproductive. The body needs the energy to mend, not to run about...how goes the rumormongering?"

"Well, but not well enough that I can just abandon it," Zia says, watching the bottles line up on the floor with a sort of dread. "Lightholder's covered. Maybe a couple others are started, if I'm lucky. After awhile, it will spread itself, but I don't know that I'm there yet, and there's no time for it." She sighs, pulling a foot onto the bed and hugging her knee to her. "...How long, and how badly do I need to rest?"

"Long enough," Sandrim says dryly. "And you need to stay away from others as you do, so you don't go spreading this more than you have already."

Taran nods to that, a bit ruefully. "The two of us, Naoi...you may well have a lot of company soon. Just rest until the fever breaks, at least?" He frowns at the little bottles. "And on that note I had better go gathering, and prepare a lot more of these. Just in case." Back into the kit he goes, until he's fished out a small bowl. "Ah...Sandrim, do you think you could persuade the innkeep to part with some honey? It might help the taste a bit."

Zia winces at that, lifting a hand to rub tiredly at her temple. "I'm... sorry. I don't want anybody else to get sick."

Sandrim nods, smiling faintly. "I'm gonna head to the greenhouse," he says. "Be well, both of you."

Taran sighs. "It may already be too late for that. I wish...I wish I were a better healer. I'm not bad at all, but it's mostly because I get into trouble so much that I keep in practice." Careful amounts are taken from each jar, added to the bowl. "This is going to taste awful. But it will coat your throat, which should help the cough. It may loosen whatever it is in your chest. ...and unfortunately, it will *definitely* give you very vivid and bizarre dreams."

Zia watches the mixing process, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed. There's an unfamiliar touch to her carefully maintained expression, one that looks suspiciously like embarrassment. "I will take the dreams... I swear I honestly did think it nothing more than a cold. A bad one, maybe, but nothing serious."

"...I don't know how serious it is," says Taran honestly. "It is not a cold. That is all I can say. And...as I cannot say what it *is*, or what danger it may represent to you, or anyone...just a few days? Just until the fever breaks?" The last vial gives its donation to the mix, and a small glass stirring rod is removed from a slim wooden case to mix the syrupy liquids together thoroughly.

Zia sighs, shifting her position on the bed. "A few days," she grants. "I s'pose that's long enough to see whether it'll get worse or better, anyway." She pauses, and asks almost sheepishly, "If you... or if Sandrim... happen to find yourself someplace public, do think think you could maybe mention it to someone? In passing? Or send them to the Dragon's Hoard or Lightholder for more information?"

Taran tilts his head. "The rumor you wanted to spread?"

Zia nods. "Aye."

Taran nods. "I will tell him," he says, and holds up the little bowl. "Drink this down. It will probably feel like it's glued itself to the back of your throat, but it should help the cough at least."

Zia nods. "Thank you." Reaching out, she accepts the bowl and tilts it to her lips, draining it. Nasty. Very definitely quite nasty, but she seems unable to find the heart to make quite so elaborate a grimace as she normally would, expressing her distaste only by a quiet little snort.

Taran nods. "I know," he says quietly. "I think I've become infamous for vile concoctions...there's no room in my kit for flavorings. I'll keep the water on the fire, so there is water in the air in here. That should help too."

"Thank you for it anyway," Zia says softly, kicking off her boots and lifting her feet up onto the bed. She smiles wryly. "I s'pose I've managed to fail miserably at being cheering tonight. Sorry 'bout that."

Taran smiles a bit, and - healer's duty discharged for the now - is rather more affectionate in helping her get ready for bed. "I will not try to save you from every little bump and scrape, my dear," he says gently. "I never had much use for fainting flowers. I liked Celeste better when she had passion and conviction ...I like most people better that way." He pauses, thinking. "Did you truly believe I would try to stop you over a mere cold...or were you more afraid that it was not a cold at all?"

"My niece is sick, with whatever they have in central Fastheld," Zia says. "I was hoping against hope it was a cold. But I knew there was a chance it wasn't. Isn't. Ever talked yourself into believing something?" She smiles faintly. "No. I was afraid of the same thing I'm still afraid of--that it'll turn bad, and I won't be able to do what I must. And I should certainly hope you wouldn't try to save me from everything. Light, you'd drive yourself madder than you already are." She manages a grin. "And me too, probably."

Taran smiles. "I try to preserve what sanity I have. Everything keeps trying to steal it, after all. It must be worth something." He sets lightly about getting her tucked in. "I can ask my sister to help you here, but...she has the baby to consider. I suppose I will just have to hope I don't catch it...or something."

"I haven't the slightest what," Zia teases, and sobers some. "If it... the thing from Fastheld, it has been killing the very young, the very old, and the weak."

"Then we keep you away from my nephew for the time being, and otherwise hold firm," says Taran simply. "Most illness will kill the weakest first. So, you will not wear yourself out."

Zia smiles wryly. "Or so I'd hope. But aye. I don't want to infect your nephew with whatever I've got--even if it isn't whatever came from Fastheld."

Taran nods. "Which we do not know, but we should in a few days. Not, I imagine, that that would be pleasant."

Taran smiles a bit. "No cough at present at least. That's good."

"Whatever you gave me was a bit like swallowing congealed molasses, but it seems to be working," Zia agrees. "Feels better, at least."

Taran smiles a bit at that. "Dreams will be interesting, I assure you. Probably moreso than being awake for a while. But I will stay, and play the lute. That should help."

Zia smiles a little, shifting to her side amidst the covers. "You know you can stay as long as you like... but don't lose your own sleep for me, aye?" Even as she speaks, her eyes are already quietly closing.

Taran nods. "I will sleep on the floor. I am comfortable on floors. There can be music when you wake."

Zia snorts. "Or backaches. I promise I will be here in the morning--even without Sandrim to guard the door against my escape."

Taran stretches out, to all appearances quite comfortable. "I sleep on the ground a lot. Floors are less bumpy and full of rocks."

Zia can't see him, eyes closed as they are, but she can hear the rustle of fabric on the wood, and smiles a little. "I think... there are blankets somewhere? In one of the chests, maybe. Or under the bed. I don't remember. Or you could take one or two from the bed. I don't mind."

"I have my cloak, Zia," says Taran, amused. "And enough floor to stretch out on. I am quite well situated."

Zia sighs. "I should try to make you find someplace more comfortable and further away. If it had not been such a long day. If my head was not full of congealed molasses. If I had a little more willpower, I s'pose." Still, she seems pleased to have him there. "Rest well."

Taran laughs quietly. "Rest well."

Return to Season 8 (2008)