Winter Illness

===============================================================================
                      Dunland Time and Weather Forecast                      
===============================================================================

Real Time is:       Mon May 31 15:29:27 2010
IC weather is:      Wind: storm - Clouds: whiteout - Snow: blizzard
IC Moon is:         Not visible
IC time is:         Dawn
IC date is:         Monday, Day 23 of January in the year 3050.

===============================================================================

Courtyard <>
        After lying in a state of disrepair for some time, the walls of Redvyrne Keep have been repaired anew with solidly mortared stone, and stand tall all around the Courtyard. A temporary perimeter of crude sod and earth mixed with fire-blackened rocks yet remains within that stronger protection as a reminder that this place has fallen in the past and been restored. Smaller buildings have arisen near the inner Keep's bulk for those who provide valuable services to the Chieftain. In the center, a covered well with a winched bucket maintains a constant water supply for the residents. Warriors on guard duty stand constant vigil over the fortified gates to the north which give access to the Keep proper.
 
        Torches flare inside the walls, shining dim light into the courtyard's shadows. To the south, the Keep's dark bulk blots out the night sky. It is relatively quiet with little of the foot traffic found during daylight hours. Men on watch call out periodically from far points of the wall, or stop briefly on their rounds to exchange a few words in passing.

Contents:
Nob
Brev
Nurenhir
Bledrann
Obvious exits:
 Apothecary leads to Apothecary <>.
 Gates leads to Highlands - Dunland <>.
 Stables leads to Stable <>.
 Keep leads to Wulf Hall <>.

[Brev(#30997)] Redvyrne Keep has been under seige many times, in the shifting tides of Dunland that pit clan against clan and man against man. These past days, though, the assailant has not been Wulf clan's traditional enemy but rather the very elements. Snow batters against its stout walls, and grasping fingers of icy wind find their way in through every crack and cranny.

It is morning now, but the snow-filled sky is so dim and grey that it's hard to tell. Most of the Keep's inhabitants - those folk gathered to serve the Chieftain and his warlords - huddle within the great hall, wondering just how many more days this will go on, and how long their dwindling foodstocks will last.

The outer door opens and a pair of men enter - no locals these, but visitors, and the sword that the younger wears proclaims him no commoner. Currently his head is turned as he speaks to his companion: "-leaving? Damn this weather, it's high time we were moving on. Where /has/ that oaf Callan got to? And I have a headache starting." He lifts one long-fingered hand to massage his temples.

[Nob(#16122)] From somewhere back in the twisty depths of the keep, a great wail breaks out. The sound echoes down corridors - by the time it reaches the great hall, it is muted, but still very evident. Well loud enough to catch the attention of those there, even over the hum of conversation.

[Nurenhir(#14756)] 
The older of the two is stamping snow from his feet. As the unnatural cry rings out upon the stones, he looks up with an unpleasant grin, though perhaps not completely confident. "Bothering the ladies, I presume?" he replies, shrugging a shoulder suggestively.

[Shaaknar(#16331)]
There is a shriller whine amid the cries -- a child perhaps? But the sound is soon lost inside the others that accompany it, warped oddly by the passageways. And now another noise, like that of coughing, though faintly muted.

[Brev(#30997)] Heads turn at the wailing, faces pale and conversations, such as they were, are replaced by mutters. "..the third.." "..not natural.." "..since /they/ came.." At that last, one or two look toward the pair of strangers.

The younger of these, Fian Bledrann Faol, ceases rubbing at his temple and shoots his companion an amused glance. "I'd wager you've been doing some of that yourself, for all you've a goodwife waiting at home. But the fellow's hardly stirred since we reached the Keep. Hiding in corners, coughing and wheezing. Malingerer." He turns his head toward the sound of faint coughing and barks out impatiently, "You. What /is/ that noise?"

[Nob(#16122)] As the wail dies away, there is silence then the sound of running grows in the unseen corridors, until a woman bursts through a door near the back of the hall. "He's DEAD!" she shrieks. "Dead, oh dead...."

[Shaaknar(#16331)]
...the strange coughing has subsided. Only that foreboding silence lingers beyond the open door in the wake of the woman.

[Nurenhir(#14756)] 
The elder swats irritatedly at Bledrann, scowling. "Now, now." He looks up, beard bristling. "Dead? I must say, there's a limit to how much malingering that fool'd do ... How did he go? A cooking pot over the head? A cleaver between the ribs?" Good humor fading, he strides toward the doorway, leaving snowy tracks on the rushes.

[Brev(#30997)] Bledrann, scowling back at his companion, starts to stride toward that rear door, shaking his head - then stops, wincing. "This place is too damn bright," he mutters under his breath, before continuing his progress rather more gingerly. "Who's dead, woman? Not Callan? I trusted your healers to take /care/ of my men." His hand clenches round his sword hilt, the knuckles whitened. In fact, in general the Fian is looking rather pale today.

Having found the source of the wails, he looks no further for the one who'd been coughing.

[Nob(#16122)] "The boy... the Lord's own son!" There are shocked gasps, and faces that turn white and wide-eyed to look at her.

[Nurenhir(#14756)] 
Iwan's smirk fades as he crosses the threshold, shoving a mourner aside none too gently. "Plenty of children don't live to be five," the older man remarks quietly through his beard. "This, though ... looks unnatural." One gauntleted hand slips under the fur-trimmed cloak, where a knife-laden belt hangs. "Stay away from here, it doesn't seem to be the common cough ... Fian?" The outsider has noticed Bledrann's pallor.

[Brev(#30997)] "Oh." Bledrann is already starting to turn away from the woman and her news when an anonymous voice comes from the crowd. "It was them! Brought the sickness with them."
And another, rather older and more quavering, "It's Kiern's curse, I tell ye. Our Lords have failed him."
Bledrann squints toward the speakers, haughty features fixed in a scowl that is more a grimace. "Winter coughs are common enough. It is nothing more. The people of Kierkgard are malingerers, are you of Wulf no better?" It has a fine, ringing sound to it, rather spoiled by that fact that he mutters under his breath to his companion Iwan, "Think you can handle them? Kiern, my head." And then, angrily, "Don't look at me like I'm about to die! It's the old malady, no more."

[Nob(#16122)] The woman is too distraught to notice what anyone is saying and soon enough a few others have hurried to her side, supporting her back into the darker hallway. There are ringing footsteps ahead of her, as of booted feet hurrying through the keep - whichever Lord it is whose son has just died, apparently knew the child was ill, for he hasn't waited to be summoned.

[Shaaknar(#16331)]
A few of the concerned crowd draw closer, covering their mouths as though to ward off germs. "They will be the death of us all!"

"Toss them out!" another shouts, waving his arms in a shooing motion of disgust at Iwan and the Fian.

[Nurenhir(#14756)] 
Iwan's beard bristles in a wide grin. "Get back," he murmurs to the young lord. Pulling himself up to a thick, barrel-chested height, he paces before the people of the keep, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

"It is the winter, not Kiern, who takes pleasure in punishing your people," he tells them, dark eyes glittering dangerously. "As such, you have only a bad case of the weather. We're but hale travellers who have never seen your precious child, Kiern bless his heart. If you've any sense, burn the body and keep to yourselves. I've heard asters ward off the cold, too. Try them?"

[Brev(#30997)] "Lay hands on a Fian, and you'll lose your arm," comes a cynical female response to the arm-waver's shouts. "You know what they're like, thick as thieves."
"Then let us be rid of them all!" another shouts, in deeper anger-filled tones.

Bledrann's hand is still clenched round his sword-hilt, and despite Iwan's calming words he starts to draw it, the blade coming perhaps half a foot out of its sheath before his arm jerks to a halt, his features white. He swallows, hard, and forces a response. "We will drink with the Lord this night to share his loss. Should you not be prepare the death-feast?" Feast. A disgusted grimace sets his features at that word, and his gaze slides longingly toward the Keep's dark interior.

[Shaaknar(#16331)]
The foremost man dithers for a moment, and then backs away as Iwan speaks, and as Bledrann moves for his sword. But others of the people it seems are not so easily convinced, and a younger boy among them calls out, "Burn the body and keep to ourselves, that is fine...but that doesn't work when we've got the sickness creeping in here, despite our 'keeping to ourself' efforts. It's /him/," the lad points at Bledrann, "I'm worried about. Looks ill himself!" The majority of the crowd does however begin breaking up at the mention of preparing a feast -- perhaps they have sense enough to know what needs to be dealt with... or perhaps they want any excuse they can get to be further away from the pale looking Fian.

[Nurenhir(#14756)] 
Iwan rolls his eyes, shooing away the worried faces with a careless gauntlet. "The Fian is weary because of your insults," he growls. "Off, off with you all, now, or else," looking around, it seems his threats are needless as a path is cleared.

"Fian," the man grunts, hauling on Bledrann's arm, "you can't show up to the child's funeral-feast looking like a millstone dropped on your head. A winter illness, was it ..?" Even he is markedly avoiding the other's touch, tugging on his sleeve instead.

[Brev(#30997)] Bledrann does indeed look anything but hale. He keeps swallowing convulsively. Squinting in the general direction of the lad (though oddly he does not appear to be quite focussing), he lets his hand fall from his sword (probably thanks to Iwan's tugging hand) and starts to speak slowly, carefully. "It is an old woun-" The words halt abruptly and without warning he twitches convulsively and folds over Iwan's arm, out in a dead faint. Even those of his own men who have heard of the Fian's 'dark days' have not seen such a thing in the past.

[Shaaknar(#16331)]
The people who yet remain give gasps of surprise and fright, peering with nervous-hooded eyes toward the fainted noble.

Even the young lad who had raised his voice over the clammer of his fellows has paled -- though it is a greyness of fear. He pushes himself behind the other men and women, and is gone from view. None of the lingering Dunlendings make any attempt to aid Bledrann nay, nor do they draw close enough. Soon the crowd is fully gone, hurrying through the doorways, while making sure to keep as safe of a distance as they can from the ill man.

[Nurenhir(#14756)] 
Even Iwan glances down in surprise at the man draped over his arm. Then the surprise quickly smoothens out into a razor-thin smile. "Winter illness," he assures those who are left, making for the dim hallway. "I'll need a cot, quick," the bearded man roars into the dark. "Fresh basin o' water. And no meddling." The free hand is poised on a dagger hilt as he drags Bledrann away from the commotion.

[Shaaknar(#16331)]
There is the sound of scrambling, as those who are nearest still rush off to gather the supplies Iwan speaks of. Unheard from inside the hall and the winding corridors, outside, the snow storm tosses about its furry against the outer walls. A winter illness that has taken an unexpected turn...and it is only dawn...it will be a long day for the people of the Keep.