People around the hall of the Keep were coughing up a storm. Many already began growing boils on their skin. Others irises turned pink or orange and the scleras became tinged with yellow. Several continuously vomited until only blood came out, and then promptly fainted. Dysentery ran rampant, as did pneumonia, a pox, and even leprosy. It was a wonder how the plague did not have a period of three or so days for an incubation period.
Those who remembered the Luskan war suggested it was a curse of some sort. Magic. The mages of the Keep were singled out and taken in for questioning and nearly every cleric had their hands full trying to stop infection from spreading. It was the Wailing Death all over again.
The source happened to be lying underneath of a stairwell, too weak to move, too hopeless to try. There was a trail of fingers that had fallen off, coupled with clumps of hair here and there. With luck, someone was sure to follow them and find him…
Shivering despite the burning fever, hands no more than bones and buboes, the gnome stumbled through the Keep. He was, he knew, very very sick, and he hurt so much, he wasn’t thinking right, ideas skittering out of his grasp, lyrics and notes gone from his mind even if he could have sung them when his tongue was rotting in his mouth and his teeth fallen loose from bloody gums.
But he remembered - most of the time - the one driving imperative. He had to get to the basement. He had to make sure the Construct was all right, that it wasn’t sick or hurting or afraid…
Step. Lurch. Step. Fall.
The pain was dizzing, and he lay there for long moments before the urge fired him again. He fought to his feet.
Fell again.
Bones scraped on the stone floor as Grobnar crawled, inch by agonising inch. There were things on the floor, another’s blood, perhaps, or fingerbones, but he couldn’t really see it.
The stairs. Well, stairs were easy. All he had to do was fall, and he was good at that.
The gnome tumbled down the stairs, little more than a rotting scrap of flesh and pain, smearing them with blood.
Illindriel heard the shuffling of one limping down the stairs. He was too sickened to hope for discovery, but he knew his chances were elevating the closer the noises became. Head bowed, mask clinging to his puckered skin, he awaited either his salvation or his death.
Then came the sharp thumping noises of someone descending down the steps like a boulder down a hill. Absurdly enough, a gnome had appeared, small, damaged and bloodied, near-death with infection, but still living. He had the drive to keep going that Illindriel lacked.
Illindriel would have wept openly, there on the floor of the basement beneath the stairwell, but his tear ducts were nonfunctional. His lungs were so filled up with fluid that each breath was a low, faint wheeze punctuated by the occasional moan. Death. For one of the few times in his life he desired death over this illness, this misery that was so much more worse than anything he had ever given up for his goal of lichdom. While he knew his health would deteriorate day by day without even encountering this mask, he knew that before long he would have made the transition to lichdom and the pain would ease before it could build up to such an unbearable point.
But undeath and plague were two different beasts with their own forms of destruction. And here, before him and struggling to move, was an example of the havoc wreaked. The poor, small thing was almost too far gone to salvage with necromancy.
But still… perhaps it could help him. One way or another.
"Hhh… heeere." He breathed in sharply and coughed up wet flecks of blood. "Hhh-h—hhhhhhhh-eee-" Illindriel coughed some more and several more strands of hair were shook loose, joining the lost blood, pus, hair, waste, and deteriorating body parts on the floor that had fallen from his putrid, decaying body.
Grobnar heard someone calling, and should help them - had to find Construct - but he hurt so much and he couldn’t quite uncurl himself. “Coming!” he reassured them, or tried to, but all that came out of his mouth was a wet gurgle.
Shaking with the fever, the gnome finally managed to get to all fours - then almost screamed at the slight weight on one of his wrists, which had snapped like a twig as he tumbled down the stairs, and toppled over. For long moments he lay there, breath coming in harsh sobs, before he raised his head again and saw who had called for him.
Why, the poor - man? - was even worse than him, and he’d called for help, and if Grobnar could help, he would - the Construct would understand his delay, he knew -
His legs would not hold him now, but Grobnar dragged himself along slowly, one hand grasping at the floor, the broken one held clear, pushing a little with his feet, inching his way like a worm over to the stranger lying in a puddle of his own disease beneath the stairs.
He was crying with the effort and the pain, but eventually he made it. He was smeared with his blood, and the bits of the stranger’s refuse he’s crawled through, but he was there, and would do what he could to make them more comfortable while he was so sick. He patted their arm weakly, intending to reassure, and offered another wet gurgle.
Illindriel slumped over, sicker than he had ever been in his life, each inhale more akin to a hiss than a breath. His lungs, he assumed, must look like shriveled raisins. And this thing here, this blood-smeared, mucus excreting, sobbing and fractured gnome, still seemed to care enough to provide the masked and weakened moon elf with the best comfort he could. Illindriel moaned.
Maybe the gnome had more strength than he. He could hardly gather the energy to move his limbs, where the gnome had ventured down the flight of stairs.
"Mask," he groaned weakly, a fleck of bloody spittle dangling from the hole of the mouth. "T-t… t-take—" His sentence was cut off short as he was sent into another coughing fit. More strands of hair fell out.
Grobnar couldn’t think what a mask had to do with anything - couldn’t think at all, really, not through the pain and the way his thoughts keep skittering away like bugs into dark corners, but with less legs - but the stranger seemed to be wearing on, and it had to be important if he was trying so hard to say something about it. Maybe he wanted Grobnar to take the mask somewhere, to someone he cared about, or just… just…
Just help the man. Just take the mask.
He could do that. He thought.
He dragged himself upright with his one working hand, leaning his weight against the stairs because he couldn’t hold it. Sobbing with the effort, Grobnar reached up, managed to get a fingertip between the mask and the face beneath it…
The mask parted several inches, only to snap back. Illindriel nearly screamed in anguish. He was so close! So close to having the monstrosity of a plaguemongering mask removed! Instead he emitted a shrill whine that ended at a wet gurgle as blood spurted from his half-covered lips. To live forever in this state would be agonizing… too agonizing to bear…
No. No, the gnome had to remove the mask. Or else at least kill him in some way, end his torment. Again. They had to try again. Throat lubricated now with mucus and blood, he gurgled another request. “Try. Try ag… ag… ah-” He wheezed, bowing his head, and coughed. “Again!”
Grobnar nodded, gasping for breath as he reached up again. His heart was beating so fast it hurt - all of him throbbed with it - but he was trying, he was...
His fingers curled under the edge of the mask, and he pulled...
It was still in his hand as he fell, lying motionless on the floor.
