In which there is a gathering

Spring is starting to rage outside, with only a cool wind to remind one of the winter just past. The Fire Lodge is living up to its name tonight, the heat is palpable. Most don't seem to notice, or let it bother them, indulging one another in stories and bravado, and enjoying ale and deliciously cooked meats. One who might be enjoying the heat a little less stands before one of the walls, gazing up at the murals scrawled there. Where she would normally be wearing heavy robes, instead she wears something more like a dress... lighter robes, perhaps? It has no hood, and leaves her arms bare, though hints of her feet and tail can be seen below the hem of the garment. Hetzakoatl leans forward a little, her browridge furrowing slightly as she regards one of the paintings. She hefts her staff a little, and lightly taps at the figure, muttering something under her breath.

Svarshan ducks his head reflexively as he enters the lodge. The sith-makar nods to a few there, though--he's quiet, quiet as usual as he heads towards the fire. For a while, it seems he only has eyes for the flame.

He slows though, at the sight of another scaled. "Hsss." He lets the sound escape, just above the sound of fire and crackle. "Pease to you, sshaman. It is good to. Ssee you."

A little flick, at the hem, her tail visible for a mere moment, is the only evidence of her not being a statue as she peers intently at the mural. Eventually, she blinks, and straightens, turning to regard rusty-scaled one. "Hmm, just sso, peace to you, Warrior. How have you been? It is good to ssee one after a long absence. How are the younglingss? Sstill running you ragged?"

"There are more hatched. Every day," he returns warmly. A father's pride, even if the newest aren't his. Not technically. But, does that matter? Especially among the sith-makar?

One is content, sshaman." He takes a step forward, his tail moving slowly, a thick rope behind him. "One iss. Very content and. It...it iss the right place for me to. Be."

A gurgling sound can be heard in her chest, and she chuckles, a hissing sound escaping her lips, just before a coughing fit takes. Wet and sharp, she turns and spits into the fire nearby. "Your pardon. That iss good to hear. It is.. pleassing that you are content. That you are in the right place for you."

His muzzle comes up, and he looks towards her sharply. Silence. Quiet. Thought.

... "Sshaman?" he asks, low-voiced. He makes it a question, and takes a step towards the other scaled. At least, close enough that a warrior's bulk blocks the room's peering eyes.

She stiffens at the question, her eyes blinking slowly. "It iss fine.", she says quietly. "It is an old wound." Leaning on her staff, she shuffles forward slightly. "Tell me, are you able to let loose fire? Like our ancestors of old?", Hetzakoatl says, her voice very low.

The warrior takes a step back, another. Giving her space. "Only ssmoke, sshaman. ...and forgive me. There is. There is plague, in this ssity. It comes with a cough. Ssimilar to..."

The tail flicks. Flicks. He's quiet a time after that, reflective, and shifts the topic. "Ssa, one cannot. One has sscent, as the blood of old--but a hunter's sscent. Only for demonkind."

"A plague would be eassier to deal with.", she says after a weighty pause. "You know why we do not name our younglings right away, like the ssoftskins?" Hetzakoatl blinks. "A demonhunter. Just sso. Yourss is a story I would know."

Quieter, heavier silence. "Hsss," Svar says, and the sound is as weighted as the world. "One...knows. Shaman. One treasures them every. Day." The tail flicks.

Flicks.

"And what of your own. Sstory?" he asks the other, then. There's some gentle humor to it. "One iss sure. Mine is an open. Book. Perhapss. Not as interessting."

"They almosst did not name me.", she says softly. "And just sso, your sstory is more interessting than mine, for I am just beginning, and yourss has been told for ssome time now."

The scarleg turns, and looks towards the crowd. A few ears had perked at the mention of 'story.' A place of Angorians, a place of Tarienites, well... Svarshan huffs their way, and then turns back around. "Huhrrm..."

"...one is glad to sshare words. Sshaman. One is very glad. ...however..."

"One'ss sstory is a sstory of. Misstakes. There was a time that one did not wish to be among the People. One was. ...asshamed."

Hetzakoatl again stiffens, her facial expression fading away to something unreadable. "I undersstand." A beat or three go by. "But now, one is content with their place among the People?"

He flinches, and lowers his muzzle. Quiet, thoughtful. After a while, he exhales and the smoke curls about his muzzle. "One was ssmall, shaman. And one did not..."

"There were no paladins among the. People, in those years. We had forgotten."

"...and. When one was young, one left to be with the Myrrish to. Train."

Hetzakoatl nods slowly. "I think I undersstand. You chose your own path, you had to... punch above your weight and you left the People, choossing another as a... teacher. For guidance." She fusses with one of the large fangs at the end of her maw, rubbing at it slowly. "But our People need oness such as you. Sso that we may remember what has been forgotten."

One understands. ...now," he says, and there's warm irony in those words. He takes a step forward, and twists his head away from her. Shows the back of his neck. The scales break there, forming a rough, circular scar. Circles inside of circles, though old and...healed, rehealed. Healed again.

"...the Myrrish...do not think much of our. Instincts. The ssoftskin world was vast and. One wished to undersstand. And to sserve."

"My greatesst mistake, sshaman. Was lisstening to their doubts and wanting to be. More like. Them. One sstudied their texts. The...their laws. Hisstories. And even their old. Magics." The words--are said warmly, and with the contentment of someone who has since...perhaps, found a way, a place beyond old scars. Old mistakes, even...even as great as these sound. He looks across and meets the shaman's eyes, and there is no challenge there. Only acceptance. Quiet.

She leans in a little closer, enough that her breath can be felt upon his neck as she studies the scar. "Iss it one sscar or many?", Hetzakoatl wonders as she leans back. "That. What you say jusst now. That iss what I wish to do. To bring back their knowledge. Wisdom. To the People." Another cough sounds in her chest, and she falls silent.

"I do not ssee that it was a mistake. Nesssesssarily. Much knowledge, you musst have, in that mind of yours."

"...and misstakes. Misstakes, sshaman. One never felt as whole as when. ..." the muzzle twitches at its corner. "The Lady Ssandiel pulled the softsskin magic from that sspot and. Ssaved my life."

"...or when one rejoined the People and. Accepted who one was. One knows we are not the. Ssoftskins. One may sshare language. Or words. There are placess one may...overlap. But the edges do not. Match." Svarshan sits back on his tail, quiet. His words are quiet, warm. Content, and match the crackling of the fire in the Fire Lodge. There's a bit of a circle around them. People moving past. Giving a little space, for...whatever reason.

If it is possible for a white-scaled Sith to become paler, Hetzakoatl manages it briefly in hearing Svarshan's words. "I ssseeee.", she breathes out. "What fate wass awaiting you before Lady Ssandiel intervened? What would my fate have been?" Both questions are sotto voce, barely heard past the rust-scaled Sith. Another gurgle is heard and she coughs wetly once more. "Hmm. Hmmmm."

"...one tampered with. Old magics. ...one wished to undersstand, sshaman. The greatest magics the ssoftskins made...were enough to cut one off from the. Gods, themsselves."

Svarshan tilts his head to the side. Still, that contentment. That by now, absurd sort of contentment. Yet. Yet. ...

There is a brush and a fumble, a swishing of a tail and a murmer of confusion that is easily disregarded by the woman who ushers a tall cloaked sith-makar over to this corner in the middle of their conversation. He makes quiet protests as he is herded, but lets the much smaller woman chase him by virtue of being unwilling to allow her to touch him. Thus he has found his way here. In the light of the forge this sith-makar's scales seem almost purple, and shadowed by his cloak a dark purple at that. "Pardon." Zeke whispers the word, his tail flicking with discomfort.

"Ah. Alwayss the why and how, sseldom of the sshould one. I understand. More." The white-scale nods slowly, in time to the other's contentment. She stiffens at the arrival of the blue... purple? sith. Her eyes peer at Zeke for a few moments before she breaths out in a hiss. Followed by a gurgle. And then a wet cough, covered by the back of her hand. "One needss no pardon, here."

Svarshan looks upwards. Quiet, quiet. He turns his focus from the arrival, then, though does not turn him away. The body does not turn, though the eyes do. Gradually, a warmth spreads. An aura, a feeling of companionship, of peace. "Warrior-casste has made this plasse. Ssafe."

"Pease to your nesst," he says, contentedly. Then, looks across, looks to the female of the group to begin the words.

"Peassse to your nesstss." Zeke offers formally his green eyes flickering toward the pale-scaled sith with concern. He quiets his tail by wrapping it around his feet as best he can and pulls his cloak closer about himself in spite of the heat. Undoubtedly he is boiling under all those layers of cloth but if he is it doesn't show. "Are you well?" He asks this gently and politely, uncertainly.

"Peace to your nesstss.", she intones, looking to Svarshan a moment, before glancing to Zeke. "Indeed, the warrior-casstes of many a people have made thiss a ssafe place. Be at ease. I am Hetzakoatl, shaman, and he is Svarshan, warrior."

"I am well enough, it is an ... old wound."

"We were ssharing words of old," Svarshan says, voice pitched low. The sith-makar bears many scars, and smoke curls slowly from his muzzle. A contentment emanates from him. One can smell the scent of it, or feel it, against the scales.

"And...one's misstakes. It is good to sshare words. One is Svarshan, of sservice to the Empress, and the Father Dragon. This one is of warrior-caste," he says, naming the one thing that sith-makar identify themselves with, outside of the People in general. Caste. A sense of place, of family--within tribe and outside of it. From one place to the next.

Zeke watches Hetzakoatl like a mouse watches an owl it has spotted, but he obediently unfolds from himself. Loosens his tail, stands up, lets his cloak fall freely from his shoulders though it continues to shadow the left side perhaps more than it naturally would. In spite of all of this he somehow seems even less comfortable now than he had been before. He ducks his head at her, nodding slowly. "Thisss one is Zeke." He says his own name with an odd lisp that makes it sound almost a different letter, but continues on with one soft sway of his tail and just a touch of pride in his voice. "Kin of Chay."

The white-scale's facial expression softens as she observes Zeke's discomfort, and she nods then to his name. "Welcome, then, Zeke. We are all broken in ssome way. Be... at ease." She nods again. "I have met Chay. It is good to meet his kin. You are welcome here."

Svarshan leans forward, until his elbows rest comfortably on his knees. "Peasse to us," he says, contentedly. "One has not met this Chay. But. One is glad to hear another of the People. Sspoken well of. It is good. To be among one'ss kin." The tip of the tail flicks, slowly, like a slow metronome.

"We were ssharing stories of. Old misstakes. But perhaps. More cheerful sstories may pass the time?" he asks. He looks to Hetzakoatl. Sith-makar society is vaguely matriarchal, after all.

Something she says means something to Zeke for suddenly the tall sith-makar grows very still. He might not be curled around himself, but if one so large could do something like disappear by merely standing still and quiet enough then Zeke would have done so. He says nothing to Svarshan's words, watching Hetzakoatl instead.

Hetzakoatl blinks slowly, glancing at the other two, aware now that there is some... expectation. She looks intently at Zeke. "The one here." Her hand moves ever so slightly towards Svarshan. "Bears an indelible mark of the ... evils that others do. I. I survived one of Charn'ss assaults as a hatchling, though I. I will bear their mark to my grave. My line endss with me." Her hand moves ever so slightly towards Zeke. "Sshow us. You are sstrong."

The warrior-caste tilts his head to the side. Listens. Quiet, quiet. "Sss," Svarshan says eventually, accepting. "It is through our bonds that. We are healed. ...warrior caste protects, this place. It is ssafe." He looks quietly towards Hetz, then. The inner lids flicker. Flicker. He lowers his muzzle, and holds it there warmly, for the space of heartbeats.

Mechanically Zeke's hand moves to his shoulder where it hesitates. Nothing else of him has moved, then with the weight of something inevitable he clutches his cloak in claw and rips it downward. The cloak falls to the floor with a little hush sound. Revealing his arm and leg, how unwhole he is. From the shoulder down his arm is crystal rather than flesh and blood. Crystal which flickers with the light of the fire, reflecting it backwards. So too is his leg a prosthetic, though his clothing makes it hard to tell how far up it goes. Nothing else of him moves. Breathes. His eyes have somehow fallen to the floor but it was so quick a falling like the cloak that it is lost and this simply how he is.

The Shaman nods to Svarshan, and glances back to Zeke. As the cloak unfurls and curls upon itself on the floor, understanding flickers in her eyes. "Just sso." She sets her staff aside, and slowly, with some effort, reaches to retrieve the fallen cloak. "May I?" Her approach is slow, and her intent plain, slowly, carefully reach around behind the blue-scaled one, her eyes watching intently. "You are sstrong.", Hetzakoatl says with a soft hiss. "Do not be. Ashamed. Of who you are."

A slow--the warrior's throat moves. One can see it flexing. Can see the swallow. Svarshan looks down and to the floor, his expression...clenched. His hand.

...clenched.

"...warrior-caste has failed you," he says, tightly. And works to unclench his hand. He looks down at it. "...but you both are ssafe. Now." ...and he looks away, towards the crowd. Allowing them space, for a moment.

Zeke does not move, does not blink or breathe. Does not exist. Not as she moves forward, nor even as she picks up his cloak. His eyes are on the floor studiously. Her words move through him like it does through the very air itself. Disturbing nothing. Then she is there, her fingers so close and he flinches away, stumbling backwards and... One would think he would raise his arms in defense, to stop himself from falling. Anything. But he does not. He falls hard and his limbs clatter about him in an ungangly fashion. His breathing is so quick now that it is hard to hear the words rushing out his lips in the Old Tongue. "Mother. Please! This one is sorry!" His green eyes are still down. So far away from anything here and now.

She blinks in surprise, her eyes wide after, and then she nods. Her head cants slightly, then she answers in that same Tongue. "Shhh, it is alright, youngling. Nothing to be sorry for. Come, stand up straight, and let me tie your cloak about you." A gentle movement in the hem of her robe shows traces of her tail, swishing back and forth just out of sight. She bends, with effort, and offers her hand to Zeke. "You are alright."

...Svarshan looks over his shoulder, at the crowd. ...and ah. The language of the warrior's form dares the Angorites to comment. To move.

To step forward. To look.

Promises retribution if they do. Svarshan then looks back, towards the two there, his breathing quick, quick. Quick, draw it in--he forces it quiet, quieter. One, two. Scarleg. He grasps the Dragonfather's auras, and pushes them outwards.

Now at last one clawed hand comes up to defend, to forestall her from hurting him. Their hands touch briefly and he lets loose a noise. A keen like a wounded animal. A noise that shouldn't be possible with how fast his breath was coming and then... It dies off. He lowers his hand and shudders. Shudders again. "Pleasse." His voice is deep and rugged, a husky voice made more deep by emotion. "M..." Zeke shakes his head and finally looks up, there is fear in his eyes but there is something in the air that he takes just a little courage from. That lets him sit up, lets him switch back to a language all could understand. "Thiss one isss sso ssorry."

Hetzakoatl looks on, her expression becoming sadness. She shakes her head slowly. "No, it is I who musst apologize." She offers her hand again to help him up if he needs it.

"Warrior-caste protects," rough. Rough and warm. How many hatchlings, now? Seven. Seven who survived. And that...they mean more to him than any demon fight. Their tiny claws, their teeth, gnawing on his muzzle.

The People. Svarshan quiets his heart, quiets his breath, and focuses the gift of the Dragonfather outwards. "Warrior is here, kin of mine. We are. One."

Perhaps rudely, but for the good of all Zeke does not accept Hetzakoatl's hand. Instead he stands on his own. Slowly. His limbs which seemed so unnatural and ungraceful on the ground hold him up just fine now. It is so clear now that his scales are a resplendent blue marked purple only by the light of the fire. He does however accept his cloak from her, his claws delicately taking the cloth back. He does not return it to his shoulders, but holds it in his left arm. The cloth is ruined now in any case. He looks gratefully at Svarshan. "Thisss one thankss you for this. For your strength."

Now that he is thinking with a clearer mind he recognizes the strength of the Dragonfather in his bones, it fills him enough to look at Hetzakoatl without flinching. "You need not apologissse. Thisss one isss. Broken. Asss you sssaid."

"We are. One," Svarshan responds in the same, quiet tones. His pose does not change, but holds steady, and...quiet. "...one forgot this. At one time, in one's youth...but there is sstrength among the sscaled. The People are. One." His chest moves, breath quickening. Steady. Steady.

He lets go a breath, and looks to the female in the group.

No pressure.

"No, an apology wass required. I. Oversstepped my bounds. I did not intend to cause distresss.", Hetzakoatl says to Zeke. The white-scaled Sith places a hand on her cheek, tapping with her claws at her brow-ridge. "I sshall make a new cape for you." She looks to Svarshan then. "Your doing, then, the ... calm?"

Svarshan leans back. Perhaps at having it mentioned so directly. Perhaps at... "It is. The strength of the Dragonfather. ...it...is one of the many things one almost lost. In one's foolishness, shaman. In one's earlier days."

The words are said warmly. Smoke curls around their edges--around the muzzle. "One hopes to. Become more and to. Hold onesself in the Dragonfather's wings. He keeps his muzzle turned slightly from Zeke; giving the other space.

Even with the calm Zeke is still breathing awkwardly, his inner eyelids blinking more often than is necessary. Realizing belatedly that his staff has fallen over as well in his desperate attempt to get away from her, he bends down to pick it up. In the dim lighting it is hard to make out the little symbol to Daeus on the very end of it, and once he is risen fully to his feet once more the sith-makar has /almost/ regained his breath back under control. "Thiss one iss glad you have the strength of the Dragonfather, thisss one hass great need of it today." He finally turns his attention to the female sith-makar whom had him so rattled. "Thiss one owess apologiess too. Thiss one iss very ssorry."

Munch enters the lodge carefully, picking each foot placement with care. Not that the metal man is general the cautious sort, but more with the large rock upon his shoulder. Perhaps foot wide, a foot deep, and curving several feet long, the stone is more than the average person could carry alone. not that Munch has ever been accused of being average, but it does make balance tricky. Focused on his task, the golem makes his way towards the central fire quite a ways before picking up the mood of the lodge isn't the typical boisterous bragging session.

Hetzakoatl nods to Svarshan, "It is good that you have such a closse relationship with the Dragonfather. Yourss is the wissdom of doing and knowing, not jusst learning." She glances to Zeke, and shakes her head slowly. Behind her, at the base of her light robes, the faint movement of her tail, and a light thump as it hits the ground. "No, there is nothing to apologize for. And if even it were warranted, you are forgiven."

Svarshan tilts his head to the side as the palescale speaks. He is quiet, quiet after that. Then, shifts a meaningful look towards Hetz. Shaman-caste business, that says. Outside of his realm. He crouches there, instead. "The People are One. ...even when we are. Divided," he adds, voice sorrow. He refers to the Teacher, to Charn--the Tears of the World, to the sith-makar. But he might also be referring to other things.

Now and then, however, a passer-by gets a scowl. A look that promises more if they stray...too close. If they stare too long. As a result, A small bubble has formed around the People. This makes Munch's arrival easier to notice--if the giant rock did not, already. Svarshan's head goes up, as he pivots to look towards the familiar figure.

Zeke bows to Heztakoatl, a motion that should look awkward but has such a practiced air to it that it's more natural than it should be. He moves a little further away from everyone, to give them space from him and he from they. This is easy enough to do after his outburst and after Svarshan's clearly drawn line in the sand. To everyone but Munch. Zeke notices Svarshan noticing him more than he notices the man himself. It's how the world has narrowed down, and he turns inward a little, trying to be less conspicuous as this other person draws closer to their location.

Munch pauses a moment, making eye contact with the Demon Chomper, and slowly proceeds again to the central fire. Carefully kneeling down, the metal man places the rock next to the fire, leaning far closer to the flames than is likely safe. At least for anyone made of flesh. The section of hearth-ring replaced, Munch stands again, glancing to the other sith before turning focus back to Svar. "Good evening."

Hetzakoatl nods slowly to the rust-scaled Sith. "Indeed. Esspecially when we are divided. What news have you of Amshere? I have been. Exploring." Her eyes flick to Zeke a moment, studying the blue-scaled Sith briefly. "And of you, Zeke? Any newss?" The palescale's eyes settle next on Munch, as he greets Svarshan.

"Warrior Munch," Svarshan picks up. The sith-makar drops to his haunches, and then drops his tail over his claws. "Pease to your nest. What. ...what is the boulder. For?" he asks the metal man who had carried it in, and then looks towards the shaman. "Am'shere is. ...adjussting," he replies. Slow words. Careful thought. "It is the home of the People, and--"

He pauses, hesitating. The throat works. "...yet mages have partnered with. Charneth to raze hatching grounds. The Teacher forments dissent. ...yet the Empress binds all. Together. Sshe reminds us to sstand together. To be One. Sshe leads the charge against the. Raiders."

"...sshe has brought the Treati. With Alessandria and ssent ambassadors to other. Nations. Am'shere is...adjusting. Even as it stands against. Old enemies." He pulls back, dropping his muzzle. Perhaps he does not like change.

Zeke is slowly regaining his self discipline outwardly at least, but the sound of his name startles him slightly and like a bird with ruffled feathers he resettles himself. "Thisss one hass no newsss of Amssshere. Only of the plague." He rubs his hand idly over the cloak over his arm which can no longer hide the crystal limb that begins at his shoulder. Nor his prosthetic leg. Zeke seems uncertain what to do with them showing for all the world to see. "Thisss one hasss been sserving the Dragonfather in the Ssoldier'sss Defenssse."

The blue-scaled sith-makar tilts his head hearing words of the Charn and shudders from head to toe, his crystal hand grasping at nothing. "Dragonfather blessss the warriorss in their fight againsst thosse nesst-burnerss." He says this with a little hiss to show his distaste.

In the corner of the lodge, what could easily be mistaken for a pile of furs rests. Voices carry through the lodge, and the warmth of the fire makes them warm to the touch. Time passes and one could imagine that the furs on the bottom of the pile would be sweltering.

Then the pile shifts, rising and falling in a long breath as if the furs were alive. "Hrrrgggh..." A groan comes from under the furs and the pile teeters, and then rolls away from the fire. Hides fall about as the behemoth of Sebropert's body appears from beneath them, rolling onto his back with a sleepy snort. He kicks a leg out, and his tail swishes across the floor in unconscious irritation. Claws of a bygone era in Sith evolution scratches absently at his scaled stomach, and he smacks his lips as he lets out another snore. "Hrrrgggh."

Munch glances to the prosthetics with casual curiosity. His limbs were manufactured as well. Turning focus to Svar, he shrugs. "The smaller stones were starting to crack. Big stone will hold the heat better, make for easier cleaning. Or something, I don't know, they just told me to bring it in."

"Ah, sso nothing of note hass changed ssince I travelled through the portal. Jusst so, thiss is, at leasst, not upsetting newss." Hetzakoatl nods to Svarshan, and then moves to crouch down beside him, taking on a similar pose as he has. Her tail makes an appearing under the hem of her dress, slender and supple, and bearing a jagged scar down the left side. It curls and uncurls, much like a cat's might. She looks to Zeke when he speaks of a plague, and her head cants slightly. "Plague? What are the symptomss, do you know?" The groaning and yawning Sith emerging from a pile of furs draws her glance, though it is fleeting.

"Kin," Svarshan returns warmly, as the bygone sith-makar emerges from the furs. He moves to the side--an empty space, and opening to fill it. "Come. Make ssafe with me," he offers. A suggestion, an offer to act as warrior-caste and, as sometimes hunter-caste may. To guard. To make safe.

He is quiet, quiet after that. Quiet for some time. "Pease to us all," he says, low-voiced. "And honor to the Empress." Munch, he looks to then. Quiet, and thumps his tail. "Then thank you. For bringing it," he says warmly.

It's right about now that a rather large woman duck her way into the Fire lodge....drenched in sweat and her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She pops her neck as she looks to the bartender. "Mead please. Need a bit of a treat after that workout."

Sebropert's maw widens in a yawn, and his frame sits up sluggishly. "Honor to Empress," he mumbles groggily, his frill flicking upward in a slow salute. As the frill descends to its resting place across the back of his head, his single blue eye opens and he turns his head like a bird to look at those seated nearby. "Scarleg!" He says to Svarshan respectfully. "Peace on your nest." His open palm lifts to show he is unarmed, and then he rubs it against the burn scars on the eyeless side of his face. His lips smack again as he comes around, and looks about to try to catch-up.

"The plague is like a cold that killsss." Zeke offers his words gently, eyes flickering from one person to another and then another. He focuses on Hetzakoatl and answering her question for her. "It sstartss with a cough like yoursss. Then the ssick grow a fever and other ssuch ssymptoms. The only thing unussual is that black comessss out of them. It fillss the lungss of the ill and then they die." He says all of this as a doctor might - without much emotion for those it is happening to, but the quiet flick of his tail gives away that he does care.

"Peassse to your nesssts." Zeke offers to the others, perhaps in particular the sith-makar most recently awake.

Munch shrugs again at Svar's thanks. "I like to be useful." Turning focus to Zeke, he listens a moment, and inquires. "I take it clerical magics aren't working? Is the illness resistant, or is it just spreading too fast for priests to keep up?"

"Peace on your nests.", Hetzakoatl intones. She looks to Svarshan with an arched brow ridge. "Sscarleg?" Her tail flicks and thumps the ground. Her gaze moves to Zeke then. "A cold that killss?" Her facial expression slowly becomes that of horror and then concern. "That iss unnatural. How quickly does it spread?" The palescaled Sith nods at Munch's words, and she looks to Zeke expectantly, her tail swishing back and forth behind her.

Fiore gets her mead and turns to the rest to listen a bit. She's been too busy training to worry about the Soldier's defense at the moment.

"One guards the nests," Svarshan says, low-voiced. Meaning he hasn't been involved in the plague at all. He thumps his tail again, the space remaining, open and obvious, for Sebropert to fill. He then looks towards Zeke, his expression thoughtful and quiet. Listening as the man speaks, and then over. "It means one has sscars," he says, chuffing with soft humor. "And one hopes, learns from them." The lids droop, merriment dancing beneath. "All of the young. Scaless ssay it these days, sshaman." Teasing her. Fiore he does not see as yet. His words, movements are slow.

Uncertain what to do with all of the attention suddenly levied his way Zeke stands for a moment motionless and then nods. It seems he means to speak. "It isss unwissse to ssay it loudly." So he lowers his voice so that only those nearby can hear what he is about to say. "But yesss magic ssseemss not to affect it at all. Not our mosst powerful can sslow or sstop it and we do not know why." He lifts one blue-scaled claw and makes a small motion with it. "It sseems that it isss not catching. Only ssome are ssick and they are ssscattered through the city. Only Alexandrian'sss. Only here iss the ssicknessss."

Munch considers a few moments and shrugs, lowering his own voice to match. "Sounds to me like it's some sort of curse, not an illness. Can be pretty similar sometimes. My body doesn't host disease, but I've been cursed a couple times."

"Am getting old," Sebropert says with a furrowed brow. The tendrils beneath his jaw writhe. He motions to Svarshan. "That and more. Wisdom in scars. One to know, and listen when speaks." The large Sith, short but wide, rises up to stretch. His tail slaps the floor, and with hands on his back he pushes hips forward. A series of pops echoes from his spine. "Urgh. Scarleg. Elder. Mentor. Friend. Svarshan save Alexandria more than winter season's eggs." Oh the jokes of having nothing to do in the winter. "If sick in city. Will go to city. Find sick, eat what ate. Do what did. When found. Scarleg will fix." This was the confidence Sebropert showed in Svarshan. He looks to the young-bellies, their bodies still sleek and virile. "Fear not. We are tribe. We are caste. We are Sith."

A gurgling noise can be heard deep in Hetzakoatl's chest, and she chuckles for a few moments at Svarshan's words, before a bit of a coughing fit takes her. It is wet and sharp, and she turns to spit into the nearby fire before looking to Svarshan. "Indeed. You bear it like a badge of honour, it musst be sso." She glances to Zeke and nods. "Thiss smellss of intent. Intent to harm the city. Perhapss Assumit's doing? Or ssome connection to these Black Maskss?" She eyes the giantess for a moment, before looking to Munch. "Curse? More like foul magicss. Necromanssy." The palescaled Sith shuffles a little, to make room for Sebropert's eventual approach.

"What's this about a disease?" Fiore says as she walks her way to the group. "This is the first time I've heard of it." She then slurps at her mead before looking to Munch, Svarshan, Hetzakoatl and Sebropert. "Haven't you tried the Althean clergy, yet?"

Svarshan looks over at Fiore, as she approaches. "She iss shaman-caste," he says, voice lowering. Lending weight to the word, the phrase. He returns to his comfortable settle, after that. A lazy look towards Hetz. Quiet, warm amusement. The place for Sebropert. Idly watching Zeke. Protecting. The People.

The approach of this new woman causes Zeke to grow still again, his green eyes wider than a moment before but then he ducks his head to her. Svarshan's words taken to heart. "All kindss have tried many magicsss. Perhapsss it isss a cursse, but if ssso we have no cure for it." He wraps both his claws around his staff and sighs weightedly. "And yesss it hasss to do with thessse 'Massskss' thesse onesss that claim to do work for Vardama. They sssneak their way into the Defensse and leave masssks for the dying. It upsssetss them and their familiesss." His green eyes are unhappy now, his tail flicking back and forth. "They claim that if they kill ssome that otherss will not die to the plague."

Munch blinks at Hetzakoatl with a soft click. "...that's what a curse is, yeah." He nods to Zeke, and considers a moment before shrugging. "Sounds like a mess, but not my forte. I favor situations that can be solved with applied violence."

Fiore says, "mmm....sounds like someone's taking advantage of the situation just to push an agenda. Like Warlord what's-his-face from Dran. He was that memorable." She then sighs before she slurps some more mead.

"...one would not trust. Their motivess. One has rarely known. The Death Ssinger's children to act. In ssuch ways." A flick of the tail. Svarshan lowers his jaw to his arms. Flick. The tail moves with a slowness. The breath. The quiet. He keeps a watch on the area, alongside Sebropert. Warrior make safe. One takes this to heart, apparently.

The white-scaled Sith looks to Fiore, and shakes her head slowly. She holds a clawed finger to her lips. "Shh. Not sso loud. Lesser things have been ssaid to cause calamity." She nods to Munch then and rolls her shoulders. "Thiss soundss more like a magical illnesss or necromanssy than a curse. But at thiss point, no one knowss. Who can ssay?" At Zeke's words, her expression turns angry, and faint rivulets of vapour trail out of the corners of her mouth. "Sss. I will offer my sservices to this Soldier'ss Defensse. We shall tesst these Black Massks, and ssee if they are brave enough to face a daughter of the Dragonfather." Hetzakoatl coughs wetly, and slowly stands. "Peace on your nessts", she intones, before turning and slowly making her way to the doors.

"Wait for thisss one." Zeke moves toward her with a low duck toward Sebropert as he goes by. "Thisss one will sshow you the way."

-End