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31_days2014-11-14 04:17 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2014-11-14 04:17 pm
[Nov. 14] [Echo Bazaar/Fallen London] Neath Fever
Title: Neath Fever
Day/Theme: Nov. 14, 2014 "Fever-thoughts, mad thoughts, dream-thoughts."
Series: Fallen London/Echo Bazaar
Character/Pairing: the Player (or, rather, my player character)
Rating: PG
You seem to have taken ill. At least you are uncomfortable and exhibiting symptoms in such a manner that you would have classified this as illness before. However, this is the first time you have suffered thusly while in the Neath and this after having lived here for a great many months (the actual tally of the days fades and blurs in your mind) you can't say you're sure "I'm sick" is the appropriate way to categorize your condition.
You go home to your somewhat damp dwelling (the view of the Zee is alternately anxiety-inducing and exquisite), sit down on your creaking mattress, and try to take inventory. You keep shivering, yet, according to the rare acquaintance you felt not overfamiliar in asking to lay a hand on your clammy skin, you are hot to the touch. You have little appetite and your feet and knees are aching. Occasionally, at the corners of your eyes you see with an odd lack of clarity (among these things, this, in the Neath, is the hardest to call illness- it could just be a change in the airs).
You find yourself wondering if perhaps it is merely an odd cold. You heat and drink a cup of soup (which of course your cat and weasel manage to sneak their noses into to share) and bundle yourself up with an extraordinary amount of clothes for sleeping (you think your waist appears so thickly padded as to make the diameter of bobbing buoys strung about certain edges of the harbor).
Sleep comes to greet you and you welcome the respite as your head has begun aching as well and your feet and knees have felt little relief upon being freed from your muck-strained shoes and being put up on the bed.
You dream of blood and do not like it. There is a man there that you once knew- before, above- and you identify him as having a particular provenance that in the dream makes perfect sense and seems to you to explain nearly everything about him, though when you wake you will remember (know) that this is not the origin this man has. The blood comes off on your hand. It's on your leg. "Richard, what you doing in Fallen London?" you ask. These events only passably cohere into something you can believe in.
When you wake, you hardly feel better rested than when you began and can only hope some of your illness has passed through you, the way you're tropical with sweat.
You pull yourself wearily through the motions of the morning, but find yourself hardly capable of making yourself appear half the dapper gentleman you are most days. You can't force yourself in a suit. You sit in your undergarments, a blanket around your shoulders, and comb your hair. The cat and the weasel (and perhaps even the goldfish in its bowl, though she cannot convey it so well) are eager to be fed (you find at times that their ravenousness, which outpaces your own normally considerable appetite, outweighs their charm or usefulness in your endeavors).
Steam floats around your unshaven face as you stir a pot of gritty oatmeal. You scold your curious plant to hunt for its own food- "You are large enough these days- and sentient." Still it steals a dried sardine you intend for the cat.
The steam feels good sucked into your sinuses. Your head still aches. You imagine you see someone else from long ago- this time a woman. You wonder if you still love her. You think about the wife of the secular missionary- a beautiful woman and surely someone you consider it a pleasure to assist in most any matter- do you love her now?
Your thoughts seem unable to sort themselves out properly. What is now, what is then? What is true and what is fancy? You aren't bleeding. And Richard was not of the city you assigned to him in the dream. All these things are curious mysteries (be this sickness or whatever it is, you hope it will clear up quickly).
Rain (or you think it is rain) begins to pound down on the roof.
You decide to take a bath.
Day/Theme: Nov. 14, 2014 "Fever-thoughts, mad thoughts, dream-thoughts."
Series: Fallen London/Echo Bazaar
Character/Pairing: the Player (or, rather, my player character)
Rating: PG
You seem to have taken ill. At least you are uncomfortable and exhibiting symptoms in such a manner that you would have classified this as illness before. However, this is the first time you have suffered thusly while in the Neath and this after having lived here for a great many months (the actual tally of the days fades and blurs in your mind) you can't say you're sure "I'm sick" is the appropriate way to categorize your condition.
You go home to your somewhat damp dwelling (the view of the Zee is alternately anxiety-inducing and exquisite), sit down on your creaking mattress, and try to take inventory. You keep shivering, yet, according to the rare acquaintance you felt not overfamiliar in asking to lay a hand on your clammy skin, you are hot to the touch. You have little appetite and your feet and knees are aching. Occasionally, at the corners of your eyes you see with an odd lack of clarity (among these things, this, in the Neath, is the hardest to call illness- it could just be a change in the airs).
You find yourself wondering if perhaps it is merely an odd cold. You heat and drink a cup of soup (which of course your cat and weasel manage to sneak their noses into to share) and bundle yourself up with an extraordinary amount of clothes for sleeping (you think your waist appears so thickly padded as to make the diameter of bobbing buoys strung about certain edges of the harbor).
Sleep comes to greet you and you welcome the respite as your head has begun aching as well and your feet and knees have felt little relief upon being freed from your muck-strained shoes and being put up on the bed.
You dream of blood and do not like it. There is a man there that you once knew- before, above- and you identify him as having a particular provenance that in the dream makes perfect sense and seems to you to explain nearly everything about him, though when you wake you will remember (know) that this is not the origin this man has. The blood comes off on your hand. It's on your leg. "Richard, what you doing in Fallen London?" you ask. These events only passably cohere into something you can believe in.
When you wake, you hardly feel better rested than when you began and can only hope some of your illness has passed through you, the way you're tropical with sweat.
You pull yourself wearily through the motions of the morning, but find yourself hardly capable of making yourself appear half the dapper gentleman you are most days. You can't force yourself in a suit. You sit in your undergarments, a blanket around your shoulders, and comb your hair. The cat and the weasel (and perhaps even the goldfish in its bowl, though she cannot convey it so well) are eager to be fed (you find at times that their ravenousness, which outpaces your own normally considerable appetite, outweighs their charm or usefulness in your endeavors).
Steam floats around your unshaven face as you stir a pot of gritty oatmeal. You scold your curious plant to hunt for its own food- "You are large enough these days- and sentient." Still it steals a dried sardine you intend for the cat.
The steam feels good sucked into your sinuses. Your head still aches. You imagine you see someone else from long ago- this time a woman. You wonder if you still love her. You think about the wife of the secular missionary- a beautiful woman and surely someone you consider it a pleasure to assist in most any matter- do you love her now?
Your thoughts seem unable to sort themselves out properly. What is now, what is then? What is true and what is fancy? You aren't bleeding. And Richard was not of the city you assigned to him in the dream. All these things are curious mysteries (be this sickness or whatever it is, you hope it will clear up quickly).
Rain (or you think it is rain) begins to pound down on the roof.
You decide to take a bath.