Infirmity

[Stevie 1598]

“He has another fever...”

 

“The third rise today...”

 

“Will he live?”

 

The bed’s covers flew up in a flurry, falling down slowly over the raging screams of the man, his shouts tearing the souls of the servants and maids who tried to calm him. They echoed throughout the barely furnished room, and carried on down the stairs to the ballroom of the citadel of Ard Kerrack. It was a quiet morning for the most part, and half of the keep had been asleep as the sun slowly rose over the mountains to the east. The shouts by now reached the bottom levels of the keep, bouncing off the stone corridors and stairwells and reaching the infirmary, where two stood, a man and woman, both exceptionally tall; the woman slender with pink cotton-candy hair, and the man wide and broad-shouldered, a warrior in every sense. The giant of a man was busy with a small wooden bowl, dwarfed in his hands as the pestle, equally as small in his hands, worked to crush the arrangement of herbs presented to him by the slender pink-haired woman, whose skin was as grey as the stone of the walls around them. The faint echo of the shout bounced into the room, and the couple lifted their heads. The giant sighed and the woman frowned, speaking softly to the warrior as she turned to head off from the small room at a brisk pace, clicking her shoes along the floor as she headed up to the higher points of the keep and into the screaming man’s room. One of the servants rushed out as she opened the door, holding his face as blood trailed from his nose. The screams sounded again as she entered, and the flailing arm of the bedridden man swung towards the other servant, who was agile enough to dance back. The dark-skinned woman shuffled quickly to the bed, mindful of the man’s rage and keeping her distance from any form of lash he may have.

 

"Lord Chivay, why did you hit that servant? He was only trying to help..."

 

The covers tumbled once more as the bedridden man cursed, his fists clenching in anger as he breathed heavily through his mouth, his beard and hair wet with sweat as he shouts upwards, screaming to the ceiling,

 

“This PLOUGHING bed is TOO HOT! REMOVE THESE PLOUGHING COVAHS!”

 

The dark-skinned woman nodded and proceeded closer to the bed, promptly removed the uneasy covers and sliding them to the end of the bed, relieving the bearded man of his complaint, only to reveal a new one, roaring from the mouth of the bearded man.

 

“An’ the damned bandage! It’s too ploughin’ tight!”

 

The woman flinched and jumped back, quickly shuffling forward to relieve some pressure on the bandage, unraveling the gauze wrapped around his left foot. The foot was paler than his calf, and there was a bulging swollen bump protruding near his big toe, red and vile but soft to the touch, though the woman certainly had no intention to touch it. She frowned once more and went to wrap the bandages around the foot, only to be stopped by the large arm of the warrior-giant, who had crept up beside her. He spoke to her now, in a guttural Hansetian dialect.

 

“Mein liebling, let me apply the salve first.”

 

The woman nodded and bowed her head a moment, sliding her hands in front of her as she retreated back, watching on with a lowered head as she twiddled her thumbs nervously. The ragings of the bearded man were calming now, and the heavy breaths subsiding. The giant dipped a brush into the paste of the bowl and brought it before the bulge, gently sliding its hairs along and around the bulge. The bearded man flicked his foot in defiance, grunting as he stared at the bulge, his nostrils flaring angrily.

 

“Thomas, this will help.” The warrior-giant said, still applying the paste quietly.

 

“C-ocks to the ‘elp. C-ocks to that ploughin’ bulge, an’ c-ocks to it all...”

 

Thomas set his foot down easily, sighing softly as he relaxed a bit, turning his head away from the two, staring up to the large window, which had just now begun to show the sun creeping over the mountain. Thomas lay resigned in the bed, shaking his head slightly as he lets out another exhausted sigh.

 

“I’ll nevah be able to walk wiff this. The days of battle an’ excitement are now gone, robbed from me, a Chivay, whose life ‘ad been an adventure, a story fer bards an’ tavern songs. Now all that’s left is an agin’ lord wiff a dead foot an’ a plague of a sore on it to match.” Thomas gave a longer sigh, depressed and resigned as he lay there, unmoving and tired, his breathing slowing to its normal pace.

 

“It isn’t all too bad, Lord Chivay... here, let me fluff your pillo-” Thomas quickly rose his arm, waving his hand to her.

 

“No, Tanith. No. Jus’... apply the salve an’ leave... leave me to my rest an’ my foughts.”

 

Tanith nodded slowly and backtraced a step, lowering her head again and looking to the giant, who she now waited on. The giant gave a final application of the paste and reapplied the bandages in the same tightness they had been before, though Thomas gave no complaint. He only lay there, resigned and with his gaze to the window as the two took their leave, silent and together. The door shut behind them, and the bearded man was now alone, the few servants following the couple out. He would remain there for quite a while, alone, unwanting of guests or even help when the pain in his foot flared. He would only grind his teeth and wait out the twangs and jolts of pain his foot had been so kind to exert upon the auburn-haired aging lord.

 

Thomas would remain in his bed for several more days, until the Chivay finally emerged from his room, paler in face and slower in walk, for now he carried a cane, complete with a golden sparrow at its head, the sigil of his house. Thomas, once crying for battle and the rush of a charge, would never see the front line of his forces now. The glory of battle was stripped and robbed from him, and he was now someone who required help rather than someone who offered it; and the shame this new lifestyle brought him constantly brooded within. Thomas Chivay came out of his chambers paler, slower, and now grumpier, the effects of gout permanently damaging his foot and his pride. His cane became his new companion, so close to him, and always so reliant on it. The sparrow on its head gave it a personality, and a more meaningful crack when it came down on those who annoyed him.

 

...And there were plenty who annoyed the limp that was now Thomas Chivay.

 

[bungo 3965]

((what a happy story, 10/10 would read agian.))

[Aislin 4354]

((we're very happy for Thomas congratulations a great story))

[Urahra 5777]

The stress of her father's illness had weighed heavily on fifteen year old Rosie. He'd spent her fifteenth birthday confined to bed, sick with a fever that seemed to have come out of nowhere. She'd tried to bring a slice of cake to him, but the servants said he was in a mood and she shouldn't disturb him. Instead, she left the cake on a small plate by his door and didn't venture any further from there. For all she knew, the cat might have gotten it instead of her papa.

 

Her papa was her greatest friend since Tiberius had died. No one seemed to understand or accept her quite as much as he did. She avoided his room. The yelling and screeching that came from behind the double doors scared her a little. She'd heard her father yell before, of course, but not like this and certainly never in her presence.

 

When he finally did emerge, Rosie ran to embrace him as any loving daughter would. But even she could tell he had changed. It wasn't just the limp. It seemed his whole demeanor had shifted. Outwardly, she smiled for her papa, but inwardly, she wanted to cry.

[Hanrahan 2983]

Somewhere, for reasons unknown to Hanrahan and the Adunians, they feel slightly safer...

[Raglin 64]

Raglin Edgehand watches Thomas limp within the castle from a perch on high. He shook his head, sighing. "Age and wounds seem to strike even the strongest of men..." The dwarf muttered, as he began making his way home. No more would he and Thomas charge into the fray together. It was a grim thought, and a sobering one. The dwarf had become more reclusive of late, and if one is wandering about in Hyrr, they'd likely catch the sound of a hard, wet cough from the dwarf.

Oh, how he misses the old days.

[Gunner 775]

Chet nods very slowly, seeing that Thomas is now a disabled person. "Welcome to club mate."

[Esterlen 4499]

 

The Lord Chancellor, once often seen about his business within the long halls of Ard Kerrack, was reputed now amongst the men of Kaedrin to so seldom leave his office that he had a man deliver him a meal in the evening and slept in a small cell adjacent to his working quarters. This self-induced seclusion was excepting, of course, his numerous visits to the Lord Steward. Every second day at three past noon he would travel to the gout-ridden man’s bedside with his papers and tomes and convene with him, either alone or sometimes in the presence of other privy councillors. There was no doubting it to all who knew of these dealings that though his loyalties were to Kaedrin, politically, Hadrien de Sarkozy was the Lord Steward’s creature through and through.

The Duke of Korath had always been particularly rough with the Lord Chancellor, but the latter knew the sacrifices that must be made in order to serve great men. Now, with his affliction, it worsened progressively, though Sarkozy outwardly changed very little.

 

The duke had called him a villain, a knave, struck him around the head and thrust him from the chamber in a rage. And yet when he had been well struck about the pate and shaken up as was hardly befitting a statesman as much as a misbehaving dog, he would straighten his coat, fix his hair and exit these meetings with a merry countenance as if he ought to bear joy for his castigations. The Chancellor did not protest, he did not complain to any, and he did not drown his sorrows in liquor as some other men did. His loyalties stayed with Thomas, and with Kaedrin. He had been on the receiving, hostile end of Thomas’ staff more than once, and partook in his duties with naught but jubilance and ardor.

 

There was no doubting that Hadrien was many things; a draconian man, a murderer, an elitist, a cruel master, a tyrant and a liar. But to Thomas Chivay, Hadrien was a staunch friend.

[Bashar al-Assad 120]

Duke Thomas Chivay gains the infirm trait.

[Danny 2232]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.