hadriel_logs | Event Log: Flu Season

Who: All characters
What: The event log for the Flu Season event
Where: All over the city
When: March 20th-March 30th
Warnings: Gross sneezing, sick people, and paranoia

It starts with a cough, a sneeze, a sore throat - something small and simple, easily ignored. But then your symptoms get worse. It's probably been awhile since you've been sick, that sort of thing doesn't usually happen here. You might be able to raid the shops for some tissues and tea before it gets too bad, and hopefully you've got a friend to help out until you get better. Surely it'll be over soon, right?

Until the fever sets in, and you start to understand why your friend is really there. They don't want to take care of you. They want to make sure this is the last anyone will ever see of you. They want to learn all your secrets. They want to steal your most precious possession. You know they're plotting against you, you know they're keeping something from you. What will you do to find out what it is?

Then, as the sickness fades, you realize it was all in your mind. Let's hope you didn't do or say anything too awful. But that friend of yours... they seem to have picked up your cough. Maybe you should help them out?

► This log covers March 20th-March 30th.
► Feel free to make your own logs, as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If your paranoia ends in murder, please let us know here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( Closed to Hvitserk )

Alfred has a history of being a sickly child. At some point he had felt that he had grown out of it, he'd certainly started to get sick less as he got older and it had been sometime since the last time he had fallen ill. It had started innocently enough, he had felt tired and a bit stuffy and then it had progressed to a cough that had progressively gotten worse.

Then, he finds himself one morning he's feeling achy and doesn't manage to get out of bed. He's usually the one that puts together breakfast so perhaps luckily, his absence would be missed. He feels awful and there might just be the start of a fever and so, of course, he's huddling under his covers.

( Wildcard - OTA )

[ Open to some other scenes. On hiatus and slow, though. Feel free to hit me with your best shot or hit me up via PM or on plurk at

poetanarchy if you want to plot something or want a specific starter. ]

Perhaps shockingly, Ivar did learn how to cook at some point (on the hunting trips their mother made his brothers allow him to accompany them on, probably.) Simple stews, at least. He even, after a few weeks now, has figured out some of the kitchen appliances and because he has very grudgingly had to admit he'd rather not let his brother and his brother's soft little Christian king die when it wouldn't serve his purposes in any way, he uses that knowledge to make them food when they're both too useless and sickly to pick themselves up out of bed.

However, it turns out that the truly arduous part of the whole process is his crippled ass trying to carry bowls full of piping hot soup (mostly broth, because they probably won't keep much else down) between the kitchen and their bedrooms. It involves a lot of starting and stopping and cursing very loudly just outside of Alfred's door, which he slams unceremoniously open after having delivered Hvitserk's meal to him in an equally vicious manner.

He drags himself and the bowl across the floor, and sets it on the bedside table, missing a solid third of its contents by now. "Get up, sit up," he snaps testily, fingers and dignity feeling equally burned. "Eat this."

Alfred had tried to get up that day... Or maybe the day before. Time is hard to keep track of when you're feverish and sick. The last thing Alfred would have expected is Ivar to do any caretaking at all. There's even a vague suspicion in the back of his mind about what the Viking could be intending. He couldn't actually just not want Alfred to die, right? That isn't very Viking like after all... Nevermind that Alfred usually gives Ivar far more humanity points than he deserves.

The command is hard to ignore even if trying to follow it is difficult. Alfred feels weak and sore and moving takes every ounce of energy he can muster. He does manage, looking blearily at Ivar and then the soup.

"Did you make that...?" Perhaps a bit of his uncharacteristic suspicion comes out in the tone of the question. He'd feel sorry about it later.

"No, the valkyrie flew down from Valhalla to share their bowls of soup with you and my useless brother," Ivar says scathingly, sitting back on the floor so he can put the burnt tips of his fingers in his mouth and try to soothe them. "Yes I made it, you idiot." Never mind that Alfred is one of the very few non-idiots that Ivar actually knows, and that Hvitserk is the only person he can actively rely on to be of any use here, those are both minor details right now.

He squints.

"I did not poison it, if that is what you are trying to say." Is that what he's trying to say? Seems very unlike Alfred to make any accusations like that, even though he's usually perfectly in his rights to accuse Ivar of being a bloodthirsty little asshole. "If I wanted you dead I'd just slit your throat with a knife. More fun that way." So, this is totally helping his case, right?

Alfred is too tired to really take much offence to the insult even. It objectively is a bit of a stupid question after all but even if he had been well he would have been surprised at Ivar making food at all or even beginning to know how. Before Ivar had arrived, Hvitserk had proven himself to be utterly useless in food preparation and Alfred had searched for help to be an adequate cook.

The mention of it not being poisoned makes him all the more worried that it is but in his current state the following declaration also brings the paranoid thought that if he didn't eat the soup Ivar made he would definitely cut Alfred's throat. Alfred is certainly not strong enough to fight him like this.

It's with a certain reluctance he reaches for the soup to start to eat it. Somewhere he finds his manners despite being sure Ivar wants to kill him one way or another.

"Thank you."

It has been one hell of a week for Caedra - or more. She realizes she's lost track of time and for once, the phone is useful to help get a sense of how long she may have lost her grip on the cycles of day and night. There are no dates, of course, but she tries to judge based on network activity but it must have been at least several days since she holed herself up at home and began scrawling out notes on page after page.

Her inkwell has run dry, and the stores are lacking in anything that feels right for her current task. Constructing arcane diagrams with vivid pink and orange hues doesn't quite feel right to her and she's sick of the strange colors anyway. She's never been one for tradition, but blood has such gravity to it, and the familiarity of the fluid as a writing tool, she thinks, might help with the preparations for her upcoming tasks.

And, well, normally to her there would be no functional difference in whether that blood came from a bird or a man, and taking the first person walking down the street in this city would suffice, but she knows she has to keep a low profile so that nobody will think to follow her, to interrupt her plans. The people here seem to kill the creatures outside the city regularly, however. Nobody will bat an eye if she bleeds a few dry so she can keep writing.

With a bag slung over her shoulder, its contents rattling with glass jars, Caedra makes her way out past the city boundary and into the rocky desert in search of prey. And it doesn't take long before she hears something that attracts her attention - a growl, a snarl, then an aggravated cry. The sounds seem to be coming from a ravine up ahead, where the dry rocky ground yawns open. She's seen what she thought looked like a manticore here before - watched it plunge downward in a dive on its own unsuspecting meal. And now the sounds of combat are immediately recognizable. She summons her own rapier to hand and follows the one pathway that forms the bottom of this ravine as it heads downward, unsure of what she will find - but it's bound to be interesting either way.

Especially as she sees the two combatants ahead, one faring significantly better in this fight.

"Having trouble?"

Event Log: Flu Season

Alfred Aethelwulfing

( Closed to Hvitserk )

( Wildcard - OTA )

wildcard - once it has progressed a bit

no subject

no subject

no subject

wildcard - event end