| Swirling In the Crimson Madness | [Semper]
Jan 4, 2011 22:04:30 GMT -5
Post by Prince Inigo on Jan 4, 2011 22:04:30 GMT -5
Zentaal Falkier
"Go away."
"Go away."
With news of the spattergroit spreading throughout District 9, the whole area was basically put under quarantine. Probably not even wanderers would want to venture into the hunting District for a while. Doctors from all over Panem were sent down to diagnose and find cures for the patients, but nothing on the news suggested a treatment could be found yet. Even for those that were free from the epidemic, the District was not safe. While the healthy ones were said to try to carry on with hunting until the disease had passed over, hardly anybody went out without covering their mouths and noses - or carry a set of gloves with them. No answer yet provided an absolute reason behind the origins. Members in a house could be eating all the same foods and using the same items but only one or two would catch the sickness. This fact was spread among other households, eating the same meat but only one abode would catch the dangerous disease.
News spouted off in the bar. Just about everyone had to lift clothes from their mouths and noses to take sips from the drinks. While one or two conversed and laughed, not many others partook in the fun and sereneness in a usual bar spending. Many were occupied with either spreading the dilemma around or sipping the drinks, patting froth off their fabrics every so often. Concern rose in the air. Atmosphere in the bar could be easily stated to be anxious or a little unnerving to most. With how the attitudes were circulating around, anyone could break down in spattergroit any minute, just coughing out blood.
After hours of working out, the black-haired man had decided to pay the bar a visit and relax. He, too, had a cloth to cover his mouth and nose, wearing black, leather gloves while fiddling with the glass mug. Only his brows could be indicators of his mood, and they were furrowing as usual. Sourness entered his mouth in bursts, rolling down the throat, and groans emitted. With chatter going on, he would stare at the door, close his eyes, and sigh in exasperation. Talk were off-beat drums.
One drink was down. Almost immediately, a worker of the bar had walked over to the young man's table, snatched up the empty mug, asked for the drink that previously occupied the glass, and went behind the counter. Red eyes watched the worker's fingers become active at the station, peering more or less. In a matter of minutes, another round of his drink was given; and, before the man could press lips on the glass, he had stared at the glass. Sigh. Groan. Down went the cold liquid in gulps. Not sick yet. Taste punches in the drink seemingly removed the noise the people were producing, relief for the young 19-year old man. Such sweet relief from the chatter and 'unnecessary' mingling for the facts to be repeated over and over across mouths and words.