| Swirling In the Crimson Madness | [Semper]

[Prince Inigo]

Zentaal Falkier
"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.

[semper]

Gavroche McCullie-St. Cloud

Whatever disease was plaguing District 9, it was a horrible one. Gavroche had heard only rumors at first about the sickness from people in the tavern, but never did he really believe it. He hadn't seen anyone sick, so he wasn't sure if he even believed it. When they told of the symptoms, he did listen, just in case: hematemesis (which took him forever to figure out what it was), fever, chills, loss of part of your hearing, coordination and reflexes are off, and oozing red rashes. They sounded awfully harsh, and when he told his uncle about it, the man nearly had a nervous breakdown. "With all the people that come in here, you and I could be next, Gav," he had said, making the boy fearful. He tried to continue working and telling himself that he wouldn't become infected, and for a while, it worked.

For a few days, everything was alright. Gavroche figured out that only a select few people could be affected by the disease, so he began to let his guard down, tending to the customers as though there was nothing to worry about. It was obvious that things were changing, though: more and more people were wearing cloths over their nose and mouth as if the spontaneous disease was airborne. Others wore gloves as though everything were contaminated with the bacteria. But who knew? Maybe everyone was already infected but they just had no idea.

The first sign that alerted Gavroche was the sickening feeling in his stomach. It was during the early business hours of the tavern when he told his uncle that he needed to go outside for a breath of fresh air. The boy figured it was only because of too much smoke inhalation, but he quickly found that it was much more. As soon as he stepped outside a gagging feeling opened up in the back of his throat, causing him to not only regurgitate what small amount of breakfast he had had, but also an astonishing amount of red. Seeing the red and tasting a bitter copper liquid in his mouth sent off warning bells in his head. Maybe I'm infected... Frightened, he went back and told his uncle, who began to panic. If he let his nephew run around the tavern with the disease, he would lose business; but if he quarantined him to his room, the boy would go mad and do everything in his power to escape. The man was left with no choice but to let Gavroche stay out, though he put down strict rules to not help any customer under any circumstance unless it was a life or death situation. Gavroche obeyed, keeping his hands to himself and staying out of the way of others. The symptoms grew worse over time: the vomiting of blood became more frequent, especially during the night; his hearing began deteriorating for no reason he could think of; he felt horribly hot, constantly asking if they could open the door and let cold air into the tavern; he was becoming less and less coordinated, finding it hard to do normal everyday tasks that he used to find no problem with executing; and the worst was the oozing rashes. The painful red areas burned like nothing he had ever felt before, leaving him usually begging for something cold to soothe it. His uncle, out of fear of spreading the disease, would only give the boy anything he didn't need back. All items given were to be kept in his room or away from the food and beverages of the tavern. Gavroche made no objections, thankful that he could be given old cloths to soak in ice water to soothe his burning and oozing skin.

Having nothing else to do on a slow business day, Gavroche was seated behind the bar on a stool, arm bent across the table and his chin resting on the wood. He had an old cloth tied around his head to drape down his nose and mouth like a mask, though he still had the lower portion of his face pressed into the bend of his elbow. The boy's dark eyes scanned the faces of each of the customers, hoping that none of them wound notice the obvious rashes or his bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep, and so far things were going well. No one seemed to notice that he was infected so he stayed where he was, determined to not bring any attention to himself.

Turning his gaze to the people at the bar, Gavroche was surprised to see a familiar face -- or half a face, rather. The man was wearing a cloth mask also as precautionary measures, but he was still drinking. Having nothing in mind, the boy raised his head from where it had been resting, looking at the man curiously.

"Zentaal," he said, vocal chords a bit scratchy. "I wouldn't think you'd be out drinking with this disease running rampant."





((I dunno if Zentaal ever mentioned his name, but I figured Gav would know it because of the last thread. x3 ))

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[Prince Inigo]

(Testing out giving Zentaal a main post color. Opinion? Too dark on a dark-ish background?)

Small bits of perspiration dripping down his face, Zentaal wiped his face and continued to drink the cool liquid. He did not care that some drenched the cloth wrapped around the head. Just about everyone else was having the same problem, especially when they were talking to each other. Spitting, rambling, eating sometimes, they were in a worse condition and situation than the 19-year old man. Thinking little about the mess the disease and rumors presented to the bar customers, Zentaal cleared his system of feeling internally hot, staring straight at the entrance to the pub, extremely focused. From the outside, the tightness of his jaw would send a message that he was frowning.

People proceeded to enter the confines of alcohol, virgin drinks, and food. Red eyes searched each and every person to present themselves to the public while sipping from the mug. Even when people passed by him to leave, Zentaal would not take time to glance at the departing. His looks narrowed in on the entering. Some would get unnerved by a random young man throwing stabbing looks at them; but, after a few seconds of looking, he would avert attention to someone else (or back to the door if no one else had come in), and they would dart away to a table or seat. On a rare occasion, the black-haired man would blink, though in a cold, distant way. He strained to keep attention to the door, the ones coming inside the building, and sometimes the person that would refill his drink.

Further pondering, Zentaal's eyes shot over to the people stationed at chairs and tables. Small glances at each person concentrated on the forehead and the body he could see. He saw nothing outside of the considered normal. One person was wiping her head with a cloth, laughing from the comments of the person across from her. Zentaal narrowed in on her, flicked his eyes in vertical jerks, and scowled. Once more, the man turned attention to the door and inspecting the ones pouring inside - how seldom that was. Quarantines and the shift in industry messed up everyone's schedule - except Zentaal's.

On and on, the man stared at the door; but, then, he heard his name being called. Deduction dictated who was speaking to him, and he was right. Gavroche approached Zentaal, inquiring about his business outside of home. Again, quarantines were really the only thing that kept people inside; however, for those that continued on hunting as their profession until they died, they were expected to continue to be outside and against the disease for the thrill of putting down animals. Needs for food, money, and pelts were greater than some pandemic. While the fact of the disease's origins were still classified as a mystery, for now, seemingly the animals were resistant or unable to contract the virus. Not being able to spread to animals was a plus - until research said otherwise.

Deciding to take time to talk to the bar man - in a begrudging sense, though not knowing the reason - Zentaal softened his glance - but only to a hardened look close to a glare. Before he spoke, another sip of the drink went down the throat. "Business." He took another sip. "Hunting. Nothing says about animals being infected." His eyes peered at Gavroche, looking hard, and then Zentaal turned energy towards the door again. Thanks to the incident with the thief girl, Gavroche was the first person outside of the Falkier family to know his name in a long while.

That was a fact Zentaal scowled to from time to time.

[semper]

It pained the boy to not be able to drink. To pour himself a glass of anything would mean that another mug would be labeled as his and therefore the tavern itself would be one short, forcing his uncle to take money from their small profit just to replace it. Hardy mugs were hard to come by, especially ones that did not look like they had been slammed around too many times by a drunkard. Gavroche's uncle had explained this many times while out on trips to the District Square for necessities to both them and the business, always stating that "it's more efficient if ya keep something when it's new and just nurture it till it's old". Of course, this never really concerned the boy, but while cleaning dishes with old, threadbare rags, he could see his uncle's preaching had been put to work. Chipped areas on plates had been smoothed out, dents in mugs somewhat beaten out, bent utensils straightened back out; but to lose an entire cup, the boy figured, would be devastating to the one-eyed tavern manager.

Gavroche watched the mug rising to Zentaal's lips, greenish-teal eyes visualizing the bitter liquid running down the man's throat. He imagined that the cold beverage felt good on the tongue despite the chilly weather outside, forcing the boy to absentmindedly swallow his own saliva, esophagus burning at the lack of drink. He knew very well that he could simply go upstairs to his room and use a mug that had been given to him, but that would require moving and going from one room to the other was not on his list of things to do; sleep deprivation forced him to stay, exhaustion gripping his limbs like lead casings.

Even though the sick boy was not a hunter, he had heard many of the drinkers frequently talking about how the disease seemed to be leaving the animals alone. If the game had been infected, many, many more people would either be ill or dead. Many of the people that sold their huntings to the tavern claimed that there seemed to be no sign of ailment in the creatures roaming about, so the boy figured that most of the well hunters were still out finding game -- much like Zentaal claimed he was doing.

"The animals aren't sick?" Gavroche asked, the tone of his voice suddenly scratchy and hoarse. Clearing this throat, he looked back up at Zentaal's face and continued. "Heh. Lucky them." His attention swept to the side, staring blankly ahead of him, multi-colored eyes zoning out of focus to the people around him.




((I like the color. :3 Reminds me of angerrr. xD Eww, bad ending. x.x ))

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