loch lemach gives zero fucks (cutandthrust) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-11-18 23:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !plot: as i lay dying, !thread, loch lemach, merrion priddy |
poison in the very air we breathe; do you know what's in the water that you drink?
Who: Loch Lemach & Merrion Priddy
What: President Madagascar It’ll be okay, they said. Seasonal sickness, they said.
Where: The market on the docks
When: Yesterday, Sunday morning (backdated)
Rating: PG? (possibly higher, for swearing)
Status: On-going
Merchants and shoppers alike looked at her like she was crazy, though no comments to the effect were made to her face. Philip had offered, tentatively, that rumors were just rumors, and the stories spread—and embellished—by merchants and travellers coming from the Outlands about a nasty sickness reaping lives in the countryside need not mean death was circling Emillion; yet as far as Loch was concerned, overestimating the threat was far preferable to underestimating it. She’d spotted a few too many dockhands sneezing into their sleeves, and if this was something worse than the flu and the poor fuckers were skipping merrily toward their graves, they sure as hell weren’t taking her down with them. She’d had the suit in her workshop, anyway; why not make good use of it? If this whatever it was turned out to be airborne, she was effectively untouchable. Keeping an eye on the oxygen levels in the tank would be a pain, sure, but it wasn’t anything new, and she knew roughly how long she could expect the air to last. Protection from the muck and tar, or indeed any liquids, was an added bonus. She had no fucking idea if seasonal sickness would be all there’d be to this, or if the so-called plague was upon them, but she wasn’t taking any chances. And so what if they thought she was paranoid? Paranoia meant you got to live longer than the idiots who couldn’t connect the dots. So let them call her paranoid—she’d still be standing in the end. |