[prp] Death March (L’mul, Owara)

[Thaliawen]

It came on slow. Or was it fast? L’mul didn’t know. He didn’t feel like he knew much of anything. His brain felt like the goopy, watery stuff that was blocking his airways. It was hard to breathe, harder to stand. He was leaning against Stariath, huffing.

“Owara?” He called, weakly. He didn’t know if he could make it back inside, close as their weyr was. Stariath, could you...?

Mine’s, Mine is very weak. He hurts. He calls for you.  

[Dragon Berri]

Owara was just on her way back from the kitchens, having seen her weyrmate and his green heading toward home. It seemed early for them to be home, but perhaps today was only a short day.

That was when she heard Stariath's voice in her head. "I'm coming!" she called and hurried her steps, not stopping until she was there with her weyrmate. "What's wrong? Come, get in bed, love," she said worriedly, slipping her arm around his middle so she could help him inside.  

[Thaliawen]

What wasn’t wrong might have been an easier question for L’mul to answer. His eyes were half mast as he looked to her. He began to cough, shuddering with every dry hack.

“I was fine yesterday...” he complained. Who would take care of Stariath? She needed a bath. She needed—

Don’t worry about me, fool. Stariath’s response was immediate, almost angry. Rest. Mine’s, you’ll make him rest?