Welcome to Gaia! ::

Her head was filled with the awful, awful weight of sickness. Her breath was hot in her chest, and her throat ached from coughing. Something about dancing in the cold snow and getting wet? Something about not being sensible? Faranth, they did like to make a fuss sometimes.

Well, you are sick… Please, listen to the Healers. Mic implored, with a certain earnestness that almost made her fragile, in the young woman’s mind. Nyara lifted a hand and rubbed those pale golden headknobs, smiling in rapt affection. It had been fun, and so worth it.

It’s not like I can get up with you lying on me.

Mictecath didn’t even look remotely guilty. Her tail flicked slightly, then came to curl about Nyara's bent leg.

At least let me get some papers to look at? I can study, even if I can’t stand right this moment.

The gold shuffled slightly, and Nyara flopped an arm over her cot to pull out a sheaf of paper… which didn’t belong to her. The handwriting was unfamiliar. “Oh. Hey. Did someone drop this here accidentally?”

Maybe it was something about the story, or perhaps it was the fever affecting her mind, but Nyara’s eyes glazed over as she read one line, then the next, silently mouthing the words.

It was Mic who noticed Shanley’s distress- her vantage point from lying on top of her rider afforded her a much better view. Haloth- what is distressing Yours? Mictecath reached out gently, her voice tinged with a soft, warm affection.

Nyara was wracked by a coughing fit, and turned her head to splutter over the edge of her cot. “H-hey…” She managed to gasp, the burning sensation in her chest attempting to overwhelm her desire to speak, “this is... “ cough cough cough, “pretty good.” The prospect of asking the barracks who had written it was more than she could handle at that moment in time. Nyara’s arm grew limp, and she pressed her hand to her chest to ease the blossoming pain. Mic turned her attention to her rider and nuzzled her face, yellow worry flickering through her eyes.

Mictecath hmmed a little in thought, then glanced back towards Haloth. Perhaps. Did Yours write a story about daring dragonriders? I think this is what Mine might have found. Not that Mic could really read the paper. Come, share my wallow with me, Haloth. I fear I may be causing more harm than good by laying on my rider… Not that she would ever admit to hurting Nyara, but something about needing to breathe… ah, humans were so fragile sometimes.

The young queen slipped from the cot as Shanley approached, and Nya lifted her head ever so slightly, gratitude visible in puffy, red-ringed eyes. The sickness had done a number on her, for though she was naturally dark-skinned, she looked pale save for the puffiness of her eyes and the soreness of her nose. With a fond nuzzle for Shanley, and a last, affectionate headboop for her rider, the gold dragon moved into her wallow and lifted a wing for Haloth to join her.

“Y-yes, please…” Nyara croaked, nodding her head as she tried to hold in a cough. It came out as a half-cough, half-sneeze instead. “I’m not… contagious…” Another cough, and she pressed her hand once more against the pain in her chest, the other handing back the piece of paper.

It is very kind of you to do this. Mic bespoke Shanley, her eyes tinged with purple.

Perhaps your rider asked the wrong people to read them? I know Mine enjoys stories- although she is easily distracted… Still, love and affection tinged her voice, and she crooned as Haloth moved to join her. She nuzzled him, twining tails as he got comfortable beside her, then laid her wing over him in a gentle embrace.

Nyara’s breathing settled into something a little more regular, now that she wasn’t forcing herself to talk. Something still rattled inside on particularly deep breaths, so she stuck to the more shallow breathing- less painful, more comforting, even if the dryness of her nose was a little bit uncomfortable overall. A beatific smile crossed her features as Shanley complimented her dragon, then began her tale.

At the mention of silver rain, Nyara’s eyes widened. She was nothing if not an appreciative audience. “Thread!” She gasp-choked, a shadow of her usually animated self. Still, it would be hard to compel her to remain entirely still, and Mictecath rolled her eyes slightly.

What of you, my dearest Haloth? All is well? No sickness? No injury? No dancing in frigid lakes? She sniffed him, as though trying to sense any sign of distress, then rubbed his cheek once more.