[ In her mind it made no sense for her to send Felih out gathering excess for her instead of the ill in the Brume. Her position offers her comforts and treatments that the poor do not, and Era is loathe to take anything away from them for her own gain. She worries at her bottom lip, anxiety and the beginnings of a cough stirring in her chest.
Era does not like making others fret for her well being. It's still something she's unaccustomed to, after so long spent outside of Ishgard's walls as naught but a chess piece to be used.
But Felih is a worrier. A bleeding heart, one might say. Era is much the same and were their situations reversed she cannot say she would not be doing what her retainer is right now - worrying, fussing, doing all that she could to make him well again. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow, however. She keeps her gaze averted as he speaks.
You should not suffer so
Era would beg to differ. She has always accepted pain as something she was due. ]
My thanks.
[ She curls up on her side on her bed, limbs too heavy to bother swaddling herself in blankets. The most she does to make herself comfortable is shift enough to switch her glamour plates to her nightgown, warm enough to keep even her scales satisfied through the Coerthan nights. Her tail twitches every now and then behind her every now and then, out of Felih's view, when she struggles to keep another cough at bay.
Alchemy has never been something Era was exceedingly good at - adequately competent, yes, but not talented enough to make complex potions or draughts. Luckily the medicine for Red Throat isn't too difficult and one Era was able to learn quickly. There's no finesse to the way she practices alchemy, and so watching Felih work so skillfully is relaxing to her. Perhaps she should seek to improve her crafting skills? But there is always so much combat training to keep up with...
Distracted by her thoughts, a sudden coughing fit catches Era off guard. The first cough is a loud, wet, and painful sounding one. She quickly muffles the rest with her kerchief after that, not wishing to spread any ill humours through more of the room than strictly necessary, nor to alert anyone else in the household of her sickness. The rooms of the Fortemps manor are relatively thick and sound proofed, but one can never be too careful.
Once her fit is over, Era takes a deep, raspy breath that she then exhales slowly. Her kerchief has been soaked with enough blood over the past few bells that it has lost a great deal of its absorbency, leaving her to wipe the excess wetness away with her fingers.
It's an odd feeling, seeing her own blood on her hands but there to be no wound to cause it.
Flexing her fingers, she makes another request - an order, really - of Felih. Her voice is a raspy whisper, but there is still an underlying strength behind her intent. ]
Do not inform Lord Edmont of the nature of my illness. [ After a moment to catch her breath, she adds: ] Not unless my health worsens.
[ It is fairly obvious to the casual observer of Era and Edmont's interactions that the man views her as the daughter he never had, and though Era may not understand it it's clear that she views him as a father-figure in return. So she does not wish for him to worry himself over her, nor does she wish for him to remain in the dark should her situation become dire.
It's selfish of her, but already Era wishes for his presence; a strong, steady hand cool against her burning forehead and a soothing voice lulling her to sleep. She has witnessed this with parent and sick child countless times, and she would like to experience such a thing for herself at least once before returning to the Aether whence she came. ]
no subject
[ In her mind it made no sense for her to send Felih out gathering excess for her instead of the ill in the Brume. Her position offers her comforts and treatments that the poor do not, and Era is loathe to take anything away from them for her own gain. She worries at her bottom lip, anxiety and the beginnings of a cough stirring in her chest.
Era does not like making others fret for her well being. It's still something she's unaccustomed to, after so long spent outside of Ishgard's walls as naught but a chess piece to be used.
But Felih is a worrier. A bleeding heart, one might say. Era is much the same and were their situations reversed she cannot say she would not be doing what her retainer is right now - worrying, fussing, doing all that she could to make him well again. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow, however. She keeps her gaze averted as he speaks.
You should not suffer so
Era would beg to differ. She has always accepted pain as something she was due. ]
My thanks.
[ She curls up on her side on her bed, limbs too heavy to bother swaddling herself in blankets. The most she does to make herself comfortable is shift enough to switch her glamour plates to her nightgown, warm enough to keep even her scales satisfied through the Coerthan nights. Her tail twitches every now and then behind her every now and then, out of Felih's view, when she struggles to keep another cough at bay.
Alchemy has never been something Era was exceedingly good at - adequately competent, yes, but not talented enough to make complex potions or draughts. Luckily the medicine for Red Throat isn't too difficult and one Era was able to learn quickly. There's no finesse to the way she practices alchemy, and so watching Felih work so skillfully is relaxing to her. Perhaps she should seek to improve her crafting skills? But there is always so much combat training to keep up with...
Distracted by her thoughts, a sudden coughing fit catches Era off guard. The first cough is a loud, wet, and painful sounding one. She quickly muffles the rest with her kerchief after that, not wishing to spread any ill humours through more of the room than strictly necessary, nor to alert anyone else in the household of her sickness. The rooms of the Fortemps manor are relatively thick and sound proofed, but one can never be too careful.
Once her fit is over, Era takes a deep, raspy breath that she then exhales slowly. Her kerchief has been soaked with enough blood over the past few bells that it has lost a great deal of its absorbency, leaving her to wipe the excess wetness away with her fingers.
It's an odd feeling, seeing her own blood on her hands but there to be no wound to cause it.
Flexing her fingers, she makes another request - an order, really - of Felih. Her voice is a raspy whisper, but there is still an underlying strength behind her intent. ]
Do not inform Lord Edmont of the nature of my illness. [ After a moment to catch her breath, she adds: ] Not unless my health worsens.
[ It is fairly obvious to the casual observer of Era and Edmont's interactions that the man views her as the daughter he never had, and though Era may not understand it it's clear that she views him as a father-figure in return. So she does not wish for him to worry himself over her, nor does she wish for him to remain in the dark should her situation become dire.
It's selfish of her, but already Era wishes for his presence; a strong, steady hand cool against her burning forehead and a soothing voice lulling her to sleep. She has witnessed this with parent and sick child countless times, and she would like to experience such a thing for herself at least once before returning to the Aether whence she came. ]