Broken Boulder I'm careless when I wear my rebel clothes

eris' death seems to bring with it the collective break in fever. the days spent barely conscious blend together into darkness, brief flashes of seabreeze or alarian's scent, and nothing more. he aches still. his steps are laborious and his voice is rough, but there is little else for him to do but make a recovery. or so he tells himself, managing his way to the borders in response to the call. 

(he's done enough lying about being taken care of, after all.)

still, any attempts at hiding his condition are not to the chancellor's tastes: delight has always worn the exact shade of his mood on his sleeve. he makes no gesture towards authority or presence, arriving in front of the woman on trembling legs, his already petite body made scrawny by fever. "yes, hello," he says in a rasp, "you called?"