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<blockquote data-quote="Echolocation" data-source="post: 8408923" data-attributes="member: 7011911"><p><strong>Pick your Poison - A mid-session interlude by Ella's player</strong></p><p></p><p>Ella clutched at the carriage seat with numbing fingers, feeling the paralysis take hold. A coolly detached part of her brain tracked the toxin's progress with curiosity: it was rare to find a firsthand account of acute hemlock poisoning - usually the victim died too quickly, unable to communicate through their stiffening muscles. Most reports of its effects therefore relied on external observations. Perhaps her own notes could help? Not that she’d get a chance to write them, if the frantic conversation between John and Lisandra was anything to go by… None of them had come prepared for poison it seemed.</p><p></p><p>How utterly idiotic of her; it wasn’t difficult to pack toxin-slowing alchemicals. What was the RHC <em>paying </em>her for? Ella watched her fingers twitch and curl with morbid fascination, wondering whether John or Lisandra would be willing to write her notes for her. She didn't think she could hold a pen at this point - especially in a moving carriage. A quick glance at the controlled panic on their faces dissuaded her from the idea. The medical world would have to do without her minor footnotes.</p><p></p><p><em>Titans</em>, what a stupid way to die: poisoned coffee. People might just assume she’d finally put too much sugar in it and given herself a heart attack. Why hadn’t she accepted the alcohol instead? At least she’d have gone out with a buzz.</p><p></p><p>What was that saying? <em>I wish to arrive at my death late, drunk and in love?</em> She hadn’t even managed <strong>one </strong>of those things. Bee would be so disappointed… </p><p></p><p>Recriminations and regret span in pointless circles, ticking down the last minutes of her life.</p><p></p><p><em>Think</em>. What did she know?</p><p></p><p>As best she could tell, she'd ingested <em>Conium maculatum</em>: poison hemlock. Highly toxic. Sometimes mistaken for wild carrot. No known antidote. Commonly deadly. Her mother had once treated a goat that ate some growing wild and the poor creature died within the hour: trembling uncoordination giving way to collapse and then death. That had only been a small dose. Hers would have been concentrated and she was smaller than a goat.</p><p></p><p>Given the elapsed time since the coffee, she likely had three to five minutes before total respiratory paralysis. A fate she had no way to prevent or delay because she'd failed to pack some <strong><em>basic supplies</em></strong>.</p><p></p><p><em>Sweet brieberries</em>, all this mental rambling really wasn't as distracting as she'd hoped… </p><p></p><p>A stuttering, unsteady beat of Ella's heart sent an abrupt wave of icy dread through her. <em>Had it reached her lungs</em>? Was she <em>dying</em>?</p><p></p><p>...No, just panicking. Her fingers felt stiff but they could still move: curling into anxious fists. The sharp prick of claws on palms seemed duller than usual. Skeet bounced fretfully at the end of her numbing leg. <em>By the woods</em>, she didn’t want him to experience this: bad enough she’d felt Millie’s death and was now experiencing her own, Skeet shouldn’t have to suffer alongside her. He was barely three seasons old. Where would he even find another gnome in need of a left leg?</p><p></p><p><em>Breathe</em>.</p><p></p><p>There was still time. Maybe not for all the things she’d wanted to do with her life, but John and Lisandra were safe at least so she could tick ‘protect her friends’ off the list. Assuming the kobold in the carriage didn’t kill them; not that he seemed inclined to do anything now other than watch as the carriage bumped its way toward their unknown destination. Were they <em>actually </em>traveling to a healer? No way to know, and if not then she probably wouldn’t survive the trip to find out.</p><p></p><p>Gods, what a stupid mess. Drinking the first thing someone offered her without even checking it? They were on a mission, not a holiday! Now the famed <em>Dame Eleanora</em> might be felled by a hot beverage. How moronic. She hoped they didn't write a newspaper article about it - bad enough she'd had to leave her family with nothing but a hastily written note; reading about her witless demise would break their hearts. Aunt Maya might try to scold her ghost.</p><p></p><p>That was assuming Lisandra didn't use the <em>scroll of raise dead</em> they’d bought. Odds were good she'd survive to try it - the kobolds didn't seem hostile. They were improbably helpful, in fact. How had they known where to park the carriage? Or when to assault the shop? She had too many questions and not enough time.</p><p></p><p><em>Titans</em>, she didn't want to waste the scroll on a mistake like this! Resurrection wasn't guaranteed and they’d barely set <em>foot </em>in Crisillyir! She didn’t want to die - not even for a little while. Admittedly it wasn't the worst way to go: relatively quick and painless, all things considered, but the complete helplessness of it was galling. Entire <em>minutes </em>in which to act and she couldn't do anything! Just sit here in this carriage and hope.</p><p></p><p>Fear battered against her ribcage like a second heart.</p><p></p><p><em>Pescálo help me</em>. She'd never been on close terms with the divine but maybe prayer would help.</p><p></p><p>[SPOILER="Pescálo"]</p><p>The true neutral Beran god of Lost Causes, Perseverance, and Deep Breaths.</p><p>[/SPOILER]</p><p></p><p>...Was her heart rate slowing? She could use her pocket watch to time it but her fingers really didn't want to function anymore. Besides, if they left the carriage and anyone saw it she might be arrested before she could even be healed.</p><p></p><p>All things considered, Alais Primos really was turning out to be a <em>terrible </em>city. Banning technology simply because they hated tieflings was infuriatingly petty and obstinate - and she didn’t just think that because she had horns. The refusal to admit that anything good or useful might come from something they disliked was close-minded at best and actively harmful to their populace at worst.</p><p></p><p><em>Ugh</em>.</p><p></p><p>If she survived, she'd need a Sydney patting session - and a drink. And maybe to write a letter to that obnoxious transmuter whose spellbook she'd borrowed. Imagine accusing her of scratching the pages! As if she hadn't handled it with <em>utmost </em>care. How impossibly embarrassing to have to defend her claws to the <strong>Principal Minister</strong>. Those without inbuilt hole-punchers on their hands couldn't possibly understand just how delicately she had to handle each and every document. The <em>nerve </em>of that mage… </p><p></p><p>[SPOILER="Defending her claws"]</p><p>In the last downtime, Ella requisitioned a spellbook from a Risuri mage to learn a few things. After handing it back, the mage complained about scratch-marks from Ella's tiefling claws. In truth, the mage is talking naughty word and is bitterly jealous of the recognition Ella is receiving. Harkover mentioned the incident to Ella, handwaving it as something the second-most powerful mage in Risur should expect to receive from petty competition. It really got to Ella, as she has a great degree of respect and maybe even a little crush on the principal minister.</p><p>[/SPOILER]</p><p></p><p>The superficial outrage proved a welcome distraction: emotion better than overthinking. It helped her ignore the anxious glances of her fellow constables, the mingled fear and frustration emanating from Skeet, and the increasing shallowness to her breathing. It carried her all the way to the church - and if it couldn't <em>literally </em>carry her inside (Lisandra and John did that), then it had at least done its job.</p><p></p><p>Now it was time for her to do hers. Because she'd be <em>damned </em>if a little poison stopped her from finding the man who'd murdered her mother.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Echolocation, post: 8408923, member: 7011911"] [B]Pick your Poison - A mid-session interlude by Ella's player[/B] Ella clutched at the carriage seat with numbing fingers, feeling the paralysis take hold. A coolly detached part of her brain tracked the toxin's progress with curiosity: it was rare to find a firsthand account of acute hemlock poisoning - usually the victim died too quickly, unable to communicate through their stiffening muscles. Most reports of its effects therefore relied on external observations. Perhaps her own notes could help? Not that she’d get a chance to write them, if the frantic conversation between John and Lisandra was anything to go by… None of them had come prepared for poison it seemed. How utterly idiotic of her; it wasn’t difficult to pack toxin-slowing alchemicals. What was the RHC [I]paying [/I]her for? Ella watched her fingers twitch and curl with morbid fascination, wondering whether John or Lisandra would be willing to write her notes for her. She didn't think she could hold a pen at this point - especially in a moving carriage. A quick glance at the controlled panic on their faces dissuaded her from the idea. The medical world would have to do without her minor footnotes. [I]Titans[/I], what a stupid way to die: poisoned coffee. People might just assume she’d finally put too much sugar in it and given herself a heart attack. Why hadn’t she accepted the alcohol instead? At least she’d have gone out with a buzz. What was that saying? [I]I wish to arrive at my death late, drunk and in love?[/I] She hadn’t even managed [B]one [/B]of those things. Bee would be so disappointed… Recriminations and regret span in pointless circles, ticking down the last minutes of her life. [I]Think[/I]. What did she know? As best she could tell, she'd ingested [I]Conium maculatum[/I]: poison hemlock. Highly toxic. Sometimes mistaken for wild carrot. No known antidote. Commonly deadly. Her mother had once treated a goat that ate some growing wild and the poor creature died within the hour: trembling uncoordination giving way to collapse and then death. That had only been a small dose. Hers would have been concentrated and she was smaller than a goat. Given the elapsed time since the coffee, she likely had three to five minutes before total respiratory paralysis. A fate she had no way to prevent or delay because she'd failed to pack some [B][I]basic supplies[/I][/B]. [I]Sweet brieberries[/I], all this mental rambling really wasn't as distracting as she'd hoped… A stuttering, unsteady beat of Ella's heart sent an abrupt wave of icy dread through her. [I]Had it reached her lungs[/I]? Was she [I]dying[/I]? ...No, just panicking. Her fingers felt stiff but they could still move: curling into anxious fists. The sharp prick of claws on palms seemed duller than usual. Skeet bounced fretfully at the end of her numbing leg. [I]By the woods[/I], she didn’t want him to experience this: bad enough she’d felt Millie’s death and was now experiencing her own, Skeet shouldn’t have to suffer alongside her. He was barely three seasons old. Where would he even find another gnome in need of a left leg? [I]Breathe[/I]. There was still time. Maybe not for all the things she’d wanted to do with her life, but John and Lisandra were safe at least so she could tick ‘protect her friends’ off the list. Assuming the kobold in the carriage didn’t kill them; not that he seemed inclined to do anything now other than watch as the carriage bumped its way toward their unknown destination. Were they [I]actually [/I]traveling to a healer? No way to know, and if not then she probably wouldn’t survive the trip to find out. Gods, what a stupid mess. Drinking the first thing someone offered her without even checking it? They were on a mission, not a holiday! Now the famed [I]Dame Eleanora[/I] might be felled by a hot beverage. How moronic. She hoped they didn't write a newspaper article about it - bad enough she'd had to leave her family with nothing but a hastily written note; reading about her witless demise would break their hearts. Aunt Maya might try to scold her ghost. That was assuming Lisandra didn't use the [I]scroll of raise dead[/I] they’d bought. Odds were good she'd survive to try it - the kobolds didn't seem hostile. They were improbably helpful, in fact. How had they known where to park the carriage? Or when to assault the shop? She had too many questions and not enough time. [I]Titans[/I], she didn't want to waste the scroll on a mistake like this! Resurrection wasn't guaranteed and they’d barely set [I]foot [/I]in Crisillyir! She didn’t want to die - not even for a little while. Admittedly it wasn't the worst way to go: relatively quick and painless, all things considered, but the complete helplessness of it was galling. Entire [I]minutes [/I]in which to act and she couldn't do anything! Just sit here in this carriage and hope. Fear battered against her ribcage like a second heart. [I]Pescálo help me[/I]. She'd never been on close terms with the divine but maybe prayer would help. [SPOILER="Pescálo"] The true neutral Beran god of Lost Causes, Perseverance, and Deep Breaths. [/SPOILER] ...Was her heart rate slowing? She could use her pocket watch to time it but her fingers really didn't want to function anymore. Besides, if they left the carriage and anyone saw it she might be arrested before she could even be healed. All things considered, Alais Primos really was turning out to be a [I]terrible [/I]city. Banning technology simply because they hated tieflings was infuriatingly petty and obstinate - and she didn’t just think that because she had horns. The refusal to admit that anything good or useful might come from something they disliked was close-minded at best and actively harmful to their populace at worst. [I]Ugh[/I]. If she survived, she'd need a Sydney patting session - and a drink. And maybe to write a letter to that obnoxious transmuter whose spellbook she'd borrowed. Imagine accusing her of scratching the pages! As if she hadn't handled it with [I]utmost [/I]care. How impossibly embarrassing to have to defend her claws to the [B]Principal Minister[/B]. Those without inbuilt hole-punchers on their hands couldn't possibly understand just how delicately she had to handle each and every document. The [I]nerve [/I]of that mage… [SPOILER="Defending her claws"] In the last downtime, Ella requisitioned a spellbook from a Risuri mage to learn a few things. After handing it back, the mage complained about scratch-marks from Ella's tiefling claws. In truth, the mage is talking naughty word and is bitterly jealous of the recognition Ella is receiving. Harkover mentioned the incident to Ella, handwaving it as something the second-most powerful mage in Risur should expect to receive from petty competition. It really got to Ella, as she has a great degree of respect and maybe even a little crush on the principal minister. [/SPOILER] The superficial outrage proved a welcome distraction: emotion better than overthinking. It helped her ignore the anxious glances of her fellow constables, the mingled fear and frustration emanating from Skeet, and the increasing shallowness to her breathing. It carried her all the way to the church - and if it couldn't [I]literally [/I]carry her inside (Lisandra and John did that), then it had at least done its job. Now it was time for her to do hers. Because she'd be [I]damned [/I]if a little poison stopped her from finding the man who'd murdered her mother. [/QUOTE]
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